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Authors: Desperately Seeking a Duke

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When Calder had returned to Brook House, he had rather indifferently ordered Fortescue to secure a lady’s maid for Miss Millbury. After thus briefly seeing to his fiancée’s future comfort without so much as a pause in his stride, he disappeared into his study to immerse himself in his factory concerns once more.

Rafe watched him go with concerned disbelief—although not surprise—then turned to the butler.

“Fort, Miss Millbury—well, she’s not the sort to complain, even if she doesn’t like who you choose … just find someone young and likeable, will you? Someone she can be herself with, someone she can be—”

Fortescue gazed at him with no expression whatsoever, which was how Fortescue always gazed at him. However, this time there was just a trace of speculation in that sea of blandness behind those pale sharp eyes.

“Indeed, my lord. I shall take care to choose someone perfectly suitable … as always.”

Translation: I knew that, I’ve already seen to it, and you’re not the only one around here with eyes.

Rafe persisted. “I am serious, Fort. I want her to have someone cheerful, not one of those dour, creaking old tarts who lace too tight and make her wear shoes that pinch and—”

Fortescue nearly had a tremor of expression. It stopped Rafe mid-sentence. “What?”

The butler cleared his throat. “If your lordship will permit me, I have already chosen a likely girl from the present staff. Patricia is no older than Miss Millbury, is an intelligent and attractive girl who has a sort of … kindness about her—” Fortescue stopped short.

If Rafe wasn’t mistaken, the wintry bastard also colored a fraction, turning from pale to not-quite-so-pale.

Struggling for words? Fortescue? Ho ho! Perhaps something other than ice water ran through the usually imperturbable butler’s veins! Rafe contemplated teasing the man, but he wouldn’t want the poor bloke to have a seizure from too much unaccustomed emotion. Besides, he presently had a great deal of sympathy for those afflicted with unrequited … well, anything.

Rafe let the corner of his lips twist upward. “You’re a good man, Fort. If you ever want to leave this pit of slavery I’ll hire you myself.”

Since the only way Fortescue could advance his career from this breathless peak would be to work for the Prince Regent himself, it was a measure of the butler’s aplomb that he could greet such a jest with a dignified, “I shall consider it, my lord.”

Rafe turned his gaze toward the as-always closed door of Calder’s study. “I’ll be moving on soon, you see, Fort.” He grimaced. “No room for bastard bachelors in the honeymoon house.”

“I’m sure his lordship would prefer you to stay, Lord Raphael.”

“Oh, that’s not a good idea,” Rafe breathed, thinking of his brother’s bride-to-be living and laughing and dreaming around every corner. “Really, truly it isn’t.”

FORTESCUE CAME UPON Patricia while she dusted the newel post at the bottom of the grand curving staircase. She worked meticulously, kneeling on the floor to get the most minute crevice shining to Brook House’s exacting standards.

Fortescue watched in helpless fascination as her industry made her bottom wave invitingly in the air. Ogling housemaids went against every rule in the butler’s code of ethics. Unfortunately, from the moment he’d heard Patricia O’Malley’s musical Irish lilt asking for work at the service entry behind the kitchen, he’d found himself completely unable to control his fascination. Hide it, yes. Control it, deny it, dispense with it—no.

He’d followed that sweet voice from where he waited to collect the Marquis’s breakfast tray to lurk behind the impatient footman who’d answered the bell.

“Get on w’ ye, then,” the man had ordered the cloaked figure who stood wreathed in morning fog and humble dignity. “We want no Irish here.”

Her head had lifted sharply at that, giving Fortescue a view of alabaster beauty and sharply flashing green eyes. “’Tis no crime to be from Ireland,” the girl had told the sneering footman coolly. “Though
you’ll
be wantin’ to pray God’ll forgive your conceit.”

The footman moved to shut the door in her face. Fortescue had caught it in one hand without realizing he’d moved closer.

Lovely Patricia—who’d removed her cloak to reveal hair the color of sunset, God help him!—had accepted the position of lower housemaid with dignified gratitude, though the rest of the staff had stared in shock and astonishment. Brook House needed no more help and certainly not some common Irish right off the boat!

None had the nerve to gainsay Fortescue, of course, though they might comment plenty among themselves.

He ought not to have done it. It was unheard of, at this level of service. She was the sort of uneducated creature who’d think herself lucky to find grueling factory work, not one of the members of the generations-old highest servant class in Britain.

Now, having broken so many unwritten rules already, he shattered more of them as he let his gaze wander over the lithe figure kneeling before the stair. The way she looked, the lilt of her voice—he was unable to deny that he went rather desperately weak-kneed at the merest breath of her.

Her brilliant hair was mostly hidden beneath her proper mobcap and the Brook House uniform wasn’t meant to be alluring, yet even that couldn’t hide her supple grace, or the way her auburn lashes lay upon her fine pale cheeks, or the way her anatomy responded to her industry as she scrubbed—

She caught sight of him and froze, gazing up at him in surprise. Fortescue clenched his fists together behind his back and hoped his gaze betrayed none of his erotic fascination.

After a moment, she raised her fine brows at him. “Mr. Fortescue … sir?” He made her nervous. She was very aware of him as well, but only as the head of the staff, the man who held her future in the balance.

Fortunately, she was doing well, though untrained. It wouldn’t last—but not because she couldn’t do the work. Even now, he could see the ties of her homeland stretching behind her like threads of a dream. She’d come to find work, to help her family, but she wasn’t going to stay.

Not unless he did something to make staying irresistible.

In a moment, he would clear his dry throat. In a moment, he’d be able to speak without a trace of love-starved
schoolboy stammer. His body reluctantly obeyed at last. He cleared his throat. “Good morning, Patricia.”

Her gaze flicked to the front windows of the hall, then back to him. “Good afternoon, sir.”

Afternoon. Of course. He continued to gaze at her stonily, unable to think of what he’d come to say. Her gaze went from curious to worried. She thought she’d overstepped with her gentle correction, he could see.

God, so very beautiful
—

And so very young and so very in his direct employ. He was her superior. He was above tawdry entanglements with housemaids. His life was his service to the marquis. He was the very nearly the highest of the high, at the apex of his career. He was better than this.

Lady’s maid. Right.

He cleared his throat again, aware that it made him sound like a stuffy septuagenarian. “His lordship has officially announced his engagement to Miss Millbury.”

She smiled at that, transforming herself from stunning to breathtaking in an instant. His chest tightened. Oh, he had it dire, he did. Twenty years of perfect service, without so much as a pat-your-fanny on his ledger, and all he wanted to do was to drag this girl into the nearest linen closet and—

“’Tis good news, sir.’Tis not good for a man to be too much alone.”

“What?” He choked. She was talking about the marquis. “Oh … yes. The wedding is to take place quite soon.” Shockingly soon, but he was in no position to pass judgment at the moment. “In fact, Miss Millbury and her family will be moving into Brook House immediately to begin preparations.”

Her smile grew. “So many fine ladies will certainly brighten the house, won’t they, sir?”

“Indeed.” He was already blinded. Doggedly, he clenched
his fingers more tightly over sweating palms. “As it turns out, Miss Millbury does not currently have a lady’s maid of her own. I thought you’d do.”

Her smile disappeared in surprise—nay, complete shock. “Me, sir?” She blinked at him. “M—
me
?”

The household would be up in arms at the topsy-turvy appointment. Miss Millbury herself might quite possibly object and if the marquis bothered to take note, he certainly would. Fortescue simply didn’t care.

“You’re to begin immediately. Miss Millbury’s things are already on their way. I assume you do know what to do with those things?” he asked sternly.

She closed her mouth with a little snap, challenged out of her shock, just as he’d intended.

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

He nodded briefly. “Very well then.” He turned sharply and strode away, before he lost all control of himself. He did glance back once, to see her leaning limply on the newel post, shaking her head in disbelief.

Even then, she was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen.

He was entirely doomed.

He’d never felt so alive.

Chapter Thirteen

The entrance to Lementeur’s was unmarked, merely an elegant portal among the more obvious shops on the Strand. However, Tessa strode up to the lovely carved oak door, rapped the bird-shaped knocker smartly, and stood her tallest.

Waiting for someone passing by to see her entering the most exclusive dressmaker’s door, no doubt. Phoebe considered offering applause, but thought Tessa might not see the humor of it.

The door opened on a rather gorgeous young footman who seemed not at all impressed by the sundry and various degrees of feminine beauty awaiting outside.

“Good afternoon,” Tessa began. “I am—”

The fellow didn’t even look Tessa’s way, instead fixing his aloof gaze exclusively upon Phoebe. “Lementeur will see you now, Miss Millbury. Your …
friends
may accompany you, if you so desire.”

Oh, my. This was going to be interesting after all. Then Phoebe caught the seething rage on Tessa’s face. The last thing she wanted was to give Tessa any more reason to attack Sophie.

Phoebe gazed at the haughty young man evenly. “I do not believe my aunt was allowed to finish her sentence,” she said with mild firmness.

The fellow’s eyes flickered slightly. “Of course,” he said, bowing deeply to Tessa. “But Lady Tessa needs no introduction to anyone with taste.” The irony was deep, but Tessa had never been all that discerning.

Tessa preened, Deirdre rolled her eyes, and Phoebe breathed a sigh of relief. With her distant gaze, Sophie seemed completely removed from it all, as if her body were present but her mind was miles away.

I know those eyes. Those are my eyes when I’m being Miss Millbury, the vicar’s perfect daughter.

The young man led them into the entrance hall and took their bonnets and wraps. Then they were guided into an elegant room with a curtained dais to one side. The fellow bowed deeply. “Lementeur will join you momentarily.”

In spite of matters, Phoebe was beginning to feel some anticipation. She’d never truly had her choice of gowns, for the cook had ordered them when she was younger and the vicar had forced—er, influenced—the choices after that.

The door opened and a rather curious gentleman entered. Unlike the gloriously beautiful footman, he was a small, spry fellow with puckish features and twinkling eyes. Phoebe liked him immediately. Tessa sprang to her feet, her face wreathed in smiles. Good heavens, Phoebe hadn’t known Tessa’s face could
do
that!

“Mr. Lementeur! Thank you so—”

He held up a hand. “It is only Lementeur. It is more a title than a surname, you see.”

“Le Menteur. The Liar,” Sophie breathed. By the look on her face when the man turned to her with delight, she’d not meant to translate aloud.

“But of course!” Lementeur tilted his head, smiling at Sophie as if she were his dearest new friend. “And can you guess why an honest man such as myself would take that name?”

Sophie obviously knew the answer. She had “good student” written all over her, yet she hesitated. Phoebe leaned forward, for she dearly wanted to know.

Tessa shifted restlessly. “Sir, we—”

“Come on, sweeting,” Lementeur said gently to Sophie.

Sophie pressed her lips together, glancing at Tessa. Then she looked back up at Lementeur. “Because you are an illusionist. You make people—women—look finer than they are.”

Lementeur reached for Sophie’s hand, bending to kiss the back of it. “At last, someone understands. Only I prefer to think that I make them look finer than they knew they could.” Then he straightened briskly and gazed at all of them in turn.

“Miss Millbury. Miss Cantor. Miss Blake. And of course, the memorable Lady Tessa.” He walked slowly before them, inspecting them with his head tilted. Phoebe felt compelled to sit her straightest. Deirdre seemed bored, although Phoebe knew she was as excited as any of them. Sophie was gazing curiously about the room, as if Lementeur’s assessment had nothing to do with her. He stopped before to her “What an elegant form,” he exclaimed.

Tessa drew up. “Sir, it is an unfortunate fact that my niece is as pl—”

Lementeur swung on Tessa in full artistic fury. “Your niece is a dressmaker’s dream—an untouched canvas, a figure of such pure elegance and refinement—”

He threw up his hands and turned back to Sophie. “You could wipe them all from the minds of Society if you wished it, my darling. All you need do is say the word and I will make you my muse, my
pièce de résistance
, my masterpiece!”

Sophie drew back from the little man’s outburst of adoration. Doubt and hope raced each other across her expression.
Tessa began to pale with rage. At last, Sophie shook her head. “I shall have to decline,” she said shakily. Then she shot a single, hot glance at Tessa.

Lementeur took her hand and patted it gently. “That’s all right, little one.” It wasn’t at all absurd, for some reason, though Sophie towered over him. “You will come see me, if you change your mind?”

Then he turned back to Phoebe. “Miss Millbury, if you will please ascend?” He took her hand and placed her on the round raised dais, standing her there like a reluctant doll. Pushed back from the platform stood a number of tall mirrors, currently shrouded in white cloth.

“I do not wish to be distracted by reflections,” Lementeur said when he saw her looking over her shoulder at them. “Now be still.”

Phoebe stood as straight and still as possible, suddenly horribly aware of every possible flaw in her appearance.

Lementeur circled her, murmuring. “Yes, yes, the bosom is very good, the waist divine … the hips, heaven help us … not to worry, not to worry … there are ways …”

Since he was obviously not speaking to her, Phoebe worried plenty. Her hips? She’d never given them a thought! She suppressed the desire to run her hands over herself, to see if larger hips had mysteriously materialized. Perhaps she ought to skip that second crumpet at tea …

He came around to the front of her and peered into her face. “Marvelous skin. You’ve been most diligent with your bonnet.” He pondered her for a long moment, tapping one finger against his lips. “What colors … ?”

Tessa spoke up from across the room, where Phoebe became aware that they had all been watching with extreme fascination, even Sophie. “Mr. Lementeur, I believe Brookhaven prefers blue.”

Lementeur sent Phoebe a long-suffering look. Phoebe sympathized completely. Without turning his head, he
raised his voice to answer Tessa. “Everyone knows that Brookhaven prefers
blue
, my lady. Yet which blue is best? Cerulean? Lapis? The color of Turkish stone? The deepest royal blue?” He shot one scathing look over his shoulder. “Do let me think, if you please?”

He turned back to Phoebe with a small smile on his lips that told her he’d enjoyed that. “Now, my dear, tell me—for we must appeal to more than his lordship’s sense of color—what, in your perception, led him to focus his attentions solely on you?”

“I—I haven’t the foggiest notion.” She looked away. “I never met the man before the engagement … but I know it was on his brother’s recommendation that he chose me.” A rather humiliating admission.

Lementeur raised a brow. “
Really?
Marbrook, eh?” The other brow joined the first. “Actually, that does make …” The murmured thought trailed off and he clapped his hands together and smiled. “Yes. Yes, I have it. I have something that will do for this evening. It was meant for Lady Reardon, but she’ll understand when I tell her. She believes in true love, you see.” His eyes twinkled.

True love?
The marquis was a respectable man, but that was overstating the case. Then again, what did it matter what people thought?

“I’ll have it sent over as soon as I have it hemmed, along with a few other things. Now go. Begone. Come back in two days for your first fitting.”

“Two days?” Phoebe hadn’t had many gowns made in her life but she knew it generally took longer than that.

“I do not get paid by the hour like some lowly seamstress!” He shooed her off the dais with both hands. “Leave. All of you. I must work.”

Phoebe shooed, hopping off the dais and rejoining the others. Tessa gazed at Lementeur in bewilderment. “Leave? But what of our—”

Lementeur crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “Cabot!”

The beautiful young man appeared from nowhere to escort them all from the room. Once the door was closed, he deigned to offer them a chilly smile.

“The master’s eye does not require such props as measuring tapes. Miss Millbury, your trousseau will be ready to fit in two days. There will never be another fitting required, unless your figure changes.” He nodded to the others, not quite a bow, but more respectful than before.

Tessa sputtered. “But I must consult as to color and style—”

Cabot’s gaze became absolutely glacial. “My lady, if you desire an
ordinary
gown, perhaps you wish to go elsewhere.”

Tessa swallowed quickly. “No, no, of course not. Er, please thank Mr. Lementeur for us?”

They left, Phoebe now pondering the possible reasons behind Brookhaven’s selection of her, Tessa unusually quelled, Deirdre sporting an amused half-smile, and Sophie looking very thoughtful—and very much present.

“How do you think he can make a gown without measuring?” Sophie ventured when the carved oak door had shut behind them.

Deirdre shrugged. “I haven’t a clue. What does it matter? His gowns are always superb, so he must know his business.”

They passed another shop, one with gentlemen’s accessories displayed in the window. Phoebe’s eye was caught by a stock pin, a dark yellow topaz set in gold that winked at her, twinkling like Marbrook’s brown eyes. She felt the impulse to buy it and give it to him.

You are not allowed to give Marbrook gifts. Your gift-giving is now restricted to Brookhaven and Brookhaven alone.

That fact brought home her situation as nothing had
before it. She would never be able to entertain the possibility of another man again, not for the rest of her or Brookhaven’s life.

Some women might not be so bound by their vows, but Phoebe wasn’t one of them. If—
when
—she married Brookhaven, she would abide by those vows forever and never look back.

Resolutely, she turned her eyes away from the topaz stock pin and looked for one to suit Brookhaven. After a moment she spotted one that made her smile. It was a golden figure, a bullheaded man, the mythical Minotaur. There was no earthly reason why it should remind her of Brookhaven, but it did.

Before she could allow herself to reconsider, she walked smartly into the shop and purchased it for him. She would give it to him tonight.

If it made him smile as well, then she would know that she had made the right choice.

And which choice is that
—
the man or the pin?

Well, now, that was best not thought about, wasn’t it?

BOOK: Celeste Bradley - [Heiress Brides 01]

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