Chapter 9
“Isee I have shocked you,” Dorian said, his grin turning devilish as he slipped even closer to her.
“Of course you have,” she replied. “And no, you certainly will not be kissing me. Do I look the sort to be giving out kisses freely, to anyone who asks?”
He laughed, “I forgot I was dealing with an innocent.”
Ellie had had enough. She wouldn’t be standing for this anymore. In a fit of pique, she swallowed what was left of her wine—was it really that little left—and stood, only to trip over her feet and crash, utterly ungainly, on her knees before Dorian’s.
The only thing that stopped her from slamming her head on the armchair was his firm grip, anchoring her while her head swam.
“This is certainly not how I usually have women on their knees,” he muttered.
His meaning escaped her.
Bracing his feet on the other side of her, Dorian gently stood and took her with him. “I should add featherweight to your list of charms.”
Dimly, Ellie realized they were moving, and she craned her head to him. “What are you doing?”
“Taking you to your rooms.” Dorian stopped to haul Ellie into a bridal carry. “There. Much better.”
The subtle scent of his skin pervaded her senses; he wore no perfume, smelling of clean soap and his own male musk—an unsettling, arousing combination. Their gazes held when he set her down on the edge of the bed.
“Take care not to roll off the bed,” he suggested, stepping away.
She rolled her neck. “And here I thought you would offer to help me undress.”
His brows lifted. “Do you want me to?”
“Heavens no,” she sighed.
Once again, his rough chuckle made unwanted parts of her tingle.
“If you need me, you know where to find me. I’d advise you to finish that list because once it is codified, there will not be any additions or subtractions.”
“Is there anything else, your highness?” she asked wryly.
“Yes,” he looked over his shoulder. “Prepare for the wedding.”
“May I help you, monsieur?” The assistant to the most in-demand dressmaker in London greeted him with a curtsy.
Instead of replying, Dorian’s head slowly shifted from left to right, taking in the large bow window, the sparkling plate glass windows, and the gleaming ash wood counters and cabinets that lined the shop’s perimeter. The dark cerulean curtains matched the upholstery on the chairs.
“My lord, forgive me for asking, but are you lost?” the girl asked.
“No,” Dorian replied. “I was simply assessing the quality of the work I will get here. Where is the modiste, Madame Laurier?”
“With a customer, my lord—” the girl began.
“Yvette, dear,” the dressmaker entered the room, her simple grey gown and fierce chignon showed her status. “Mind your manners. His Grace is no mere lord.”
The poor girl nearly tripped over her feet to drop into another curtsy. He stopped her with a look. “I appreciate the sentiment, but you needn’t pay me so much homage. Madame, may we?”
“Oui,” she gestured to the workroom behind her. “Please.”
He ducked his head under the threshold and entered a room with mannequins, bolts of cloth on the walls, and walls dripping with trim, lace trefoils, and all manner of flummery women had on their gowns.
“How may I help you, Your Grace?”
“I need a wedding gown for my fiancée,” he said directly. “Do you have a mannequin that can demonstrate her size?”
The lady’s brows lifted as she moved beyond a line of mannequins. “I am a tad surprised you haven’t brought the fortunate lady with you.”
“She is indisposed at the moment,” he said while drifting to the mannequin the third from the end. “This is her, but her bosom is fuller.”
“I see,” the modiste nodded. “Do you have her measurements?”
“Yes,” Dorian replied, his eyes latching onto a bolt on the wall. “And as for the cloth, I have a few requirements…”
An hour later, he stepped into the office for Richmond and Teller, a duo of private investigators who had a reputation for impeccable social intelligence and utter discretion.
By all appearances, this office looked like a well-appointed peer’s study and not an investigator’s office; the large, mahogany desk, set in front of one of the large bow windows, commanded the room.
A pair of leather sofas were arranged facing each other in the center of the room, as though they graced a drawing room, not a solicitor’s office. A few, elegant side tables complemented the sofas. Beyond the front room, Dorian spotted a second office equally as adorned as the front room.
“May I help you, Your Grace?”
A man exited the second room, a book in hand. He was dressed in a subtle tan waistcoat, buff trousers, and brass cufflinks winking at his wrist. His hair was shorn close, and a pair of round spectacles rested on his nose. His expression lit with recognition and interest.
“I have a very inordinate request,” Dorian replied. “Am I speaking with Richmond or Teller?”
“Teller, Your Grace,” the man replied. “The reclusive Duke emerges at last.”
“Am I really a recluse?” Dorian asked, not quite able to meet Teller’s knowing gaze.
“But you aren’t one for society, either,” Teller told him. “That is neither here nor there, though. How may we be of service, Your Grace? May I offer you a cup of tea, coffee perhaps?”
“I won’t be here long enough for the kettle to boil,” Dorian waved a cursory hand. “I need you to find a man with hair the shade of bleached wheat who used to live in the St. John’s Wood area.
“From my faint intelligence on the matter, he used to live near the Langfords when they did reside there, and was about the age of twelve or fourteen when he moved or was forcibly displaced. He used to go by the moniker ‘Ash’.”
Teller’s brows lowered a fraction of an inch—the totality of his reaction. “You need us to search for a young man with nothing but the estimated color of his hair and a pet name.”
“Yes,” Dorian replied with an exhale. “Archimedes discovered a way to calculate the mass of a golden crown by submerging it in water, and Galileo found planetary bodies using a rudimentary lens. I trust your intelligence to lead you to a similar revelation.”
Teller shook his head wryly. “You honor me, Your Grace.”
“You will see it through?”
“It will be the most challenging thing we have ever attempted,” Teller said.
“Good man,” Dorian reached for his hat as Teller rounded the table to flick a ledger open. “And take your time. There is no rush.”
“Pardon?” Teller asked, his brows lowered. “You do not need to know this immediately?”
“No,” Dorian replied as he planned his next move—the archbishop’s office. “Take your time, and send me word when you have something.”
The days oddly passed both slowly and too quickly for Evelina’s comfort. The nine days since her and Dorian’s negotiation about their marriage were the longest nine days of her life.
She’d explored every inch of the cabin—Dorian’s private room excluded, of course—and had even spent some afternoons in the gazebo outback with a book in hand.
Oddly, she’d discovered a love for cooking, and the recipes Dorian had left for her each morning were easy enough to make.
Now, she dried her hands as she watched the rack of tarts she’d just baked cool.
Warm pheasant stew was simmering in the pot, and the fresh baked brown bread was still rising in the oven.
“At least I have done something worthwhile,” she smiled.
A set of rapid knocks on the door had her turning—instantly, her pulse lurched. Was that Carrington? Had he found her again?
Jonathan Bennet stepped in and bowed. “Miss, there are two women here for you. They were sent by His Grace, and it is imperative that you see them.”
“Who are they?” Ellie asked as he opened the door wider.
“A modiste and her apprentice, Miss.”
When the door widened enough, a lady clad in grey with a severe bun and a younger woman walked in; the younger Miss held three wide, flat white boxes in her hand.
“Miss Frampton,” the modiste dipped her head. “I am Madame Laurier, and I have my protégé Amelie with me. We were sent by your husband-to-be, and he had ordered your wedding dress—” She looked around. “Is there a place we can dress you?”
Ellie felt as if she’d been pummeled with lemons. Dorian had ordered her a wedding dress? How? How had he known her measurements?
“Mademoiselle?”
Shaking her shock away, Ellie said, “This way.”
Her bedchamber was small, but it was private; the modiste angled her away near the windows. “Now, please, undress.”
Ellie’s cheeks burned fierce red as she proceeded to remove her layers and soon her day dress, petticoat, and lay on her bed. She hesitated on the chemise, but Madam Laurier gave her a succinct nod. Face aflame, she stripped the last barrier away, and, naked, she wrapped her hand around her middle.
“Ah,” the modiste inclined her head while she plucked something out of the box. “Your intrepid fiancé was very accurate in his measurements. Let’s get your undergarments on, s'il vous pla?t.”
They fitted the corset to Ellie, “Take a deep breath, my dear…”
Her breath punched out of her chest as the dressmaker yanked the cords, and when her eyes opened again, she gazed at the most exquisite corset she had ever laid eyes on.
The cups looked like butterfly wings, the boning molded her figure into a sensuous shape, cinching her waist and pushing her breasts into the pleated cups. The lace overlay was handknitted, she was sure.
“Now, the stockings and the garters, my dear,” the modiste replied, handing her the slips of silks.
She sat on the edge of the bed and slid the stockings over her leg, then clipped the garters on.
“Did—” She swallowed. “Did His Grace order these?”
“He did,” Madame Laurier smiled. “I must say, my dear, I have never met a man who can recall his lady’s measurements. Your beau is the exception.”
Ellie kept her head down; she could not dare tell them the opposite for fear that word would get out. “He is… unique.”
Standing, she looked at her reflection, and her stomach swooped; she looked like a seductress garbed in an angel’s clothing. How was it that pure white looked more devilish than lurid scarlet?
“I—” She paused. “I cannot believe such… decadence.”
“Your inamorata also has an eye for fabric and style,” the madame said. “He asked for the best of the best, for everything. He has… er… deep purses, as they say.”
“He does—?”
The door behind them pulled outside, and Ellie had a moment to pivot before a wave of panic and mortification washed over her. She couldn’t move, could barely think as Dorian’s eyes latched on her, and she slapped a hand over her modesty.
The heat that flared in his eyes made her knees go weak; even from the short distance, she felt the heat of his gaze burning through her. His eyes trailed over her slowly, like molasses on a winter’s day, before he looked to the modiste.
“Good work.”
The softly closed door sounded as loud as a gunshot, and Ellie sank to the edge of the bed. The modiste laughed softly. “He is an intense one, non?”
“I have never seen that emotion from him,” Ellie admitted.
“Merveilleux,” Madame Laurier smiled. “That is the reaction you would want from a man. Let’s hope for the same reaction when he sees you on your wedding day, oui?”