The Rake and the Recluse REDUX (a time travel romance) (26 page)

She turned to leave the room, thinking she’d somehow ended up in the wrong suite. But Mrs. Weston walked over and took her hand, pulling her to the settee, which was covered in beautiful bundles of silks and satins.

“Come, miss, look at this!” she exclaimed as she picked up a package and handed it to her, directing her to a chair.

“What— What is all this?” Francine mouthed, waving her hand at the packages.

“This is a gift from His Grace.”

“No, I can’t,” she whispered, shaking her head and pushing the box back at Mrs. Weston.

She gasped. “Oh no, miss, you must not. I mean, perhaps you misunderstand. His Grace is quite taken with you, and if you refuse the gifts, he will be quite em—” She broke off and cleared her throat. “You mustn’t.”

Francine reached out slowly, taking the box from her hands as she nodded.

She pulled the green satin ribbon free from the package, unwrapping the lavender folds of paper. She was left holding a large bristled hairbrush with a silver back and handle.

Francine gazed at the brush, turning it over in her hands. It was beautiful, and quite a thoughtful gift. She looked up at Mrs. Weston with wide eyes and Mrs. Weston handed her another package, then unfurled a large cream-colored brocade throw over her lap.

An hour later, the floor was littered with wrappings and ribbons, and Francine was truly and thoroughly overwhelmed, but Mrs. Weston wasn’t finished with the duke’s surprises. She smiled as she rang for Carole to bring the slipper tub so she could ready Francine for supper.

Gideon entered his suite. Ferry had already filled his tub and had kettles heating over the fire to warm it, in case he was delayed. Ferry was best at thinking ahead and keeping his distance, which was why Gideon appreciated his service, but right now he wanted to actually speak with him. “Ferry.”

His valet appeared from behind the fireplace. “Your Grace.”

“Ferry, have you spoken with Carole or Mrs. Weston?”

“Your Grace, Miss Francine was suitably beset.”

Gideon wanted to know what, precisely, she thought of his gifts, but understood there was no more to be given. He grunted. “That is all.”

Ferry nodded and left as Gideon readied for his soak.

Francine rose from the tub, into the soft towel Mrs. Weston held, and walked to the dressing table. She sat, running her fingers over the beautiful brush, small silver trinket box, and hair combs that Gideon had brought back for her. He had also given her a brocade blanket, an opera cape, some gloves, and a mantle, which just looked like a shorter cape to her.

Mrs. Weston said the gifts were all very personal, the kind of gifts a proper gentleman would purchase only for his wife if he followed the dictates of society, but she rationalized that Francine had nothing and His Grace was merely seeing to her comfort.

They both knew there was no need for the items to be so ornate and expensive.

Mrs. Weston smoothed and pulled Francine’s hair into a sweeping pile of curls on top of her head, leaving a few strands down to frame her face. She used the decorative combs to secure it, then went to the wardrobe and pulled out a magnificent ivory dress with violet pinstripes. It had a great bustled train of giant bows and gathered flounces, and was trimmed with violet satin ribbons that were layered over and over until they swept the floor with their folds.

Francine’s breath caught as she advanced, gently caressing the fabric between her fingers as she looked at Mrs. Weston, who beamed.

She laid the garment on the bed and Francine stood, suffering Mrs. Weston’s ministrations like a flag caught in the wind. She tied her into her drawers, laced up the corset, and layered on piles of crinoline and petticoats. Then Mrs. Weston turned her and fastened more than fifty buttons up the front of the dress, which was cut very low across her bosom. The sleeves were long and fitted with multiple buttons at the wrists. Mrs. Weston buttoned every one, then tucked a violet silk scarf across the neckline.

Francine examined herself in the mirror, turning round and round, marveling at the fit and precision with which the gown’s ensemble was constructed. She glanced at Mrs. Weston, lifting her hands and shrugging her shoulders.

Mrs. Weston simply shook her head. “I have no idea, miss. I never would have imagined it, but somehow those boys managed. Oh!” Mrs. Weston rushed to the dresser.

As Francine stood looking in the mirror, Mrs. Weston came up behind her and reached high over her curls. She lowered a necklace, clasping it at her nape.

Francine gasped.
No!
she tried to say, her eyes wide, shaking her head. It was the most stunning piece of jewelry she’d ever seen, intricately filigreed silver strands delicately woven into a vine with tiny flowers created from different colored stones. The centerpiece was a flower with five matched petals of deep purple at the outer edges, which then faded into a brilliant yellow as they met at the matched yellow center stone. If she’d been able to use her voice, she would have been rendered speechless.

Mrs. Weston turned to her, seeing the panicked look in her eyes. “Now, Miss Francine, this piece is only being loaned to you for the night, so you mustn’t fret.”

Francine exhaled, relieved. That necklace was entirely too much.

“I believe it’s time for supper,” Mrs. Weston said.

Francine nodded, checking herself in the mirror one last time before strolling out of the room. Her arms looked impossibly long and slender, resting at her corseted waist.
Breathe,
she thought. She was becoming more accustomed to wearing a corset, but she did have to constantly remember to pace herself so she wasn’t overcome by lack of air.

The duke, Lord Trumbull, and Mr. Shaw met in the study before dinner for a glass of Gideon’s fine Raynal Cognac. They were enjoying a discussion on the possibilities behind having hidden rooms within the manor. Shaw believed it was some sort of safe room in case the manor were to be attacked, while Perry believed it was just another odd way for Marcus to spy on the inhabitants.

Gideon believed the private rooms were actually built for his mother, but he was interrupted by Stapleton before he could share his thoughts. “Miss Francine.”

The three men looked at each other and, setting their glasses on the sideboard, they walked toward the entry and gathered at the base of the stairs. Gideon stood in front, watching as Francine gracefully descended. Her cheeks were rosy and her smile demure.

Gideon was taken. He knew then and there, watching her move toward him, that he was hers, and she would be his. No matter the outcome of his search for her history, he was done and undone. She was his end.

Perry laughed and whispered, “Breathe, Rox,” with a nudge, and Gideon inhaled, shaking his head slowly in disbelief and acceptance.

Francine stopped close to the bottom of the staircase and paused to take it all in: Gideon’s smooth black trousers, crisp white shirt and black neck cloth, black dinner jacket and green silk waistcoat that mirrored his eyes. Shaw and Trumbull were also turned out very nicely. How was she so lucky as to be accompanied to dinner by three perfectly smashing gentlemen? She thought for a moment about the strangeness of it all.

There really should have been some other women involved, and she felt a twinge of awkward selfishness before she felt Gideon’s fingers grasping hers gently, lifting her hand so he could rest his lips on her wrist. She gazed down at his shiny dark locks, remembered the satiny smoothness of them against her cheek, her hand, her chest. She flushed violently and glanced away.

Gideon caught the blush spreading across the tops of her cheeks, and lower, across her breasts. He locked on her eyes, willing her to look down at him. “Do you approve?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, resting her hand on the necklace and signing
beautiful
as she met his gaze.

“I thought the color was appropriate. The petals are made of a stone called Ametrine—found only in Bolivia.” He turned and placed her hand on his arm.

Trumbull and Mr. Shaw exchanged uncomfortable glances, as though they had walked in on something they definitely shouldn’t have.

As Francine took Gideon’s arm, she glanced up to the first floor balcony to see Mrs. Weston, Carole, Ferry, and several others gathered in the shadows, unnoticed. Stapleton walked over to the giant doors of the main dining hall and swept them open, then stood silently as they entered, followed by Trumbull and Shaw.

The hall was light and airy, with large western-facing windows that let in the last vestiges of sunset as it blazed across the horizon. The room was luxuriously appointed with grand mahogany pieces and inlaid paneling. The table was dressed with an ivory cover and silver candelabras that countered the soft glow from the large chandeliers hanging above the long table.

Gideon decreed they should all be seated together at one end since they needed to discuss dinner, per Chef’s request, and if they were properly spaced out there would be no way for them to communicate. Gideon was, of course, at the head of the table, and his brother was seated to his right. Mr. Shaw sat next to him with Francine on Gideon’s left.

Gideon asked about every dish and made notes for Chef, determinedly sticking to the greater purpose of Chef’s need to work on the menu for the summer gathering. They drank fine red wines from Bordeaux and sampled spicy thin soups along with savory thick ones. Glazed asparagus spears followed, drizzled with a tangy yellow sauce, and finally braised lamb shanks in a burgundy sauce with mushrooms, carrots, and caramelized onions and scallops swimming in beurre blanc.

When the main courses were complete, the footmen presented trays of confections: fluffy, buttery lemon pastries with berries of every color and poached pears in a red wine sauce with crème patisserie. The sweets were complemented with a glass of sweet, thick white wine.

Francine filled her belly. She ate well; she ate everything. She ate until she was full and then she ate some more. She leaned back and thought she actually heard her stays creak under the pressure. She glanced quickly around the table to make sure nobody had noticed, then giggled to herself.

Trumbull looked at her, then his brother. “Haven’t you been feeding your guest, Rox?”

She glanced at Trumbull, a smile gaining strength on her lips as she turned her gaze to Gideon, who placed his fork on the table. “Well, I imagine she has suffered more of the sous-chef’s cooking than the rest of us have,” he said, looking back to her. “Has my kitchen been lacking?”

She shook her head vigorously, giving Shaw a sideways smile. Gideon laughed, bringing his fist to the table, making the settings and silver jump. “I beg your pardon, I should have made other arrangements. I don’t pay much mind to the gruel we’re required to deal with when Chef is away because I know she’ll take care of us when she returns. I should have explained. No wonder you were frightened of my invitation to supper!” He laughed harder, pushing the half-eaten pear closer to Francine. “Please pay them no mind. Eat all you want. We are among friends, are we not?”

Trumbull and Mr. Shaw picked up their own silver, drawing their plates closer to themselves in agreement.

Gideon studied the red stain on Francine’s lips from the juice. His mouth watered when he thought of tasting the brandied pears on her.

She finished off the pear then leaned back again, appearing quite comfortably sated.

“I see you approve of Chef’s latest creations?” His mouth had gone dry and his voice cracked a bit.