She Whom I Love: Treading the Boards, #2

By Tess Bowery

Love would be simpler if it came with a script.

Marguerite Ceniza dies on the London stage each night, but her own life has barely begun. The ingénue is on the prowl for a lover, but while she burns with desire for Sophie, a confession could ruin their decade-long friendship. In the meantime there are always men vying to be her patron, and square-jawed, broad-shouldered James Glover can't help but catch her eye.

Sophie Armand has been a lady's maid for too long, and she's sick of keeping secrets. Her hidden scripts and the story of her birth are only the beginning. Her nights are haunted by desperate thoughts of the beguiling Marguerite, and of James, the handsome tradesman who whispers promises of forever into her ear.

James has the kind of problem a lot of men would kill for—two women, both beautiful, both sensual, and both willing. Sophie wants marriage, while Marguerite's only in it for fun, and choosing between them isn't easy.

What's the worst that could happen if he secretly courts them both?

Warning: Contains a lady's maid with secret desires, a corset-maker who knows his way around a woman's body, and an actress who never has to fake it. Rated for adult audiences only.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seamchecker Ent.
• Release date: Apr 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781775300328

Book preview

Chapter One

Emmeline: Tell me now, for you must! As Viscountess I order you, and that you must obey. [stamps her foot] Diclose Disclose your name and purpose here, or I’ll call for the guards.

Cynthia: I would not except that you have ordered me direct; I throw myself upon your mercy you find me here in dire straits. Until a fortnight ago, when he did discharge me most cruelly, your husband’s mistress have I been for six months time this whole past year—

Miss Armand!

The call echoed through the garret, the burst of sound cutting through the silence previously broken only by the scratching of Sarah’s quill. She sat up, startled, knocking the inkbottle with her elbow. It teetered but didn’t spill, only a slashed line in the middle of Cynthia’s long-winded explanation left as evidence of Sarah’s surprise.

A hurried knock followed the rush of footsteps down the hall. Ellen, the newest housemaid, peeked around the door, her mouse-brown hair mostly hidden beneath her cap. Miss Armand, Lady Horlock is back, and she requests that you attend at once!

Sarah sanded the pages, shook the dust off and crammed the probably still-damp script into the small box alongside her battered, nicked and ancient pen, dull nibs and watered ink. The box went under her bed, her hands flew to her head to make sure that her linen cap was on straight and tidy and she dashed out of the tiny garret room as though the hounds of hell themselves were behind her.

It wasn’t entirely metaphor.

They’re back early? she hissed, and Ellen fell in step beside her. What happened?

The Earl and Countess of Horlock shouldn’t have been back from their outing for another hour, at the very least. That should have been plenty of time to prepare her ladyship’s clothes for dinner, do a handful of minor repairs to buttons and sock heels and still have a quarter of an hour or so to steal for herself. Those moments of leisure were coming fewer and further between these days, as the spring days grew longer and preparations to move down to London for the Season were moving into full swing. Cynthia and Emmeline’s budding alliance would have to wait.

His lordship turned his ankle in a rabbit hole. Ellen was young and green enough that she made a show of rolling her eyes, even though they were on the back stairs where anyone on the staff could run across them. He’s in the drawing room with his leg up now; Jack’s gone to call for Dr. Woodrow, and I’m to get Mrs. Colby to make up a poultice.

Sarah sighed inside. Watch you don’t make faces around anyone else, she warned Ellen, both out of altruism and a vague but distant fondness for girls new to service. One tale told and you’ll be out on that aproned rump of yours. Ellen groaned at the reminder and Sarah ignored her. She hurried down the stairs, fixing her cap at her hairline and her foreign accent in her mind.

A step out into the main rooms, and she was no longer Sarah-from-Cheapside, but Sophie, a lady’s maid born to service for the elite, and very fashionably French.

And God help me if the style ever changes to having German maids.

Groans and muffled conversation from downstairs proved that Horlock had indeed taken to the settee in a huff, Brookes—his tall, ancient, disapproving scarecrow of a valet—in attendance. The doors to Lady Horlock’s rooms on the second floor stood open, the redoubtable mistress of the house sitting at her dressing table. Her gray hair was still up in the coils that Sarah had so painstakingly pinned in place that morning, and her pinched face displayed her general level of disappointment with the world.

Oh, this is going to be bloody fantastic, this is.

Armand. Lady Horlock looked her up and down. It took you long enough. Help me off with these ridiculous riding clothes. She made no move to be useful, sitting at her dressing table and drumming her fingers on the surface in irritation while Sarah unpinned her hat and set it aside. Horlock’s gone and made a mess of the day. I suppose it was only to be expected, those great oafs jumping about like they were bucks in their prime. But at the very least, it’s not a permanent injury. She mitigated her own complaint, the lines around her eyes and between her brow smoothing out somewhat.

Lady Horlock stood, just as Sarah’s fingers were fussing with the buttons beneath her chin, so naturally the moment most likely to cause discomfort and further annoyance. She looked down at Sarah’s hands, disapproval twisting her lip into a scowl.

Is that ink on your fingers? Good heavens, Armand, I expect better from you, the countess scolded. What on earth have you been doing?

Writing a play all about the upper crust, your ladyship, and the bloody foolishness you lot get up to on the regular.

Washing bills, m’lady, she lied instead, curling the offending fingers into her palms. And a list for the new maid. She can read better than she can remember things.

Lady Horlock didn’t seem particularly fussed about Ellen’s memory. Well, for God’s sake, next time use pencil. I don’t know what the world is coming to, when we waste good ink on maids and washing bills! She lifted her arms and let Sarah tug the dark green riding habit from her shoulders, the velvet deliciously soft against Sarah’s palms. She resisted the urge to stroke it, setting the gown aside. The mud splatters around the hem would need to dry before they could be beaten off. Come, get me out of this nonsense; a dressing gown next. Master Tibbert will be coming over this afternoon to do the fittings for my new pairs of stays, and I dread the notion of getting dressed and undressed a half-dozen times in one afternoon. It’s not as though we were in Town.

"New pairs, madame?" In the plural?

Indeed so. One cannot approach a Season in old underpinnings, regardless of whether one is eligible or otherwise engaged. It simply isn’t done.

The question of who, besides Sarah, Horlock and the master staymaker himself, would ever see the countess’ underpinnings was left thankfully unbroached.

She had the countess ready, her dressing gown tied about her waist over her older stays and her hair redressed, by the time a bell jangled at the front door. That will be Tibbert now. Lady Horlock glanced out the window, setting down her embroidery.

Sarah, her arms filled with the endless yardage of velvet riding habit, paused at the door. "Shall I go or stay, madame?"

Stay, came the order. I shan’t be alone with Master Tibbert and his journeyman; it wouldn’t be proper. Who knows what kind of gossip could be spread about! Sarah eyed Lady Horlock with skepticism. She was old, true, but still pretty enough, if one liked the older, regal-looking sort. She could use another ten pounds on her to flesh out the pinched lines of her face, but since half of that came from her semi-perpetual scowl anyway, maybe eating more jellies wouldn’t help.

"Of course, madame." She curtsied, then moved to set the riding habit down out of the way—

What are you doing? Take that dirty thing away, Lady Horlock scolded. Then show the staymakers in.

Sarah picked up the habit again, the folds of velvet warm and suffocating in their luxurious weight. She reached for the door handle.

And make sure you come back with some handwork; you know how I hate idleness.

"Yes, madame." You self-righteous pain in my—

What on earth are you lingering for? Go to, girl!

Sarah smiled and curtseyed, keeping sweet. Inside her head, however, she managed to run through every cursed foul word she had ever learned. She had only just finished the list by the time she had set the gown down in Lady Horlock’s dressing room, found her mending and torn off down the hallway again to find the craftsmen who had come calling.

It was more than time to move on. Who stayed at a Great House longer than a few years, at her age? She was hardly some old drudge, bent double by the demands of hard labor and with nothing more to recommend her than a lifetime of service to ungrateful, spoiled-rotten, miserly, demanding—

Miss Armand! I had hoped it would be you come to guide us.

And there was another option, standing right before her. Mr. Glover bowed deeply, sweeping his arm down with the motion of his trim, muscled body, as though she were proper and not a serving girl dressed up as a fancy lady’s maid. He stood beside his employer, an older, shorter, slim-shouldered man with graying hair and more wrinkles in his face than in his shirt. Tibbert had been making stays for the ladies of the bon ton since they had been whalebone bodies with tabs splayed out across ample hips, before the styles had changed and confining bones replaced by cords that curved with the figure and raised the bosom high. He was the undisputed master of his craft, those gnarled and arthritic fingers turning out works of sumptuous beauty that rivaled those of the modistes on Bond Street—and his were intended to be hidden away from the eye. How could he stand it, having such a talent and knowing that the utmost expression of it would nevertheless stay entirely invisible?

Mr. Glover had been Tibbert’s apprentice in his younger days, his junior partner now, and poised, one presumed, to take over the business and Tibbert’s client list once the old man retired. Or passed to his eternal reward, since he was well past the age now that most men, if they were able, retreated to hearth and grandchildren. Tibbert had none of those. Perhaps that was why he kept on working, with no wife or family to maintain but for himself and his shop. He was certainly not of an age now to begin again.

Mr. Glover, on the other hand—he was young, no more than twenty-and-four, surely, and in form and countenance beyond pleasing to the eye. He had the sort of blue eyes that Sarah most adored, with just a touch of gray for mystery. His hair looked like it had been blond once, when he was little, but had darkened into a honey-brown shaded with gold that gleamed in the light. His shoulders were broad, his hips slim—utterly not the fashion these days. But Sarah wasn’t likely to be looked at by fashionable men anyway.

Mr. Glover. She curtsied, a ridiculous gesture aimed at a junior staymaker, but it was all part of the game. Living in these ivory- and watercolor-decorated walls, surrounded by the trappings of domestic wealth, for a moment, they could pretend to be something more than what they were.

His gaze stayed on her as she dipped and rose, as though they were alone in the hallway for a moment’s time. He carried a parcel and a bag under his arm, full of fabric samples and tools of his trade. Those brilliant eyes lingered on her after she’d straightened. I trust you’re well, m’sieurs, she continued, the lilt in her voice fake, but also so much a part of her now that the pretense was automatic. Please, come this way.

Master Tibbert nodded and tilted his head, looking through her as though she were nothing. To him, of course, she was—just one more lady’s maid, an obstacle between himself and the execution of his craft.

But Mr. Glover smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. All the better now, he flirted gently, a dimple appearing in his cheek.

Lady Horlock is through here, I presume? Master Tibbert moved ahead of them, surprisingly quickly for a man with a stoop to his shoulder, and he vanished through the open door.

You’re looking very well. Mr. Glover’s dimple never wavered, his eyes gleaming in a way that Sarah wished she could allow herself to believe was because of her. It’s been too long since we’ve kept company. Dare I hope that you will be attending Lady Horlock in Town this summer?

Sarah kept her head high, but she could feel the treacherous warmth creeping into her cheeks. Milady wouldn’t trust anyone else with the task, thankfully; I expect I’ll be in Town for the full four months. The light in his eyes there couldn’t be feigned, and her self-consciousness fell away, if only for a moment. Mrs. Colby passed on the news about your parents, Sarah said impulsively, laying her hand on his arm. He was warm beneath her touch, the muscle beneath his coat solid and firm. Her fingers tingled at the contact, a frisson of excitement that sped up her arm and vanished just as quickly. Will you accept my deepest condolences?

She could have kicked herself for the way his smile lessened, then; she’d reminded him of painful things. Hardly the way to ensure that he sought her out again! But he didn’t frown at her, or call her out for rudeness, which was better than nothing.

I will, and gladly, he replied. And thank you for your kindness. It means a great deal to know that we’ve been in your thoughts. Something fierce and wonderful passed in their locked gazes that she couldn’t even begin to name, lodging deep inside and pulsing there.

But that goes to show, he added with cheer that only sounded a tiny bit forced, breaking the spell, that it has indeed been far too long since we’ve spoken, as my sister and I have been out of mourning since New Year’s. Those piercing blue eyes never left hers, and his expressive lips quirked up at one corner. I don’t suppose, Miss Armand, that you could convince Lady Horlock to bring out another niece or cousin? Surely she has some country girl in her family who could use a Season sponsor…

For which, of course, she would also need new underpinnings? Sarah asked, following his conversational lead automatically, not knowing where it would take them. Is business so bad, Mr. Glover, that you have to drum it up through the maidservants?

Not at all, and I’d never ask another—but the more times we’re summoned to Bracknell, the more precious minutes I have to spend in your company. They had passed the moment of connection, then, and it was back to the easy flirtation that usually colored their stolen snatches of conversation. It had never signified anything before. Why should that change now?

He flicked open the old and scratched watch hanging in his waistcoat pocket, the gold plating worn off in patches and the monogram on the cover half-gone from rubbing. I mark this another three to add to my tally, he announced, clicking the watch closed with a gleam in his eye.

She laughed, couldn’t help it, the mirth bubbling up inside at his audacity, and at thinking it could ever be directed at her. You’re terrible, m’sieur—a flirt and a troublemaker. He beamed at her reaction, his back drawing straighter. If you think that your charm is enough to entice me, you should return to your lessons and books. She wanted to step closer, be drawn into his arms and kiss him as a reward, to feel the supple response in his lips as he kissed her back—

And that would never happen. She was in proper service, not some doxy to be bedded and abandoned. Merchants and tradesmen with money and clients married other tradesmen’s daughters—not maids.

He didn’t seem to notice the things running through her mind, for he was still smiling at her warmly when she pulled her attention back. Aha, you admit it—you do find me charming! he said gleefully. His smile seemed so brilliant and genuine, she almost melted.

She put a hand on her hip to show him her annoyance with his games and cocked her head. It took almost all her strength to keep the smile off her face, but it tugged at the corners of her mouth regardless. That is not precisely what I said, which you well know.

His warm, soft laugh suggested that he didn’t believe her act. Someday I’ll convince you to go walking out with me, Miss Armand. We’ll spend a whole half hour in each other’s company, perhaps more. I will shower you with compliments, each more passionate than the last, and I’ll beg a lock of your glorious chestnut hair to keep within my watch. What man could ask for more?

The image was too tempting, and yet he’d never once said the magic words marriage or even understanding. If she allowed herself to believe it was possible, even for an instant, the fall in the end would be too painful to survive.

Joshua had managed it. Her oldest and dearest friend in the Horlocks’ household was now living in his tiny cottage somewhere in Belgium, his true love in his arms, far away from the trials and tribulations of life under some patron’s or master’s thumb.

Lucky wretch.

Someday, it would be her turn to fly. But not today.

Don’t make promises you’re not intending to keep, m’sieur, Sarah chided him, a brittleness to her voice that she, at least, could hear. He frowned at her, seemed about to say more, when Tibbert called to him from Lady Horlock’s chambers.

Glover!

Glover? Master Tibbert, I thought I had hired a staymaker! Lady Horlock retorted cheerfully.

They chortled together. Mr. Glover closed his eyes, his face taking on that blank look Sophie knew so well: the I can’t mock you because you’re paying my wages, but honestly! expression of pained resignation that she herself saw in the mirror from time to time.

Another palsy attack and he’ll drop, Mr. Glover muttered under his breath, and traded rueful looks with Sarah. Then he closed his mouth and said no more on the subject. Shall we, Miss Armand? he asked, gesturing with his less-burdened hand for her to lead the way.

Indeed, she said quietly, and walked beside him toward the open chamber door. She had a shirt to mend tucked in the crook of her arm, but Mr. Glover handed her a packet of sketches and fabric swatches to arrange on the table, his fingertips brushing against her knuckles with the gentlest of attempted caresses. She met his eyes and arched a single dark eyebrow, boldly. He had the conceit to flash a grin and his dimple at her one more time before he turned back to his own work.

Apprenticing to Master Tibbert had turned out rather differently than the way James had pictured it when his father had originally made the arrangements. Even now, as a supposedly full partner, albeit a junior one, he was still stuck at the old pander’s beck and call.

The money was good, there was no denying it, but the constant state of panic that preparations for the London Season engendered, the endless trips in a rickety carriage out to the estates of the wealthy and fashionable, the endless cups of tea in identical lifeless drawing rooms while Tibbert cosseted and flattered the dowagers and maiden aunts—

It was foolishness, that was what it was. James sipped at the tea in the fine china cup balanced in his broad and rough-worn hands. They had been smooth enough once, for the son of a businessman, but more than a dozen years of leather thimbles and iron needles, steaming cauldrons and sinuous curves of whalebone had left their mark. No gentleman ever bore this many scars and cuts on his knuckles or calluses on his fingertips.

And all that work would come to nothing, eventually, if Tibbert did not permit him to properly court the younger set for their custom. For once the older whaleboned women met their maker, who would be left to patronize the staymaker who catered only to them? The rising jewels of the ton and the constant changing needs of the stage—that was where money was to be made.

The girl sitting in the chair by the window was the perfect model for that new fashion. Miss Armand, Lady Horlock’s personal maid, had the sort of glorious figure that whalebone would only conceal. Chestnut hair coiled up around Miss Armand’s head, and her pale skin was colored cream and peach by the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. She sat primly, perched on the edge of her chair, her round, pert breasts raised high in the unmistakable soft and curving shape of the new rope-stiffened stays. She kept half an eye on the proceedings as her needle darted up and down in the pile of linen stuff in her lap. There was little, he reckoned, that would escape that one’s notice.

As though she felt his eyes on her, Miss Armand lifted her head and met his gaze with her own unflinching, questioning stare. She arched a single dark eyebrow, her clear gray eyes unreadable.

He tipped his cup at her, just enough for the movement to be deliberate but not remarkable, and he smiled. She cast her eyes heavenward, as if in exasperation, but there was a small smile on her lips when she looked down at her handwork once more.

There were some benefits to the endless rounds of traveling the countryside. Miss Armand and her pretty wit was one of them. And as long as Master Tibbert and Lady Horlock sat twittering over jam tarts and tea, the longer he could watch the swift and sure movements of her fingers, trail his eyes along the delicate point of her chin and full pink swells of her lips, imagine what sorts of things he would say to her if she would consent to let him court her for real. He had already wasted too much time dithering. Now—his father’s death leaving him the sole master of his house—things had changed.

A day and a half in a carriage with Tibbert’s constant complaining about the state of the roads was a small fee in order to be near her. If he was fortunate again, he could claim some more small moments of her time before they left, and make more of a case for himself. And then—oh then!—she would be in London with her employers for the entirety of the Season. With a little finagling, he could steal hours here and there to be near her, court her, perhaps get better acquainted with those glorious, full, round—

Tibbert stood and gestured imperiously; James set his cup down and rose to begin the actual work they had been summoned for, rather than the gossip that lubricated the fittings so well. Once again he was relegated to the role of an assistant—despite his skills and years of training—setting up with the measurement book while Tibbert encircled Lady Horlock’s waist and chest with his knotted string. His crooked and bent fingers tied and untied the marks along the length to make his measurements and adjustments, until finally he handed it to James, apparently satisfied.

You are as trim and lovely as ever, Lady Horlock, Tibbert complimented her. The countess inclined her head to accept the compliment, while Miss Armand helped her draw on her wrapper and petticoats. Your figure will be most perfectly enhanced by this new design from London— and they were off again, Lady Horlock’s attention entirely caught by the swatches he set out before her.

Miss Armand lingered, her fingers tracing wistfully over some of the vividly colored fashion plates laid out on the table.

James took the chance and murmured in Miss Armand’s ear. And yours would be as well. Her hair had been faintly scented, with something flowery, and her pulse thrummed in the pale exposed skin beneath her ear. It screamed out to be kissed, but that was an impossibility here. She stopped moving, her head turning slightly in his direction, and he pressed his luck once more. I can see you now in a candlelit ballroom, pearls in your hair and a gown of pink silk to bring out the roses in your cheeks.

Those delicate cheeks flushed pink just as he’d envisioned, and she shook her head at him in admonition. You are, I think— she murmured in return, half-turning to look him in the eye. Her own gleamed with shrewd mischief. "—the only man I know who attempts his seductions through the mental dressing of his prey."

He pressed his hand to his heart, pretended to object. But Tibbert was rattling off notes about fabric choices and styles, and James had to take a moment and scribble them down in the book before he forgot. By the time he looked up once more, she had moved back to the security of her chair and her mending, and out of his reach.

One of the blank pages at the back of the book sliced away cleanly, leaving only a small edge within the spine to hold everything else in place. He wrote his note in a clear and careful hand, folded it small and tucked it into the cuff of his shirtsleeve.

It was not until they were ready to leave that Miss Armand stood up once more, ready at the door to hand them off to the responsibility of the footman. When can I expect the delivery? Lady Horlock asked, and Tibbert shrugged.

The closer it comes to the Season, of course, the busier we get, and three days of travel, while I do not regret an instant of the effort for your company, milady, becomes more difficult to arrange. Let us say the next fitting will be the day after your arrival in Town? And then the stays themselves will be finished within the day following.

She made a thoughtful noise in her throat, and James took the moment of their distraction to brush his hand lightly against Miss Armand’s. Her eyes flew open wide when she felt the folded paper in his hand, but she took it—first hurdle, jumped cleanly!—and secreted it away somewhere about her person.

A pleasure, Lady Horlock, as ever. James shifted his attention to the lady of the house, bowing respectfully.

Mr. Glover, she acknowledged him.

Come along, Glover. Tibbert sighed dramatically. And do stop flirting with the countess. She’s much too beautiful for the likes of you, you know.

Lady Horlock sighed and laughed indulgently, and James could feel the tips of his ears start to go warm with indignation. But Miss Armand’s gentle smile was one of understanding and commiseration, and warmth flooded through him at that simple gesture.

He forced a chuckle, made a more dramatic bow than was strictly necessary and bit his tongue. One day, he would be his own master, take on only those clients he chose, and be free of the entire bloody charade.

One day.

*****

Hours later, the Horlocks at dinner and the spring sun setting, Sarah set aside the stack of mending in the fading afternoon light. She’d need a candle to keep going and have the fallen hem resewn for the next day, so taking a moment to read the note—surely she couldn’t be begrudged that. She pulled her feet up underneath her on her small cot, the lumps in her straw tick mattress familiar now and so much better than other lodgings she had once known.

I’d be a fool to walk away from security on a fanciful whim. I’ll not go out to the streets.

Unfolding the small scrap of paper , revealed Glover’s fine and elegant handwriting, looping in curls across the creamy space. The message itself was short.

Not prey, but a prize.

Yours ever, JG

Her heart fluttered alarmingly, the frantic wing-beats in her breast impossible to quell. Perhaps her treasured little fantasies had not been foolish after all. She could sew and manage a household, after all. She knew the great families and no one could speak against her character—at least, no one who knew her as Sophie Armand. Who better to make a wife for a staymaker? She could keep his house well enough, he would have money to support them both and more besides. He was no lord, but what would she even do with an aristocrat if she caught one?

She could be very happy leaving service to the Horlocks, if she could swap this life for that one.

And yet. She was not really Sophie at all, and he had made no promises. Men were full of pretty words. Unless they came with an offer of marriage and the bans read at the church, they meant nothing.

She folded the note back up again and tucked it away beneath her pillow. A short trip out to get and light a candle, and she was back, her sewing untouched beside her on the bed. She got down on her knees beside the low-framed bed and tugged the small box out of its hiding place. Her pages were undisturbed and, thankfully, still legible despite a minor smudge or two