The Dressmaker's Duke by Jess Russell

Author:Jess Russell [Russell, Jess]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency, Scarred Hero/Heroine
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
Published: 2014-10-19T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

The duke would come today. He and his uncle had called yesterday, but Olivia had managed to be out. It would be utter rudeness, not to mention cowardly, to be missing again. Consequently, by the time they were announced by Mrs. Fields, the ladies’ housekeeper, Olivia was in a state. Her face must have frozen in some approximation of a smile, because as she greeted Lord Bertram, he smiled back. Now if she could only remember to breathe.

She turned to the duke. Her gaze slid over his beautiful hunter-green riding coat, with its boutonnière of stephanotis, and the fine linen of his shirt, its collar points laying just so against his freshly shaved cheeks. His mouth was pulled into a rigid line, as if he were clamping his teeth together. She could not meet his eyes. It was enough to feel his gaze as it raked over her, taking in her sprigged muslin gown of the palest daffodil. One of the gowns he had bought her.

She had yet to thank him for the shawl or for retrieving the few items saved from the fire or for any of the kindnesses he had shown. And why should she? After all, it was done with one end in mind. She smoothed her damp hands over her yellow skirts. Heavens, she might as well have been wearing nothing, she felt so exposed.

She and Egg sat, and the men followed suit.

Everyone smiled at each other, except the duke of course, and then, silence.

Finally someone mentioned Lady Wiggins’s continued health and the duke contributed a rejoinder—she heard his low rumble—but honestly she could not attend. She was too busy adjusting her skirts and the lumpy pillow behind her.

The tea tray arrived and she practically leapt on it, anything to occupy her.

“Oh—yes, dear. Why don’t you do the honors?” Egg pulled away from the tea service.

It was so very hard to hear over the pounding in her head, which now had taken over her poor heart as well. She was sure everyone could hear it.

Somehow she managed to pour without spilling a drop.

“Milk, Your Grace?” Was that her voice? The pounding became huge African drums, like the ones she had seen and heard while living in Morocco with Wes. But the duke’s response was lost in the pulsing beat. She took a quick peek at Egg and Lord Bertram, but neither was looking at her. She took a guess and added a splash of milk.

Spoons tinkled against china cups, in sharp counterpoint to the primitive thrum in her head. Not to be overshadowed by piddling spoons, the drums beat louder still.

“Do you take sugar, Your Grace?” she told herself that when he answered she would be able to meet his eyes with utter calm. But the pounding went on, and her imagination, not satisfied with sound, added scantily clad, gyrating dancers. She only managed to get to his lips, which was a good thing because she read the ‘no’ very clearly. Otherwise she might have dumped four or five lumps in his tea, and then they would all know she was barmy.

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