Secluded with the Rogue

Chapter 11

Eleven

B elle woke with the sun, as though all night long, her heart had been ticking out the minutes until she could see Calvin again. In no time, she was flying out of her chamber and next door to his, the back of her gown gaping open in anticipation of his nimble fingers along her spine.

He opened the door the moment her knuckles touched the wood, as if he had been on the other side awaiting her knock with the same restless eagerness pulsing in his veins.

He captured her in his arms, swinging her into his chamber and closing the door in a single fluid movement that never failed to take her breath away. Or perhaps what stole her breath was him—his intoxicating kisses, the warmth of his embrace, the hardness of his muscles, the exciting familiarity of his scent, the weakness in her knees as they kissed until the room emptied of air.

“I have missed you,” he murmured against her mouth.

She clutched him tighter. “I’ve missed you more.”

“Impossible,” he growled.

And then their mouths were too busy to speak. His kisses were the best part of every morning, of every twilight, and every moment between.

Their time in each other’s arms was also as temporary as the snowflakes that had ceased falling outside the window.

Everything was almost over now. She’d be lucky if the remaining unpainted sketches lasted until teatime. And then what? Why, without busywork to occupy their idle hands, anything could happen. She wished she could let it happen.

At last, they broke apart. Belle turned so that Calvin could fasten her gown and so she could catch her breath. Light from the window bathed the manikin, Duke, in the aurora of dawn, making him shimmer like a guardian angel.

“Tea?” Calvin asked when she was safely buttoned up.

She nodded. She always said yes to tea. She suspected she would say yes to anything Calvin asked if she were really who she pretended to be.

But when she departed from Houville, he would not be the only thing she left behind. Mrs. Lépine would be no more, and when she vanished, all the freedoms she’d given Belle would disappear with her.

All that would be left was Lady Isabelle, with her familial responsibilities and her societal expectations and her perpetually disappointed mother.

Now that Belle had had her holiday, her chance to playact at a life that was not hers to have, it was time to stop disappointing her mother and live up to her name. She would marry whichever lord her family selected for her and be the best mistress his household had ever seen, as was her duty.

When a kitchen maid brought her chocolate in bed every “morning” at half past noon, Belle would try not to be nostalgic for the days when she’d curled up in a battered wingback chair before a tiny fireplace, as Calvin set a kettle of water to boil above the flames.

She would miss sharing tea from a single cup far more than she’d ever missed the thoughtless luxury of her morning chocolate. She would miss the smile that played on his lips every time he looked at her, as if the mere fact of having her inside his chamber filled his heart with happiness, as it did her. She would miss him .

But keeping on was not a choice. No matter how unfair Belle found the strictures and prejudices of high society, no matter how much she chafed at the rules and expectations, she understood them. Society was what she knew and where she belonged.

She would not destroy her own reputation and damage that of her beloved family by willfully engaging in behavior that would bring harsh judgment, ridicule, and mockery upon them all. Nor could she bear to prove herself as unthinking and unworthy as her parents had always feared she would be. The look on her mother’s face, if Belle were to develop a tendre for the son of her old modiste… Disappointment was even worse than wrath.

Belle would make her family proud this time. There was no mystery in how to do so. Mother was happy to lecture her on the precise steps at length. All Belle had to do was obey, as a proper lady ought, and a good daughter would do without question.

That she felt more fake as Lady Isabelle when acting the role that she was born to play, than she did when painting playbills under her pseudonym Mr. Brough or drinking tea in the early morning light as Mrs. Lépine—well, none of that signified. She was not Mr. Brough, and she was not Mrs. Lépine, and she would have to give up all such nonsense in order to become the well-respected lady she was meant to be.

No matter what her foolish heart might wish.

“How is the light?” Calvin asked once the tea had been drunk and there was nothing else to do but get to work.

Nothing except more kisses, perhaps. Was it wrong that Belle would have preferred to do that?

“The light is glorious,” she answered. “I’ll have the last illustrations finished in no time.”

“I’ve finished all the prototypes,” he admitted. “Save for one greatcoat’s missing buttons. I’ll dress Duke in each design one last time, to ensure every stitch is perfect.”

Belle had no doubt every stitch was more than perfect, but she was glad to have Calvin’s attention diverted elsewhere for a time. It gave her the opportunity to slip the watercolors she had painted of him measuring and cutting and sewing into the pile of finished illustrations.

He would find them after she was gone. He admired each sketch as she finished it, and had mentioned he would not review them again until his meeting with his partner. She hoped the gift would bring a smile to his lips one more time.

When she was back before her easel, he glanced up from his manikin.

“You do realize how talented you are, don’t you?”

Her cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Thank you.”

“Incredibly skilled.” His gaze was earnest. “You would have no problem selling your work.”

An indelicate snort escaped her nose.

He frowned. “I understood you had not yet attempted to publish a collection of your art?”

“Not a book,” she agreed. “I tried to find work as an artist throughout London but all I earned for my efforts was laughter. Right in my face.”

He shook his head. “A single glance at your art?—”

“There were no glances at my art,” she explained gently. “There were glances at my face, at my gown, at my age, at my name. The men in charge were much too busy to humor the whims of a silly young woman.”

“Their loss,” he growled.

“Not exactly,” she admitted. “They are using my work, although they’ve no idea it’s me they employ. A certain reclusive ‘Mr. Brough’ submits his art by post.”

“You should tell them.” His eyes were dark with anger. “Throw their prejudices in their ignorant faces. It’s your work. You deserve to have your name on it. Not a pseudonym. You .”

She could do no such thing, of course. Her first act upon reaching Cressmouth would be to write to Mr. Brough’s employers, regretfully expressing an old man’s desire to retire from service.

The book of Christmas illustrations, on the other hand... No, not even that. Mother would be horrified, and who knew how potential suitors might react? She’d waited this long. Waiting until she secured her husband’s permission—if indeed her future lord would grant such a petition—wouldn’t change things in the least.

“Obviously, Jonathan and I will credit your work with your name on these illustrations,” Calvin assured her.

She stared at him in terror.

“Credit how?” she stammered. “I thought you would only be using a handful of these in your presentation to your investors.”

“That’s what I thought, as well. And then I saw the finished product. These are wonderful, Belle. Jonathan would have to be a fool not to want to use them in the final catalog, and Jonathan is no fool. Once we’ve made our selections, I’ll let you know, and we can work out proper compensation.”

“I don’t want compensation.” Rather, she did not want him to seek her out. “I give them all to you freely to use as you like.”

“Please recognize your worth, Belle.” His voice was quiet steel, his gaze unrelenting. “Your work has value and so do you.”

Oh, why did life have to be so muddled? She would love to see her name on a project as destined for greatness as Fit for a Duke: Lady Isabelle, illustrator.

But she could not allow any such thing to occur. As much as she wished she did not have to hide her true self behind false names, now more than ever she could not risk Calvin learning her true identity. He could place it on the cover of a nationally-available catalogue out of misplaced chivalry and ruin her life.

That was, if his warm feelings toward her did not immediately evaporate upon discovering her a highborn lady. He had made no pretense of his opinions about the upper classes, and his wish to have nothing to do with the beau monde beyond the world of fashion.

That Belle was exactly the type of spoilt young lady who might have once employed his mother... that Belle’s own mother had indeed been one of the fine duchesses who frequented her modiste’s establishment without ever once inquiring about Mrs. McAlistair’s life or progeny, because such details would have been beneath a duchess’s notice...

He could never know. When they left the posting house, she must disappear just like the snow.

“There,” she said, the word scratching from her throat. “I’ve completed the final illustration.”

He hastened to her side and said everything she’d ever hoped to hear anyone say about her talent with a paintbrush. She would miss that as much as the tea and kisses. Being appreciated for what she could do, rather than for who she’d been born.

After peppering her with lighthearted kisses, Calvin pulled back, his brown eyes twinkling. “I’ve finished something for you, as well.”

She clapped her hands together. “Is it a buttonless greatcoat?”

“It is not, minx.” He retrieved a package wrapped in brown paper from beside the sofa, and handed the parcel to her. “Open it.”

“It feels like Christmas,” she said with a nervous laugh, and picked at the twine until it unraveled, and the paper shell revealed its pearl.

Inside was a dazzling frock of deep blue satin and celestial silk, trimmed with a sumptuous, delicate ruff.

“ Is it Christmas?” she breathed in wonder. “Calvin, this is beautiful. How did you?—”

“It’s functional ,” he corrected, but his chest had expanded, and his eyes shone with pleasure. “It may look like the finest day dress the world has ever seen—and you’d be right—but it closes with an interlocking hash of ribbon beneath a secret panel under the bodice, allowing the wearer to tighten or unfasten it at will.”

She narrowed her eyes to hide her laughter. “You could have fashioned me a self-closing dress at any time?”

“I did do it at any time,” he assured her. “I finished five days ago.”

She arched a brow. “And didn’t tell me?”

“Your rules, not mine,” he reminded her with exaggerated innocence. “I signed a contract that said, ‘nothing but buttons.’ Even with the verbal ‘just kisses’ amendment, I was clearly overstepping my?—”

She shut him up with a kiss.

“You just didn’t want me to stop needing you to unbutton me,” she accused.

“Well, yes,” he said. “Obviously, that. I’m going to accidentally spill tea on the gown here in a moment so that I can sob, ‘ Oh no , woe is me, I shall have to continue undressing you with my bare hands. How could Fate be so cruel as to place this beautiful woman back into my arms...’”

She returned to his arms of her own volition.

“I will throttle you if you allow any evil to befall this gorgeous gown,” she warned him.

“Perhaps we should have Duke wear it for safekeeping,” Calvin said brightly, gesturing toward his manikin. “I doubt Nottingvale would mind overmuch.”

Belle’s stomach turned to ice.

“What did you just say?” she asked, her voice faint.

“Oh.” Calvin waved a hand, as if brushing her concern away. “The Duke of Nottingvale is our initial investor. He provided the funds for the prototypes, and the measurements for the manikin. Fit for a Duke isn’t hyperbole—it’s modeled after the real-life Duke of Nottingvale, who I hope will be so impressed with our work and vision that he will invest significantly more and become our partner for life.”

Belle’s brother? Calvin’s partner for life?

Her head swam with panic, her breaths shallow when they came at all. Had she believed living beneath Vale’s shadow was dreadful before? Now she definitely could have nothing to do with Calvin’s project, not even under a pseudonym. And she especially couldn’t be anywhere the two of them might be at the same time.

“When did you say you were meeting...” My brother . “...His Grace?”

“On the twenty-third of December,” Calvin replied. “Two days before Twelve-tide.”

Before the party, Belle realized in relief. Vale would never mix business with pleasure. All the same, she would not attend until after Calvin left, to be safe. She could stay with Angelica until there was no doubt all danger had passed.

She would have spent this past fortnight with Angelica anyway, had it not been for the snowstorm. Belle was simply moving the dates of her visit. Angelica would not mind, and Vale and his guests would not notice. Belle wasn’t the reason they attended the party.

“Have you met His Grace before?” she asked as casually as possible.

Calvin made a face. “I’d sworn to have nothing further to do with the beau monde at all, and now look at me, arranging private meetings. No, we haven’t met. I’ve corresponded with his tailor, which is how I got the measurements for the manikin. My partner Jonathan is the one who has been communicating with Nottingvale. I suppose that will all change now.”

“I suppose so,” she echoed faintly.

It was a good thing she had harbored no ridiculous secret fantasies about running off with Calvin. The track would lead right back home to her family. There would be no pseudonym to hide behind. Even as Mrs. McAlistair, every day would still be nothing but Nottingvale, Nottingvale, Nottingvale. She’d already inadvertently painted illustrations for a company that turned out to be both his likeness and namesake.

Her family’s orbit was inescapable, even under an assumed identity.

“I should go,” she stammered. “I need to check on Ursula.”

Calvin cupped the side of her face. “You’ll be back for sunset?”

She nodded. Of course she would be back. Her family had won—they always won—but they hadn’t won yet.

“I’ll pick up supper from the kitchen,” she said. “And a bottle of wine.”

After one last kiss, she placed her new gown in her room with care, then hurried downstairs to place their supper order and ask about Ursula.

For the first time since arriving, she was told Ursula had improved enough to be allowed company.

“And just in time,” Mildred chirped as she led Belle back to the erstwhile sickroom. “Now that the snow has stopped, teams of men have spent all day clearing the roads. By this time tomorrow, the Hoot & Holly will have completely different customers under its roof.”

Belle swallowed hard. Once upon a time, escaping the shabby posting house was all she’d wished to do. Now it was the last thing she wanted. Without the excuse of snow, Calvin no longer had a reason to stay.

Christmas was just beginning, but Belle’s holiday had come to an end. It was time to wake up from the dream.

Ursula’s eyes lit up when Belle entered the room. “Lady?—”

“I’m Mrs. Lépine,” Belle whispered as she enveloped Ursula in a quick embrace. “I’m so pleased to find you looking like yourself again.”

“I see you’ve missed me something dreadful,” Ursula said with a laugh, plucking at Belle’s sleeve. “Where are your stays? Oh, of course you can’t manage them alone. I’ve no idea how you even secured this gown. I’m so sorry to have abandoned you like that.”

“You didn’t abandon me,” Belle chided her maid, trying not to be hurt by the of course you can’t manage comments. No one ever thought she could manage anything, and until this past week, Belle had believed them.

But she had managed, hadn’t she? She’d managed to make friends with a handsome stranger. She’d managed to become an artist-for-hire, a temporary assistant performing a necessary and valued service.

She’d managed to get her life and her heart tangled into bits.

Ursula flung back her blanket and swung her feet to the floor. “I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Belle jumped back in alarm.

Ursula couldn’t possibly resume her duties now . Not when a bottle of wine and romantic supper was being prepared for a certain shared sunset on the third floor.

“Why don’t you rest for one more night,” Belle suggested. “You’ll be very busy at my brother’s cottage.” Or would be, if Belle had any intention of attending the party. “Resuming your duties in the morning will be soon enough.”

Ursula frowned. “But don’t you need?—”

Belle did need. She was trying to fathom out a way to have what she wanted, if only for a few more stolen moments.

“Stay here until I send for you,” she instructed. “I’ll make certain you get your sleep before we set out.”

“Oh, are the roads free again?” Ursula lay back on her pillow and closed her eyes. “You must be so happy.”

Belle was very happy, if by “happy” one meant distraught .

Her time left with Calvin could be counted in hours. Unbeknownst to them at the time, they’d already had their last day. All that was left was tonight. One chance to experience what it would have been like to have everything she wanted.

She wouldn’t let it slip away.