Secret Confessions of the Enticing Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Olivia Bennet

  And why would she be thinking about a duke lifting her off the ground? It made no sense to her at all and she tried to dismiss her thoughts but could not quite manage.

  She sighed, turning away from the fabric. Her mother came in from the back room and then stopped short, eyes narrowed.

  “All right, Abby, I have had enough of your Friday-face and sighing. Won’t you tell me what is bothering you?”

  Abigail blushed to think that her mother had noticed her moping. “There is nothing wrong, Mother. Simply a flash of the megrims. I expect they will go away soon.”

  Joan swayed over to her, placing an arm around her shoulders. “Whatever it is, dear girl, you know you need only but tell me and I shall try to make it better.”

  Abigail smiled, reaching up to squeeze her mother’s hand. “I know that, Mother. I promise you, if there was something to tell, I would tell you.”

  The bell tinkled and both women looked up. Abigail felt her heart speed up as she caught sight of the tall, dark, handsome figure of the Duke.

  What is he doing here?

  And alone, to boot?

  The Duke stepped in the room, “Forgive me, but I...wanted to make an inquiry,” his eyes were on Abigail and she was suddenly short of breath.

  “Uh, oh, well that’s quite all right, Your Grace” she said stepping away from her mother and hurrying forward to pull up a chair for the Duke, “Please be seated.”

  The Duke adjusted his breeches, sitting stiff and straight in the chair and Abigail felt the need to curtsey or give some acknowledgment that they were in the presence of nobility. She wasn’t sure whether she should or not and so ended up standing stiff and frozen. She bit her bottom lip, waiting for him to continue. He glanced to the side where undoubtedly her mother was still standing behind the counter and then back at her.

  “I...wanted to purchase a few fripperies for...my aunt.”

  Abigail could not help how her eyebrow rose doubtfully, “Your aunt?”

  “Y-yes, my aunt. I thought to get her a wrap and a redingote.”

  “Do you know her sizes?” Abigail asked.

  The Duke seemed nonplussed for a moment, “Erm, well, one does not need a size to buy a wrap.”

  “That is true, Your Grace,” Abigail inclined her head, not wanting to argue with the Duke, “But for the redingote…”

  “Ah, you wish to know her girth?”

  Abigail hesitated, not really wanting to agree with that description but also not wanting to argue with him, “Er, yes. The measure of her shoulders and waist would be helpful.”

  He looked over at Abigail’s mother, “She is more or less the size of your…?”

  Abigail hastened to introduce them, “This is my mother, Joan Thorne. She and I run the shop together.”

  The Duke inclined his head, “A pleasure to meet you. Percival, Duke of Northcott, at your service.”

  Joan sketched a proper curtsey, even bowing her head, “Pleased to meet you, Your Grace.”

  “Your daughter is quite the modiste if I may say so, ma’am.”

  “Why, thank you, Your Grace, we are much obliged for the sentiment.”

  There was a pregnant moment in which no one said a word.

  Abigail sought to break it by whisking around and spreading her fingers wide to show the Duke their display. “Ah, so we have quite a few wraps.”

  The Duke stood up, not even looking at the array of fabrics. “So I see. Which would you recommend?”

  Abigail picked up a few shawls that she thought might suit an older woman and draped them on the counter for the Duke’s inspection. He stepped forward, running the fabric between his fingers.

  “Hmm,” he said.

  “Are they suitable or would you like me to show you some more options?”

  “Show me some more,” the Duke said, and Abigail was not in the least surprised. Whatever he had come for, it was not a shawl. She allowed him to ask her as many pointless questions as he wanted. At some point, she noticed that her mother had retired to the back rooms again. She was too busy enjoying herself, seeing just how outlandish his questions could get.

  What will happen when he runs out of questions? Will he purchase something or move on to another item of clothing?

  “I shall take three shawls,” he said at last, “Now let us move on to redingotes.”

  Abigail nodded and smiled, “Well, if you will follow me…” she moved to another corner of the shop.

  “We have a variety of styles and fabrics for your perusal. I’m sure you’ll find something that your aunt will love,” she murmured, pulling pieces out and putting them on the display table so that he could take a look. He nodded, even though his eyes looked lost.

  “These are indeed an excellent selection,” he said.

  “Come closer and feel them,” she urged and almost touched him before she recalled that he was a Duke and not to be touched without permission. He stepped closer to her so she could feel his warmth all the way down her side. He looked at the selection and then turned toward her.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said abruptly.

  “Yes?” she looked at him expectantly, knowing that they had come to the crux of his visit.

  “I do not really want to buy a coat or a shawl.”

  She lifted an eyebrow in faux surprise, “Indeed?”

  “Yes. I simply wish to speak with you.”

  Abigail frowned, wondering what he could possibly have to say to her. “Oh…”

  The Duke took a deep breath, “I…” he swallowed, looking nervous and Abigail was intrigued, “I was wondering if you would walk with me this afternoon along Hyde Park.”

  Abigail almost smirked, “Your Grace, while that is a very generous offer, I fear I must decline for I will be occupied with work. However, if you would like, we have nuncheon around noon. Perhaps you could join us?”

  The Duke stared at her for a long while before nodding, “I will, thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome, Your Grace.”

  What are you doing? He is engaged!

  Her mind seemed to scream at her and her fingers trembled even as she curtsied him out of the shop. She turned around and was not surprised to find her mother regarding her with a mixture of understanding and fear.

  “Is he the reason? Is the Duke why you have been moping?”

  Abigail sighed, thought about denying it for a moment but then acknowledged how pointless that would be. Her mother knew her well. She knew already that she was right.

  “Maybe. I don’t know, Mother.”

  “What don’t you know, Abby?”

  Abigail shrugged, crossing over to Lady Rosaline’s engagement gown, the irony not lost on her.

  “He...I…” she began, unable to find the words to explain the unfathomable pull that the Duke had on her.

  Percival Montagu...he sounds like a pirate.

  She smiled absently at her fanciful thoughts but then stopped when she heard her mother’s sigh. She knew, absolutely knew, that this would not lead to anything…respectable.

  Yet she could not stop her heart from fluttering at the thought of the Duke. Her mind turned to nuncheon and what they could serve that would be worthy of a Duke. All they had was some bread, cheese, and gingerbread. It would have to do.

  She hurried to the back, choosing a light brown muslin gown that showed off her clear skin to perfection and paired it with an emerald green Spencer jacket that brought out the color of her moss-green eyes. She added a pair of earbobs and retied her hair in a tight bun before adding a bonnet that matched her jacket. It was more than she usually bothered with on a daily basis but not too outré as to invite comment.

  She knew her mother would comment anyway and was not disappointed. As soon as she stepped back into the front room, her mother’s eyebrows went up and she opened her mouth to speak.

  Abigail forestalled her, “I know. I am building castles in the air. I don’t want to be sensible about this, Mama. Please, just leave me be.”


  Her mother sighed, eyes dropping as her cheeks filled with color. It was clearly an effort to refrain from speaking but she managed it, giving Abigail a curt nod instead.

  Abigail was relieved. Her mother and she were close but there were still secrets between them, the name and location of Abigail’s father being one of the bigger ones. Abigail had stopped asking long ago but that did not mean her curiosity was slaked. She had it in mind to visit their old home in Brighton one day and find out for herself what the mystery to her existence was.

  For now, however, she just wanted to enjoy the Duke’s company until he inevitably tired of her and sought to dismiss her. What harm could it do? They did not have a reputation to protect. In spite of their exceptional talent with a needle, and honest dealings, a cloud hung over their heads. Abigail suspected that it was linked to her mother’s secrets but had long tired of asking.

  She busied herself for the rest of the morning with customers and gowns before retiring to the back room to set up nuncheon on their sewing table.

  At almost noon, her mother poked her head into the room, “I am going out.” she said, “Philip and I are to meet and inspect the housing development over at Devonshire Terrace.”

  Abigail paused in her work to spare her mother a glance, “Why?” she asked.

  Joan hesitated, “He feels our neighborhood is not quite safe for two women. He proposes a move.”

  Abigail hesitated before nodding, “All right.” She returned to cutting up the cheese, her heart accelerating with the prospect of being alone in the shop with a gentleman.

  She wondered what her mother thought she was doing, leaving her alone like this when she knew full well the Duke was coming. While she appreciated the gesture of trust, she was also not ready to subject herself to the prospect of being compromised should the Duke…

  But no, he would not…would he?

  Abigail cut the thought off as unproductive, finished setting the table and then straightened out her skirts. Whatever the Duke wanted to talk about, he would likely feel more at ease about it were her mother absent. Doubtless, that was why Joan was making herself scarce.

  She willed her hands to stop trembling as she ran them down the front of her gown, seeking to smooth it out and calm her nerves at the same time.

  At the stroke of noon, The Duke of Northcott darkened her doorway and she stared at him as if she had never seen him before.

  She gestured for him to enter. “We-welcome, Your Grace.”

  He took one step into the shop and then another, taking off his hat and making a leg to her, “Thank you, Miss Thorne.”

  She led him, blushing, to the back room and he followed her with no demur, sitting where she directed him and watching as she plated some food for him. She smiled until her dimples showed, unable to help herself. It was exceedingly strange, sitting here with a Duke, having nuncheon and yet, being here with this man felt...fated.

  “Here you are, Your Grace,” she said, handing him the plate.

  “Please, call me Percival,” he replied softly and she could not help but color further.

  “All right, Percival,” she took her seat, her own plate in front of her, “And you may call me Abigail.”

  “Thank you,” he replied as if she were some high-born lady condescending to him. She took a deep shaky breath and picked up a piece of cheese, chewing thoughtfully as she regarded him—allowing herself to really examine him.

  His height was obvious even when he was sitting and the breadth of his shoulders took her breath away. His elaborately tied azure cravat lightened the dark of his eyes while his white shirt provided just the right contrast to his golden waistcoat visible beneath his unbuttoned coat. Both sat on his broad shoulders and impressive chest as if molded to it and Abigail had the odd thought that she would like to just lay her palm flat on his chest and breathe in his sandalwood scent.

  Perhaps do more than breathe…She shivered at the thought.

  It was a ridiculous notion, of course, one which she would never act on. She cast about desperately for something else to say, to take her wayward mind away from its scandalous thoughts but he beat her to it.

  “Tell me something, Abigail?”

  She placed her cheese back on her plate and swallowed. “What would you like to know?”

  “How did you come to be here?”

  She raised an eyebrow, surprised at the question. Even though he was interested in her as evidenced by his presence in her backroom, she had not expected him to show curiosity about anything except, perhaps, a potential liaison between them. She held no illusions as to the direction of his interest. Her own quandary centered around the question of whether she would grant his wishes or not.

  She reflected seriously on what his question might mean; whether he was speaking of here in the sense that she was sitting alone in a backroom with a man and no chaperone or else he meant here, in this shop, working as a modiste.

  Perhaps it was both.

  “I only mean to get to know you better, if you don’t mind,” he provided the clarification after studying her face closely. Perhaps he could see her confusion.

  “I appreciate that. It is difficult to know where to start.”

  He tilted his head becomingly to the side and smiled, “Start at the beginning,” he said.

  She huffed, perfectly aware that he knew not the irony of his words, “Wish I knew what the beginning was,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

  “Take your time, there is no hurry,” he encouraged, and she narrowed her eyes at him doubtfully.

  “Isn’t there? I shall need to return to work and you probably have some duties that need doing.”

  He gave her a smile, “Ah, but we can always continue the discourse at a later date,” he assured her and his words were more than a commentary on their conversation. He was saying that he wanted to see her again. Abigail did not know what to think about that.

  Chapter 4

  Drury Dreary

  Percival had asked the question because he wanted to know Abigail better. He also wanted to see if she would confess to her family’s murky past or conceal it from him. He did not know why he wanted to get the measure of her honesty. It was not necessary to the arrangement he was here to propose. An arrangement he had so far failed to bring up.

  She opened her mouth to answer him and Percival trained all his attention upon her.

  “I don’t know how I came to be here. I do not know who my father is but my mother said he died when I was young. For all I know, I’m a bastard.”

  Her cheeks colored prettily as she said it, though she kept her eyes on his.

  Brave girl.

  He wanted to reach out; maybe squeeze her hand but he refrained. It was not de rigueur to touch without permission and, lady or not, he would observe the proprieties. Well...some of them. After all, they were sitting in a room alone together without a chaperone.

  “Do go on,” he encouraged.

  “We came to London from Brighton when I was in my leading strings. We had a shop there as well but we had to leave suddenly.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head but not as if she did not want to tell him. The puzzlement she still felt was palpable, “I do not know. All my mother would say was that conditions were importunate and it was exigent upon us to leave. All these years, she still will not tell me why.”

  Percival nodded, his steward Sherwood having obtained for him all the details of their flight from Brighton. The accusations of theft had followed Mrs. Joan Thorne and her beau, Mr. Philip Sinclair, all the way to London. Undoubtedly, Abigail had been too young to know of these things and Percival quite understood why her mother would keep it from her.

  “So you came to London…?” he prompted.

  “Yes, we did. We arrived in London at the start of the season and dressmakers were in high demand. My mother made sure to peddle her services to as many ladies as possible and she made some exquisite gowns for debutantes. Her fame grew and soon we had en
ough business to open a shop here. And here we’ve been ever since.”

  Percival nodded, his eyes on Abigail, “And you, Abigail? Was it your dream to be a dressmaker, too, or do you have other ambitions?”

  She gave a surprised laugh at his words, her dimples on display. “No one has ever asked me such a question. Do you mean marriage ambitions?”

  “I mean that you are not closed in by family obligations and you can do whatever you please. So what is it you wish to do?”