Lovestruck in Lilac: The Brothers Duke: Book Three Read online

  Lovestruck in Lilac

  by Felicia Greene

  Would he come? No—she couldn’t think about that. Anne Fletcher pushed the thought out of her mind as she closed the door of her workshop, neglecting to lock it. She moved back to her ancient, well-worn desk as if in a dream, staring down at the mess of receipts and sketches as if they belonged to someone else.

  The shop had been busy all morning. Three women had come for their finished gowns, all of them delighted and giving all sorts of lavish compliments, and another two ladies had come to inspect the gowns on display. Anne, swept up in the general rush of commerce and fiercely focused on the creative work needed to finish the gowns to the best of her ability, had barely had a moment to herself since six o’clock that morning. Now that it was lunchtime, with her customers retiring for tea and dainty morsels from the bewildering variety of refreshment houses that had sprung up on every neighbouring street, she could finally have a short period of peace.

  Peace. That was what she told herself. But as she sat behind her desk, picking up the silken, half-finished mass of fabric that would be her wedding gown and thinking sadly of the man who was going to become her husband, Anne didn’t feel peaceful in the slightest.

  Bleak. That was the overriding emotion. She felt as if the horizon had dwindled down to a flat, grey nothingness, which wasn’t promising when it came to nuptials. Confused, as well—Lord, she felt confused. But most of all, puzzlingly, she felt trapped.

  She wasn’t used to feeling trapped. Looking with anxious hope at the vague silhouette of a man walking past the shop, biting her lip when it turned out to be a gentleman very different to the one she wanted to see, Anne began stitching with renewed vigour as the nearby candle flame flickered.

  It made no sense to feel trapped. She had always been in charge of her life, taking a quantity of freedom that many felt indecent for an unmarried woman. Her father, unlike many other gentlemen, had considered her education important—had seen her talent as a modiste when she was very small, and had cultivated her knowledge until it could function as a trade. He had even given her the necessary funds to buy this small, sparse place, although it was nearly all the money he had.

  He had also introduced her to Charles Weldon, long before Charles had grown so rich and she had become successful. He had planted the seed of an arrangement. By the time he had died, more prosperous than he had ever imagined and proud of his talented daughter, both Anne and Charles had been more than aware that their eventual marriage was all but written in the stars.

  Then Charles had grown wealthy. His mill had found a quicker way of producing cotton, cotton that Anne could purchase for her gowns at vastly reduced prices. It seemed to make even more sense that they should marry. They had already grown so enmeshed; the mill had even supported the shop financially during the brief, fragile period before she had managed to make her name.

  Yes. It made every sort of sense, and she had made any number of conscious decisions that had brought her to this very point.

  So why did she feel so very trapped? And why, when she and Charles were alone together, did she suspect that Charles felt as trapped as she did?

  Happiness was largely a trick of the mind. She knew this for a fact. Choosing happiness had carried her through the brutal early days of her business, before Charles had given her help, when she had barely had enough money to buy candles to light the shop. She had eaten nothing but oat gruel and the occasional piece of smoked fish for weeks on end, leaving her with visceral disgust whenever she looked at a piece of mackerel now. Happiness chosen again and again, despite all odds, had brought her to the relative peace and prosperity that she enjoyed today.

  Choosing happiness when it came to Charles Weldon would lead to a happy marriage as well. She had to believe this. If she allowed herself to doubt, to consider the unpleasant reality of her lack of love and his apparent disinterest in sentiment, she would be forever lost. Almost as lost as she felt when she looked at–looked at–

  Oh, when would he come? Would he come this week?

  She was able to manage her wild hopes, her feverish expectations, if he came to the shop once a week. The pretexts had grown flimsier and flimsier over time, slowly stripping away any pretence of sisters-in-law needing new ribbons or brothers needing a coat lining to match a particular shade of blue or green. She knew now, knew with incredible certainty, that he was coming to see her and her alone.

  John Duke.

  He was as shy as she was, as fiercely artistic, as far away from her as the moon. An impossible dream. But despite her fierce self-recrimination, her desperate wish to be reasonable, she found herself living for the brief, near-silent moments she spent with John when he came in on some pretext. For the snatches of information they had shared with one another about their lives, their pasts–their hopes.

  They had never spoken of sentiments. They had never needed to. All they had to do was look into one another’s eyes, and unspoken words lit the air with blazing, forbidden fire.

  ‘Dash it.’ She’d missed a stitch–she never missed a stitch. Looking at the door with a tired, rueful gaze, Anne turned back to the gown with a sigh that contained all the sadness in the world.

  It would be a beautiful gown. It would be a beautiful wedding, a beautiful day, a–a quite beautiful, crowning achievement for a life that had already involved far too much struggle. Charles Weldon would propose before the fortnight was out, the banns would be read, they would be married…

  … and she would probably never see John Duke again. A small, important part of herself would wither away and die, and she’d feel the scar for years.

  The bell above the shop door rang. Anne, distracted with thoughts of her future sadness, took a few moments to collect herself before she looked up. ‘Can I…’

  She stopped. Everything stopped. Everything always did when John came into the shop.

  The fundamentals of his face and body never changed. Anne had learned them all: the shape of his mouth, the angle of his jaw. The way his hands looked. She stared at him more greedily every time he came, sure that it would be the last time. Sure that she would need strong, vibrant memories of him to sustain her through a lonely future.

  ‘Good day to you.’ John’s cheeks were reddened with outdoor exertion, his coat and cravat in disarray. Had he run to her—could he not wait to see her? Had he come now because he knew that the shop would probably be empty? Oh, these thoughts were useless, but she couldn’t stop herself from thinking them. ‘Miss Fletcher.’

  ‘Mr. Duke.’ She didn’t know why they still did this small dance of formality, as if other people were watching. Perhaps because they both knew that this reserve had to be clung to, for fear of rushing to one another and doing unspeakable things.

  They stared at one another for a long, silent moment. It took the sound of laughing, oblivious voices from outside the window to bring Anne to her senses. She stood in a sudden, awkward rush, her half-stitched gown falling from her fingers as she hurriedly curtseyed. ‘Is there anything I can–I can do for you?’

  ‘You dropped that beautiful gown.’ John rushed forward; Anne shrank back, obscurely afraid of what she would do if he came within touching distance. ‘All that work–don’t let it get dusty. It’s exquisite.’

  ‘No, I–don’t trouble yourself.’ Anne pulled the gown towards her. The idea of her eventual wedding was a distant, unpleasant dream; if John touched it, all would be made real. ‘It’s nothing. Really.’

  ‘It’s a lot more than nothing. It’s perfect. Who is it for–Robert’s wife?’

  It was still so strange that he knew Charlotte Pembrok
e. Charlotte Duke, now that she had married John’s brother in such a grand, gay ceremony. She hadn’t attended, of course, but she had made the gown with such loving care. ‘No. Although most of the gowns on display here will travel to her dressing room, no doubt.’

  ‘She has a good eye, and you have good hands. In Classical Greece you would have carved statues of the gods.’ John’s hands trembled a little as he reached for the gown; Anne caught the small, reflexive gesture, her heart in her throat. ‘So who is it for, if not for the former Miss Pembroke?’

  She didn’t know how to lie to him. ‘It’s for me.’

  ‘Oh.’ John looked down at the mass of fabric. Anne could see him considering the gown for the first time: the fineness of the silk, the delicacy of the stitching. The colour, which made it acceptable for only a very few occasions. ‘… Oh.’

  She’d ruined it. She’d ruined everything. She should never have worked on the gown today when it was more than likely that John would have come. He would leave now and never come back, and she’d sit here and stitch until her fingers bled. The gown would be stained with red, and everyone would stare at her in horror as she walked down the aisle–

  ‘Well.’ John paused. ‘It’s… it’s not as if I didn’t know.’

  He couldn’t possibly have said those words. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Robert’s wife. She knows Margaret Barton, who—who knows you, I think.’ John paused, swallowing. Anne waited for him to speak again, half-afraid she would swoon before he could explain it. ‘She speaks often of you. Of… of your work, and your talent, and—and—’

  ‘And my presumed marriage.’

  ‘Yes.’ John slowly nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Anne took a deep breath, staring at the floor. When she found the bravery to look back up into John’s eyes, the understanding in them was as painful as it was pleasurable.

  She was to be married. She had to be married, to not lose everything she’d worked for. And John knew that, had known that, and… and he was here all the same.

  He needed her still, even though nothing had been said. Even though nothing had been done.

  She had assumed that their passion, their unspoken want, would vanish as soon as the real world reared its ugly head. Any forbidden desire could only die when exposed to sunlight, after all. But even with Margaret Barton’s name spoken, even with Charles figuratively standing between them, Anne realised with an almost painful shock that she wanted him more than ever. The hunger for his touch, his attention, all but consumed her.

  They were only standing a little way away from one another. She could pull him to her. They could do anything and everything to one another in this plain, low-roofed room, surrounded by evidence of her hard work.

  Work that Charles had at least partially funded. Work that would have been impossible to achieve without him. Anne stepped back, her hands buried in her skirts as she reflexively clenched her fists.

  The door to the shop opened. Anne turned, attempting to compose herself as John stepped into the furthest recesses of the space. ‘Good day, madam. How may I–’

  ‘This can’t possibly be the Fletcher workshop, can it?’ An elderly lady wearing too many ruffles looked at her through a lorgnette as a small-boned young woman of about eighteen stared timidly at Anne from behind her chaperone’s back. ‘What a dreadfully bare little place. It looks as if it should sell sacks of potatoes.’

  ‘I–I rather think it is the Fletcher workshop, Aunt Lucy.’ The young woman blinked, quailing a little as she spoke. ‘This is the address. Charlotte Duke buys all of her gowns from here–she tells everyone. She’s terribly nice about things like that.’

  ‘My dear, you must learn to be a little wiser. Remember that even though Charlotte Pembroke is married, her desire to remain queen of every ballroom will not have abated one whit.’ Aunt Lucy smiled smugly, peering at Anne through her lorgnette as if gazing at a particularly drab butterfly. ‘Any gown that conniving madam wears comes from a modiste who has marble floors and royal approval, mark my words–not whatever this place is.’ She held up a smug hand as if weighing the value of the air. ‘She will have given you this address to lead you off the scent. How many times have I told you never to believe a word your female friends say?’

  ‘But Aunt Lucy, I–’

  ‘But nothing. We have wasted a perfectly good walk.’ Aunt Lucy sniffed, lowering her lorgnette. Anne looked down at herself, half-sure that she had simply ceased existing after such intense scrutiny. ‘We shall go and find a cup of tea, and resume our search in a more salubrious part of the city.’

  With another dark look and a shake of her ruffles, she was gone. The shy young lady only had time to look at Anne with wordless, fervent apology before a sharp word had her running away as well.

  ‘Goodness.’ Anne sighed, staring at the door. The interaction already seemed like a surreal, slightly unpleasant dream. The occasional customer like that was commonplace, but rarely were they quite so florid. ‘Whatever will I do without your custom?’

  ‘What a–what a harridan.’ The anger in John’s voice startled Anne. She had never imagined what he would look like angry; it illuminated him from within, making him glow as he walked back to her desk. ‘How dare she be so dismissive?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter if she is. I didn’t want her custom anyway.’

  ‘But people should be able to look at one of your gowns and see the quality of it.’

  ‘I think seeing a gown in stasis is different from seeing one in motion.’

  ‘That shouldn’t signify in the slightest!’

  ‘Come now. Does everyone love all of your paintings?’

  John’s tone softened. ‘You–you know that I paint? That I’ve been painting?’

  ‘You’re not the only one who knows things.’ How greedily she had listened for any pieces of John while she stitched Charlotte’s gowns, hemming and adjusting while Charlotte gossiped about her new husband and his brothers. Four brothers, one of whom was a shy but talented painter. ‘We may not move in the same circles, but our circles overlap.’

  ‘I wish I knew more about you.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject. Does everyone love all of your paintings?’

  ‘No. But it’s different–I’m not very good. Not yet.’

  ‘It’s no different. We’re both artists, and condemned to be judged.’ Anne paused, her tone growing more fragile as she spoke. ‘And… and I care very little about being judged.’

  Once again, they were talking about the sentiments between the two of them. The hunger leapt up in her again, stronger than any appeal to reason.

  ‘Your–your cravat is untied.’ What a foolish, domestic thing! All the fire burning in her, and that was what it became when she opened her mouth! ‘You look thoroughly disreputable.’

  ‘Oh–yes. It is.’ John reached upward, attempting to adjust it. He stopped, his breath stilling, as Anne reached upward as well.

  ‘Let me.’ It was a struggle to say the words, but she said them. The alternative was saying nothing and losing the moment, possibly forever. ‘Please.’

  John was silent. As Anne gently touched the soft, thin cotton of the cravat, the smell of starch filling her nostrils, she watched the long, elegant line of his throat stiffen.

  Tying a cravat was the easiest thing in the world. She’d done it for her father a thousand times, as well as the brothers of friends back in their adolescent days. But her fingers still trembled as she made the simple, fluid actions; her heart still leapt in her throat and fluttered there as she tied the knot, briefly resting the pads of her fingers at the base of his neck.

  His skin was so warm. He felt so solid beneath her hands—so capable. As if he could hold her close and still, with time itself stopping around the two of them. And his lips were so close to hers, so very, very close…

  A sudden outburst of voices near the shop broke the moment into pieces. Kissing him was impossible, as was touching him like this. Adjusting his cravat as if she were his love
d one, his wife. Anne reached back, only to gasp as John took her hand in his.

  His hand fit hers perfectly. It was as if her palm was the sand and his was the wave; they were meant to meet like this, meant to touch. Meant to hold one another, even when they knew they couldn’t.

  They couldn’t. Anne pulled her palm away as John withdrew his, a look of pure frustration rising in his eyes before it faded to calm, potent resolution.

  ‘The Frost Fair. The first day is next week.’ He spoke with polite but definite emphasis. ‘Meet me there.’

  ‘How can I meet you there?’

  ‘I don’t know. And we don’t have time to organise the specifics. You’re the genius here, Miss Fletcher–meet me. Please.’ John paused, as if summoning up the courage to continue speaking. ‘I don’t know how I’ll be able to bear it without at least one meeting.’

  ‘Bear what?’

  ‘The rest of my life.’ John took a step away. The sentiments in the room were thick enough to swim through; Anne took a deep breath, trying to gather herself. She felt as if a part of her was leaving with John, with the rest of her left unguarded. ‘So–please.’

  ‘Yes.’ Even if the meeting seemed impossible, the idea of refusing him was worse. ‘I will.’

  ‘When the stalls open in the afternoon—half-past five.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how will I—’

  ‘I’ll find you.’ Anne smiled, a reflexive twitch of her mouth that only highlighted the ridiculousness of the situation. ‘I’m the genius, remember?’

  ‘I remember everything.’ John smiled back. ‘Believe me.’

  More footsteps sounded outside the workshop, along with the chatter of female voices. No time to do anything else–no time to clarify the particulars of the ludicrous plan or question as to whether it was possible. All Anne could do was look at John’s face, his dear, shy face, and attempt to transmit all the gratitude and feeling she had into the power of a single look.

  ‘Good day to you, Miss Fletcher.’ John’s voice was husky.