Page 3 of The Runaway Duchess
“You will finish it tonight,” she commanded. “I do not care if we are closed. I do not pay you to sit around and take your time, and you certainly do not get paid to play with those brats!”
No, but you do pay me, and that in itself is a blessing.
When Caroline was hired as a seamstress in the shop that sat in the small town a few hours south of London, she had been excited. For years, she had worked for free, and though the pay was minimal, it still thrilled her to know that her work was earning her something. Even if it did come with the price of working for a surly, disrespectful woman.
“Very well, Mrs. Parks,” Caroline agreed, pulling the nearly finished dress back into her lap. “I shall have it done before I leave, no matter what.”
Even though she did not look up, Caroline knew the older woman was still glaring at her. She did not mind. No stare was worse than her stepmother’s, and that was a stare she had been free from for two whole months now.
“You most certainly will,” Mrs. Parks said with an air of annoyance. “And when I come in tomorrow morning, the dress had better be finished and on display!”
“Yes, Mrs. Parks,” Caroline practically sang, threading her needle through the fabric.
A moment later, she heard the door to the modiste shop close, followed by the faint sound of it being locked. With a sigh, Caroline put down the needle and thread, removed the plain but pretty dress from her lap, and stood up.
She moved her head in a small, slow circle, giving her stiff neck and shoulders a reprieve from being bent over the project for so many hours. There were a few nobles living in the town, but that did not mean Mrs. Parks did not demand perfection. Paying customers were paying customers, whether or not they were titled as such. Caroline could appreciate that, which was why she did not so much mind staying and finishing it so late.
She did, however, mind that she would miss her hours at the orphanage. Mrs. Parks had been right about not getting paid there. The position was entirely voluntary. Even so, Caroline loved to read to the children, loved to teach them how to sew and make their own dolls and blankets out of the spare scraps of fabric that Mrs. Parks would have thrown away anyway.
Caroline laughed nervously to herself as she sat back down to her work. She had thought that once she was free of Agatha and her engagement, her days of anxious thoughts would be over. She had been badly mistaken, which was partly why she loved volunteering at the orphanage so much. Focusing on the poor, parentless children, she had no time to dwell on her own life. With sewing, however, only her hands kept busy, and it allowed her mind too much freedom to dwell on the past.
Such as how her father had left her out of his will, making her entirely dependent on Agatha and Lilian’s cruel whims. How the Duke—Damien, of all gentlemen—had come to ask for her hand in marriage. Caroline shivered at the thought as she continued her work.
Elara was not at all afraid of the man, but Caroline was. Elara saw him as just another one of her brothers’ friends. Caroline, however, thought differently—especially after what she learned about him while she and Elara had been disguised as gentlemen searching for clues about Evander’s disappearance. Elara had only listened to the gossip about her older brother, but Caroline paid attention toeverything. That was how she found out that nearly every man of thetonwas terrified of the Duke of Ravenshaw.
Some had whispered about him being an assassin for the Crown. Others said he was the Devil himself, with a temper that was so unholy he could make the King himself cower in his royal boots.
More beast than man.
Violent.
Deadly.
Enraged and insane.
A memory of Damien’s piercing amber eyes watching her flashed in her mind, and with a gasp, Caroline forced her thoughts to come to a stop.
“It does not matter,” she said aloud, shaking her head as her heart began to thunder and her stomach began to ache. “It does not matter. You are away. You are your own person now!”
She nearly shouted the last part, needing herself to realize it. She was free.Free.Free to make her own way in life.
“The cottage,” she told herself. “Think of the cottage.”
Speaking her thoughts aloud, Caroline returned to work as she listed all the things she wanted to fix in the cottage she now rented on the back streets of her small town. It was tiny and in need of a lot, but it was hers, and that was why she loved it so. She continued until her heartbeat slowed and the tightness in her stomach eased, and as she sewed the final stitch of the dress, she let out a loud, relieved breath.
I am finally done.
Caroline knotted the thread with precision and then pulled out her scissors from her apron to trim the remaining thread. In the dim lamplight, she stood and held up the dress, smiling proudly as she admired her work, confident that the woman who ordered it would appreciate the finished piece. She then tested her stitches, giving them a gentle tug to ensure they were secure—which they were—and then she walked over to the display bust, carefully fitting the dress over it.
Satisfied, Caroline made quick work of putting her threads and needles away, snuffed out the candle, and left the modiste’s through the back door, locking it up before turning into the dark alley.
Some of Caroline’s happiness faded again as she glanced around the darkness. It was late, well past ten, she suspected, and despite the early autumn air, a chill ran down her spine. She did not like confrontations. However, as she walked down the darkened path to the street, Caroline thought that perhaps she should risk making Mrs. Parks understand that she would not stay so late at night to finish her work ever again.
The town might be smaller than London, but that did not mean it was safer for a woman alone.
Such a thought proved true as, out of the shadows, right before her stepped a tall figure, blocking her path.
“Well, well. What have we here? How much, pretty face?” the man slurred.
