Page 5 of His Grace, the Duke
The maid paused at the door. She turned slightly, her face unreadable. “Yes, miss. Right away.”
3
Rosalie
Rosalie woke witha wince, raising a hand to massage the painful crick in her neck. It was disorienting at first, sitting up to see dark shapes out of place all around. The events of the previous night quickly came screaming back to her, reminding her of where she was and why.
She sat in the middle of the four-poster bed, her borrowed chemise slipping off her shoulders. The house was quiet as a tomb, save for the softtick tick tickof the clock on her mantel. The curtain was still open only a strip, wide enough to glow on the clock’s face.
Ten o’clock.
She gasped. She’d only meant to close her eyes for a moment. Instead, she’d slept for three hours! She slipped off the bed and dragged open the curtains. Bright sunlight flooded the room. It was slightly larger than her room at Alcott. The walls were a wine red with a gold pattern to the paper. The furniture was all dark wood, while the mantel and fireplace were black marble. She had the distinct impression this was meant to be a masculine space. The art was not florals,but landscapes, and there was little else that might cater to feminine needs.
A dark wood door framed either side of the bed. Rosalie opened the one closer to the window and found a shallow, shelved closet stacked with linens. The door to the other side was locked. She rattled the handle, looking around for a key. Perhaps it connected to a water closet or a washroom.
Passing a mirror, she frowned at her reflection. Her fashionably styled hair was in shambles all around her face, loose curls hanging down, even while the rest of the pile teetered lopsided on her head. She had dark circles under her eyes, and the imprint from the lace on the edge of the pillowcase was creased into her cheek.
Working fast, she tugged all the pins out of her hair until it all hung in a thick mess of dark curls down her back. She did her best to catch all the pearls woven into her braids, but a telltaleplink plinktold her at least a couple slipped through her fingers. Once the mess was down, she fixed it back up in some semblance of a style.
Before she could dress, there came a sharp knock at the door.
“Yes?” she called.
“It’s Fanny, miss. You’re needed downstairs. Mrs. Robbins says it’s urgent.”
XXX
To Rosalie’s utter shock—AND annoyance—the urgent business downstairs had nothing to do with any kind of party planning. No, the truth was far more irritating. In her rushto appear, Rosalie wore only her chemise and slippers, with James’ evening coat wrapped around her like a pelisse. She stepped into the sunny morning room to find the most fashionable woman she’d ever seen smiling at her.
“You must be Miss ‘arrow?” The lady fluttered across the room like a fairy. She was dressed in canary yellow silk that fit her like a glove, showing off her ample assets. Her dark locks were done up in curls and she wore a sparkling feathered headpiece.
Rosalie tugged the lapels of James’ coat tighter over her chest. “I am...”
“Mon Dieu, your beauty was not understated,” the woman cooed. “I am Madame Lambert, modiste extraordinaire.” She posed with a flourish, one hand arched in the air like a dancer. “But you may call me Paulette,” she added, dropping her hand back to her side. Those dark eyes took in Rosalie from tousled head to slippered foot. “I see I ‘ave not come a minute too late.” Her smile quirked, the red paint on her lips stretching wide. “You’re missing a dress, ma chérie.”
She fought her blush. “Yes . . . umm . . .”
Before she could finish her sentence, the modiste turned to direct the movement of three house maids who came bustling in with an alarming display of boxes balanced between them. Two footmen followed behind with yet more boxes.
“Set ze big ones just ‘ere,” the modiste said, pointing to the table.
The footmen did as they were asked, excusing themselves immediately, shutting the door as they left.
The modiste crossed the room. “Well then, let’s get you into ze first gown—”
“Wait!” Rosalie looked from the modiste to the maids to the towering pile of boxes. “There’s been a misunderstanding. I have clothes. I really don’t need—”
“Don’t be silly, ma chérie,” the modiste said with an airy laugh. “Rule number one: If a lord wants to buy you a new wardrobe, you let him.”
The maids giggled and the modiste had the audacity to flash them a knowing wink. They were surely going to get the wrong idea about her and James now.
“I ‘ave everything he asked for,” the modiste said, opening the top box to pull out a devastating ball gown encrusted with shimmering beads.
All three maids gasped. One put a hand over her mouth to contain a squeal of excitement.
Rosalie’s mouth fell open in surprise. “He can’t possibly think this is suitable for a day dress,” she cried.
“Of course not,” the modiste replied. “This is for ze opera. Ze other boxes ‘ave morning dresses and walking dresses and a habit for riding.” She gestured to each with a wave of her hand.
