The Return of the Duke Read online

  “Lady Brambley speaks the truth,” Madame Rousseau said. “My establishment, it is exclusive. But only a select few of my clients can secure vouchers to Princess Adelaide’s salon. It is open only to the crème of the crème de la crème.”

  “And you will be amongst them, Francesca.” Aunt Esther’s look of awe turned into one of determination. “The princess’s salons fall on the last Friday of the month…which means we have just over a fortnight to get you ready. We do not have time for shilly-shallying!” The lady turned to the dressmaker. “Madame Rousseau, Francesca needs a new wardrobe, top to bottom, immediately. You will have carte blanche, of course.”

  “Would you please ’elp me, Madame Rousseau?” Fancy asked anxiously. “I ’ave to make myself o’er into a proper lady.”

  “In terms of the outer trappings, oui, this is true. The rest, I think, requires no transformation.” Madame Rousseau smiled, then said crisply, “Follow me, ladies. Let us begin the preparations.”

  22

  Although Severin owned multiple manufactories, he spent the bulk of his time at his main office. His mentor and former business partner, James Hessard, had converted this block of terraced houses close to Petticoat Lane Market into weaving ateliers. The buildings had been built for the craft, the floor to ceiling windows letting in ample natural light. Having lived in dingy, windowless dens for the first half of his life, Severin liked having a view of the sky.

  In accordance to the customs of weavers, the lower floors of the buildings were used as residences for the workers. He kept the rents low to make his weavers happy. Happy employees, to his mind, made for enhanced productivity. On the upper floors were the weaving rooms, vast spaces occupied by the looms.

  Severin’s office was on the top floor. Antique tapestries hung on the walls, muffling the clacking of the looms outside. The mahogany furnishings that graced his sanctum were of the highest quality. To the left of his large desk was a wall of windows that gave him a bird’s eye view of the bustling Spitalfields markets.

  At present, he was sitting in his chair, looking out the window as Dutton, his man-of-business, delivered the monthly report in a droning voice. Typically, he didn’t have difficulty concentrating, but this afternoon his mind was elsewhere. Thoughts of Fancy kept distracting him, along with feelings of guilt.

  Since Imogen’s unplanned visit two days ago, he’d been working late every night. It wasn’t just because he had much to catch up on after his hiatus. The truth was he was avoiding his wife.

  Fancy deserved better than to be around him when he was in a brooding mood. The state that seeing Imogen often put him in. This time, it had been worse because Imogen had arrived unannounced, taking him off guard with her rare agitation.

  I am s-sorry, Knight. She had dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief he’d given her. It is just that your letter…it came as a shock. Are you happy, my dear?

  My wife is a fine woman, he’d said gruffly.

  I am certain that she is. Imogen had bit her lip, the glimmer in her cornflower blue eyes causing a reflexive tightening in his chest. If only things had been different, then I could have been your duchess…

  Then Fancy had come in, and Severin had jerked away from Imogen like a criminal caught red-handed. His excuse had been asinine. He didn’t know why he’d made it; he had not done anything wrong. Yet the look on Fancy’s face when she realized who their visitor was had twisted his gut, filled him with a strange panic. For an instant, he’d regretted telling Fancy as much as he had about Imogen…but that was one of the things he valued most about his new wife: her candor and frankness, her acceptance of him and his shortcomings.

  Since then, she hadn’t asked him about Imogen’s visit, and for that he was profoundly grateful. Because he, himself, was confused. When Imogen had asked him if he was happy, he hadn’t known how to answer.

  What he felt for Fancy wasn’t the adoration he felt for Imogen; he acknowledged that. In his mind, Imogen rested upon a pedestal of perfection whereas Fancy was, well, Fancy. A cheery, tender, and down-to-earth tinker’s daughter with a whimsical streak. Comparing the two women was like comparing apples and oranges and did neither of them justice. Moreover, his reaction to them was different. Imogen elevated his thoughts, made them pure and gallant. She inspired him to be a gentleman.

  His thoughts about Fancy, on the other hand, were far from civilized. His desire for his wife was proving insatiable; he hadn’t been this lusty, this needful with any of his former bedpartners. Luckily for him, Fancy seemed to welcome his attentions, and not only was she sweet in bed—God, the taste of her honey—she was just as sweet out of it.

  He could talk to her, share his problems, laugh with her. He’d never had anyone like her in his life before. Given the less than auspicious beginnings of their marriage, they were off to as good a start as any he could imagine.

  Then why did Imogen’s visit unsettle me?

  “Shall I proceed, Your Grace?”

  He snapped his attention back to his man of business. Annoyed at himself for losing track of what the other was saying, he asked, “What are you referring to, Dutton?”

  “The order for the Jacquard mechanism, Your Grace.”

  Right. An innovation in weaving, the Jacquard mechanism automated operations that previously required skilled weavers to carry out. Attached to a loom, the device consisted of a chain of punched cards that controlled the raising of the warp threads and, thus, the pattern of the fabric. As a result, complex designs including damasks, brocades, and matelassé could be achieved in a fraction of the time and at a lower cost.

  Severin’s mentor, Hessard, had resisted the technology, stating that no machine could produce fabrics as exquisite as those created by his skilled weavers. At first, Severin had been willing to follow in his predecessor’s footsteps since their handcrafted silks commanded a hefty sum from a select group of clientele. The latest version of the Jacquard mechanism, however, had changed Severin’s way of thinking. The intricacy and beauty of the fabrics produced by this new generation of technology surpassed anything made by even his most experienced weavers.

  Severin had to face facts: he could not compete with other companies using this mechanism. He would have to adapt to the times…and his weavers were not going to like it. In truth, they weren’t wrong to fear that their specialized skills could soon be replaced by a machine. He had to convince them that the wisest course of action was not to resist inevitable change but to find a way to profit from it. He would train his workers in new skills—how to design the patterns and create the Jacquard cards, for instance—but they had to work with him.

  And therein lay the crux of the problem. He hadn’t lied when he told Fancy that weavers were a contentious lot, and the most contentious amongst them was a head weaver named William Bodin. Fiery and defiant, Bodin was a natural leader who had the ear of the other workers. He’d made trouble for Severin before, yet he had the backing of his peers, which made it difficult to oust him without causing a work stoppage or, worse, riot. Bodin would no doubt oppose the use of the new Jacquard looms.

  Severin’s temples tightened as he contemplated the pitfalls ahead. Then again, when had anything in his life been easy? Nothing had been given to him without a fight.

  “Order the device,” he said brusquely. “Have it set up in one of the empty warehouses and use discretion. I do not wish for word of the machine to leak until I have done a trial run.”

  “Very good, Your Grace,” Dutton said. “If there is nothing else…”

  Dismissing the man of business, Severin went to stare broodingly out the window. He was literally standing at the height of success, and he ought to be content. But he wasn’t. He felt isolated…alone. In and of itself, this was not unusual. What was unusual was that it bothered him.

  Severin became aware of the craving he had been keeping at bay for the past two days. He hadn’t felt right going to his wife’s bed when he was brooding over another woman. Yet now as his rumination over Imoge
n subsided, he realized how much he’d missed Fancy, spending time with her even if they were just talking.

  While he hadn’t knocked on her bedchamber door, she hadn’t knocked on his either. He thought that she was probably tired. Aunt Esther had been keeping her busy with shopping expeditions, elocution lessons, and the like. The old dragon had even cornered him on his way out this morning to pay Fancy a compliment.

  Francesca has a long way to go, Knighton, no doubt about that, Aunt Esther had said. Nonetheless, there is no lack of effort on the gel’s part. She is determined to become a proper duchess and to do you and the family name proud.

  It might not sound like a glowing compliment. From Aunt Esther, however, this was nothing short of an accolade. Somehow it didn’t surprise him that Fancy was managing to win over his prickly aunt: his wife’s warm and cheerful manner would please anyone but the most dyed-in-the-wool ogre.

  Severin hungered for a taste of Fancy’s sweetness and that feeling of closeness that had begun to grow between them. Now that his head was clear and his mood had passed, he could go to her without feeling like a bastard. A sudden inspiration struck him. He decided to make a stop on the way home to pick up a gift for his wife. Such a tribute was long overdue, and he couldn’t wait to see Fancy’s reaction when he gave her his surprise.

  After her bath that evening, Fancy sat at her dressing table while her new lady’s maid Gemma combed out her hair. Mrs. Treadwell had lined up three applicants for Fancy to interview today; Fancy had hired Gemma on the spot when the other expertly styled her hair into a coiffure that even Aunt Esther deemed acceptable. Resourceful and discreet, the little blonde maid was a fount of information about the latest fashions, having worked with many ladies of quality in the past.

  When the knock sounded on the door between her and Knight’s bedchamber, Fancy gave a start of surprise. Given Knight’s absence the past two nights, she hadn’t expected him to pay her a visit.

  Gemma gave her a conspiratorial smile. “Shall I get the door, Your Grace?”

  “Yes. No. Wait.” Fancy hurriedly inspected herself in the mirror. “’Ow do I look?”

  “Beautiful, Your Grace.” There was a twinkle in Gemma’s eyes. “The new nightgown suits you ever so well.”

  The matching negligee and peignoir had been amongst the first of the items to arrive from the modiste and were unlike anything Fancy had owned or worn before. At the fitting, Madame Rousseau had assured her that this design was all the rage in Paris and a favorite of aristocratic clients and especially their husbands. Indeed, the dressmaker had said with a secret smile, she always encouraged clients to order duplicates. Although Fancy didn’t see why she would need two of the expensive negligees—she made it a habit to take good care of her clothing—she’d nonetheless put herself completely in the modiste’s hands.

  Madame had constructed the negligee and peignoir out of fine ivory silk, the clever cut designed to show off Fancy’s curves. Both garments were trimmed with bronze ribbon, and the back of the peignoir was embroidered with a Chinoiserie scene in matching bronze thread. The workmanship was flawless. In Fancy’s estimation, Madame’s genius lay in her ability to create garments that were simple yet extraordinarily flattering.

  As Fancy looked into the mirror now, her confidence grew. There was a reason she was wearing her new garments tonight: she had decided that if Knight wasn’t going to come to her, she would go to him, even though Aunt Esther would likely disapprove of her plan.

  You mustn’t be so eager to please, Francesca, Esther had lectured during today’s lesson in etiquette. In our world, being too accommodating is considered bourgeois. You are not a puppy to do as its master commands. A true lady knows her worth—and knows she is worth the trouble. Do you understand?

  Fancy did, yet spending two nights apart from Knight was enough in her opinion. He’d given her permission to open the door whenever she wanted, hadn’t he? At supper tonight, he’d seemed less remote and more like his old self before that scene with Imogen. Fancy had resolved to take the bull by the horns and go to him that evening and thus the pains she’d taken with her toilette.

  When Knight’s imperious knock sounded again, happiness and relief swirled through Fancy. If he was taking the initiative, then maybe he’d missed her too.

  “Please let ’Is Grace in,” she told her waiting maid. “Then you may go.”

  As Gemma did as she bade, Fancy rose and nervously adjusted the belt of her robe. The slide of silk against her skin felt different from her old flannel. It made her feel more sensual…more daring. She wondered what her husband would think of her new attire.

  She didn’t have long to wait. Dressed in his black dressing gown, Knight prowled toward her, the glint in his eyes turning predatory as he took her in. His male hunger was unmistakable, filling the room, making her heart knock against her ribs. Some age-old instinct made her retreat a step, the back of her legs hitting the dressing table, rattling the contents on its surface.

  He stopped a hairsbreadth away.

  Staring down at her, he murmured, “What are you wearing, chérie?”

  “It’s part o’ my new wardrobe,” she said. “Do you, um, like it?”

  “I cannot say for certain.” As her heart plummeted, he lifted a hand, running a finger down the slope of her shoulder. “Not until you show me the rest, hmm?”

  Emboldened by his sensual demand, she undid the belt of the peignoir and shrugged it off. It cascaded down her body, pooling at her feet. The negligee was held up by thin straps, an elegant column that bared her shoulders and dipped in the front to show the shadowed crevice between her breasts. The silk flowed downward, loose but not billowing, skimming over her curves. She felt her husband’s smoldering gaze rake over her. Her nipples stiffened to hard points visible against the silk.

  “What do you think now?” she dared to ask.

  “I think,” he said, a growly edge to his voice, “that you look good enough to eat. As it happens, I have not yet had my dessert.”

  He swept his arm over her dressing table. Shocked, she watched as toiletries went flying left and right, thumping onto the carpet.

  “Knight, those were expensive—”

  “I’ll buy you more.” He hauled her onto the dressing table, her spine pressing against the mirror and legs dangling off the edge. He yanked on her neckline.

  Hearing seams tearing, she gasped, “This is new. You’re ruining—”

  “I’ll buy you another.”

  So that’s why Madame said I needed a duplicate. The realization dispersed like a dandelion puff at the force of Knight’s ravening gaze upon her bared breasts.

  “By Jove,” he rasped, “you have the most delectable tits.”

  Her reply became a moan for he’d fastened his lips over a straining nipple. He suckled her, the feeling shooting straight between her thighs. Her pussy clenched helplessly as he tongued her taut buds, going back and forth until her breasts glistened from his kisses. When he grazed her with his teeth, her hips bucked, a gasp leaving her.

  “Too much?” His gaze searched her face, and whatever he saw made his lips curve into a wicked smile. “I didn’t think so.”

  Before she could reply, he crowded in closer, making room for himself between her splayed legs. He lowered his head again, giving her a nip. At the bite of pleasure-pain, she arched into him, whimpering when the motion brought her pussy up against his muscled thigh, giving her friction where she needed it. She felt herself dampening the silk of her negligee.

  “Ride my leg, sweetheart,” he said huskily. “Come for me while I kiss your tits.”

  Panting, she gave into his naughty order. She clutched onto his hard shoulders and squirmed wantonly against him. He redoubled his attentions on her breasts, cupping and kneading them, his fierce sucking pulling at her core. Her pussy contracted as he drew hard on her nipples. Desperate for relief, for him, she rubbed herself against the firm ridge of his leg, moaning his name as she soared on a crest of pleasure.
/>   His wife was always pretty, but at the height of rapture, she was incomparable. Severin took an instant to drink in her beauty: her passion-flushed cheeks, her big brown eyes dazed with bliss. Her beauty mark quivered as she panted, her lush, rosy lips parted like the gate to temptation. For a wild instant, he saw himself taking her mouth, kissing her with all the need burning inside him.

  He had just enough willpower to resist the urge. It wasn’t fair to her; she deserved more than an imitation of the real thing. The one request she’d made of him was not to kiss her unless he meant it. Thus, he couldn’t do it. But he could do other things to her.

  Christ, he needed to.

  Although he’d planned to have a talk with her this eve, lust got the better of him. Conversation could wait; his desire for his wife could not. He stripped off his robe and threw it aside. Fancy’s eyes followed his movements. He dragged his nightshirt over his head, and she ran her gaze over his bulging chest muscles, the flexing ridges of his belly, all the way to his erect cock.

  When she wetted her lips, he nearly groaned. He fisted his rod, running his hand up and down the heavy shaft.

  “Like what you see, chérie?” he asked silkily.

  “Yes.” The unabashed approval in her eyes lured a drop of seed from his tip. “I take it this means you approve o’ the nightclothes Madame Rousseau made for me?”

  Her satisfied little smile made him grow even harder.

  “I like them,” he said. “But I like what’s underneath even more. Raise that skirt for me, sweeting, so that I can see what’s mine.”

  Her bared breasts rose and fell at his command, the tips taut and cherry red. Slowly, she reached for the hem of her negligee and pulled it up her shapely legs.

  “All the way, sweet,” he coaxed. “Let me see your pussy.”

  Blushing, she did as he asked, squirming to get the silk past her hips. His nostrils flared as he drank in the sight of his duchess on her dressing table, her nightgown now bunched at her waist, her beautiful breasts, legs, and cunny exposed. Feral instincts tore through his gentlemanly restraint.