The Rake's Unveiling of Lady Belle (13 page)

Kevin hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Ah, so sorry, my lord, I had forgotten to mention that. Yes, my lord, it is to be informal, as my lady is wearing one of Lady Clarissa's day gowns. Dinner is as you asked, at seven. Chef was gratified at the later hour.' He folded a cravat into a perfect square and put it into a drawer. Phillip made a note to ask someone if the man hoped to become a gentleman's gentleman.

Kevin closed the drawer and looked up at Phillip. ‘Something to do with duck and cherries I believe.'

‘Ah.' Phillip's taste buds went on high alert. ‘My favourite.'

‘So I believe, my lord.'

Phillip pulled a fine linen shirt over his head and tucked it into his breeches. He eschewed his now cleaned Hessians for a pair of house shoes. Even though the rain had stopped an hour or so before, it would be soaking underfoot and too wet to walk on the terrace. Outside his bedchamber window, raindrops glittered like diamonds on the grass, and the ground steamed gently in the late evening sun. With a smile of thanks to Kevin, Phillip left the man to his folding and made his way downstairs to the small sitting room, to where he had been assured someone would show Belle.

It was unnerving, knowing she was there in the house with him. It wasn't somewhere he invited any lady. It was his bolthole and even his sister had only visited once, along with Lady Lakenby who was godmother to them both. That, he knew, had been more due to nosiness than the alleged reason they put forward—that they wished to know if there was anything they could do for him. He'd shown them around, thanked them for their solicitousness, and waved them on their way. Their approval, pleasant though it had been, was irrelevant.

Tonight, however, he was eager to see what Belle thought of his home and also to see how they could spend an evening together in such circumstances. Alone, away from prying eyes, his world, her world and any other things that could interfere with their time together.

Phillip prowled the room unable to settle. He poured a glass of amontillado and looked at his watch. And again three minutes later. And five minutes after that. It still wanted twenty minutes to the hour, but he'd hoped to chat before dinner. To make the evening as normal—whatever normal was—as possible.

No, not chat, be honest. Gently interrogate.

Just as he was beginning to get twitchy and about ready to go and see what was keeping her, Belle entered the room with a flurry of lace and linen. Her curls bounced around her face in a halo of gold, and her eyes twinkled as she curtsied and grinned.

‘I'm sorry. I'm not late am I?' she asked breathlessly. ‘My feet are bigger than Cl…Lady Clarissa's and we were trying to dry my sandals out.' She waggled one bare foot in front of him. Stockingless he noted. ‘We gave up in the end. Even her stockings crept down my legs like they were trying to leave without being noticed.'

On any other occasion he would have come back with a quip about fewer things to take off. With Belle he daren't. Nor dare he query her choice of title for Clarissa. He was damned sure Belle usually addressed his sister by her given name without the lady title in front of it.

Instead, he let his gaze linger on her legs until regrettably she flicked her skirts down and became decorous once more.

‘We can't go outside but the garden is still pleasant to look at,' he said as he handed Belle a drink and walked with her to the French windows that were open to the warm evening air. ‘The rain should stay away now—it smells fresher. We will be able to leave once we have breakfasted.'

She nodded, and changed the subject. ‘Do you have many gardeners here, my lord?'

‘Just two, and my chef, housekeeper, and enough staff to keep the house running.' How inane did he sound? However, Phillip was determined he would be a pleasant and friendly host if it killed him.

It almost did. As the evening went on the sexual tension rose and the words spoken decreased. Escorting Belle to her bedchamber door and kissing her palm and curling her fingers over the spot was an exercise in restraint that he would prefer never to go through again.

‘You can kiss more than my hand you know,' she said softly.

‘No, I can not.' He stroked her cheek and felt the faint tremor that ran through her. It was such a small thing but gave him hope that maybe he was affecting her enough for her to break down and give in.

‘You mean, you will not,' Belle said with a sigh. She twirled one golden curl around her finger as she looked up at him.

He nodded. ‘Will you marry me?'

She smiled sadly. ‘I can not.'

His expression, he was sure, would be equally bleak. ‘You mean you will not.' It was her turn to nod.

‘Impasse.' He shrugged, vey slightly and not in disinterest, but in an effort to appear calm and rational, when all he wanted to do was say honour be damned and ravish her. ‘Then, my dear, I will leave you and go and have a very cold bath.'

Belle stared up at him with incomprehension written over her face.

‘Why on earth?'

‘To chill my ardour and cool my staff until it has shrivelled away and stopped heaving up and hardening in hope.'

‘You…' She moved her head and glanced down towards that part of his body. ‘Ah…'

Ah, indeed.
He walked away before she could change his mind.

Two hours later he wished he hadn't. And for the next three hours after that. Finally as the sun rose he gave up and left his bed, to dress in old and patched breeches and a shirt he had rescued from the ragbag. He topped them with a rough homespun jacket. His oldest Hessians and a flat cap finished his dressing, and he left his room at a brisk pace. He'd ride his fidgets out across the fields or he really would end up with a sprained wrist.

* * *

Several weeks later, Belinda was ready to scream.

‘If he parades one more woman through this salon I'll…I'll… Oh I don't know what I'll do,' she said tiredly to Tippen who handed her a cup of chocolate with a sympathetic smile. Belinda nodded her thanks and inhaled the aroma gratefully. When all else failed chocolate could help. She waved away the scones, even though her tummy rumbled, and she knew full well she needed to eat. Scones reminded her of Phillip.

‘It's not just your coffers that are full, is it?' Tippen asked her, sympathetically. Her concern was enough to force Belinda to hold back a tear. ‘So's your heart. Can't you confide in him why you are refusing him? It might make him less blatant about bringing all his women here.'

Belinda shook her head, and surreptitiously wiped her cheeks. ‘It's not fair to put that burden on him. Plus he is honourable and would insist on calling my father out. No, I'll grin and bear it, and think about retiring to Honeysuckle Cottage, and leaving this all to you.'

Tippen was about to drink. The cup stayed an inch from her mouth as she stared at Belinda over the rim. Her eyes were wide and her expression one of total astonishment. Under any other circumstances, Belinda would have laughed at Tippen's reaction. Today she was hard pressed to react. The idea of giving ‘Dressed by Belle' up and vacating the capital appealed more and more.

‘Eh? Don't be silly, you'd be bored.' Tippen was so surprised she lost the accent she had cultivated so assiduously and reverted to her more homely twang.

‘Would I?' Belinda wasn't so sure. She missed the camaraderie she and Phillip had almost achieved, and found her life flat and uninteresting. These days he walked in with whichever lady he favoured, and barely acknowledged Belinda's presence as he gave all his attention to his companion. If it hadn't been for a strange expression she caught when he thought himself unobserved, Belinda would think he had no interest in her any more. However, that unguarded look of yearning and sadness made her hope that one day… She sighed. There would never be that one day. If she truly wanted to aid him, she should work on helping him to discard those emotions.

Meanwhile she suffered, and it seemed so did Phillip.

For two pins she'd refuse to agree to his patronage or plead indisposition and let Tippen take over. Only the knowledge that he was waiting for her to do so kept her backbone stiff, and her determination intact. If he intended to torture her like that, she was damned sure she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing just how much his actions upset her.

Therefore she smiled sweetly and nodded to most, although not all, of his suggestions. Not even for Phillip would she design anything that wouldn't show her work or the wearer to their best advantage. However, Belinda thought she was dying inside a little more every day.

She couldn't sleep and she ached for him more than she thought possible. Her appetite was non-existent and already Tippen had taken in several of Belinda's gowns with a muttered warning, and several threats of calling the said gentleman to account. That was one of the few truly humorous things about the whole sorry state of affairs. Tippen was at least a head and a half shorter than Phillip and several stones lighter. She would have to stand on a chair to plant him a facer. That was something Belinda thought she'd like to see. Especially after one very trying episode with Phillip and his current lady, when he decreed Belinda must model the scandalous, almost sheer chemise she had created for the lady.

Phillip walked around Belinda in a full circle, examined it—and no doubt her—thoroughly and insisted the garment was too voluptuous. ‘You could fit two of the lady in this.' He'd grabbed a handful of material and pulled the material tight over Belinda's mound.

‘She needs to be seen.'

The lady with him, looked at her almost in sympathy, and said nothing. He meanwhile had stared at Belinda and dared her to retaliate. She had bitten back the bitter words that hovered on the tip of her tongue and swallowed her bile.

‘You're the customer,' she said at last. ‘If you think it enhances a woman's attributes to be blatant and not to entice and tease, then of course I'll do as you ask.' She curtsied, walked out, stripped and redressed rapidly, avoided Tippen's concerned look, and returned to the salon. Thence to ignore him and address the lady for whom the garment was intended.

She, Lady Paston, had smiled sympathetically. ‘I don't know which one of you hurts the most,' she had whispered. ‘But as it gets me a Dressed by Belle wardrobe, I can not complain. Just remember, pride is a cold bedfellow.' They departed soon after, and Belinda was left to ponder her words.

Somehow that session made her ache for Phillip even more. She longed for his strength, his humour, and yes, his presence in her life. Which, considering they hadn't spent more than a few hours in each other's company, was strange.

Clarissa she missed like a severed limb. Never before had they spent so long without communicating almost constantly. Even when Belinda had spent all those months at Clinderford, learning to become Madame Belle, rarely had a day passed without a note or a verbal communication, even if they didn't speak face to face.

A few days earlier, Clarissa had been in for a fitting, with a sad almost resigned look on her face, and she said very little. Even the thought of a very exclusive French lace trim to her chemise had failed to raise a smile. There was no way Belinda could share her own worries with her friend. They'd hugged almost desperately, and then Clarissa had straightened. ‘I don't know what's wrong with you, Bel. Well, no, I'm afraid I do, and I can not help you. Only you can do so. But remember we each make our choices and need to work to achieve the best conclusion. I'd forgotten that for a while. Not any more though.' The defeated look had gone from her eyes and she looked almost militant. ‘I want that sea blue silk gown three inches higher over the bosom, and the ecru lacy night-rail lined with lawn. Into battle I go.' She'd left in a much better mood than she had arrived.

The gossip in the salon was that it was a love match, long standing, and one where finally Clarissa's father had given his consent and blessing to the marriage. The reasons why he had withheld it for however many years the speaker thought viable were never mentioned.

Belinda who was privy to a little more correct knowledge than chit-chat kept silent on the subject, and refused to be drawn on anything, even to the beading on the wedding dress. She had been adamant she would go nowhere near the ceremony or the breakfast afterwards, and kept her word. Clarissa was dressed, sent on her way, and Tippen stood in the wings to make sure all was well.

Evidently the wedding had passed off without an excess of trouble, even if some reports chose to say Lord Bennett was bosky. Since then the couple had retired to the country for a honeymoon and Belinda had heard or seen nothing of her friend.

Belinda was lonely. After Clarissa's wedding, Lady L had gone north on her annual ‘annoy the family' trip, and wasn't due back for several weeks. Belinda missed her astringent comments and ready wit. As well as she got on with Tippen, they didn't have the same depth of friendship she and Clarissa, or even she and Lady L, shared. Whatever Belinda said or did to the contrary, Tippen could never really forget who Belinda was.

‘All right, enough.' Belinda tossed back the dregs of her hot chocolate and stood up. ‘We have a trousseau to finish and a pelisse to trim for his lordship's latest.'

Tippen tittered. ‘It's a wonder he isn't bankrupt, the rate he trades them in. He changes his ladies as often as Lady Montacute changes her turbans and we all know how many a day she goes through.'

Belinda grinned as she led the way into the workroom. The three girls who worked for them had left and it was only herself and Tippen around. Belinda made sure the three youngsters went home at least once a month to reassure their parents all was well, and she hadn't sold them to slave traders. ‘If I had a guinea for every time I've had a request to make Lady M one, I'd definitely be retired. But I have my limits and she is well outside them. Phillip and his posse of women are bad enough.' Belinda giggled suddenly, as a wayward and very improper thought flitted through her mind. ‘Do you think he remembers who is who when they are intimate? I wonder if he has something to remind him. Ah, a redhead in green, must be Lady Marie. Hmm a brunette who screeches, that's Miss Stamp.'