He took a step closer, his eyes on her smiling mouth, “My intentions are wicked indeed, young lady. If you knew what was good for you, you would stay away from me.” He was only half jesting when he said it. She rewarded him with a smirk.
“Who says I don’t know what’s good for me?” she said.
“I do,” Percival took another step closer so that it was only the countertop separating them. Abigail snorted in a most unladylike manner. Percival was charmed.
“All right then, I will allow you to lead me astray, just this once.” She put down the fabric she was sewing as she said it, “Just allow me to warn my mother that I will be leaving with you so that she knows exactly what to worry about.”
Percival smiled, feeling his heart lighter than at any time in his conscious memory, “Please do assure her that I will take excellent care of you.”
Abigail mock-sighed, “But you see, that is exactly what she is afraid of.”
Percival's booming surprised laugh echoed around the shop, startling them both. Abigail gave him a dimpled smile before stepping away from the counter, “I shall return shortly,” she turned and walked into the back room, leaving him reeling with shock at the sound that had left his mouth.
He could not remember ever laughing so loudly in his life. Well, perhaps he had when his parents had been alive but certainly not since then. He sighed, an unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest as if it was filled with soap suds.
It made him squirm with discomfort, that feeling. Whatever could it be?
The sound of Abigail and her mother’s voices drifted back to him, rising and falling with the cadence of their conversation. He wondered what they were saying to each other. Mrs. Thorne was probably issuing warnings to her daughter on the dangers that gentlemen posed in the lives of unsuspecting green girls.
Percival would absolutely not blame her if she was. For he did indeed pose a danger to Abigail. He just did not know how to walk away from her even after the terrible scandal Lady Rosaline had tried to cause this afternoon.
Abigail wondered if she should tell Percival that she had never been to Vauxhall Gardens before. She had spent her life in her mother’s shop, first running errands, and then sewing simple running stitches before graduating to more complex types of stitches. Her life was fabrics and lace, needles and thread. Even on the Lord’s day when others rested, she and her mother were busy preparing for the week ahead, while making sure to do a thorough house cleaning that would hold them until the next Sunday.
Frivolous outings were not a part of their lives.
So she was not sure exactly how she was expected to behave. She took the Duke’s hand when he offered it to her and walked where he led, making him laugh with her observations of the other pedestrians they passed. She was tense at first, alert for cues as to what she should or should not be doing, but when she saw that they were simply walking aimlessly, possibly looking for the perfect bench to sit and eat, she relaxed and let herself have fun.
By luck or skill, they did not encounter any members of the Quality, so did not have to endure any censure at their hands. Suddenly, Percival left the walkways and turned down a dirt path. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, so Abigail trustingly allowed herself to be led.
They turned a corner and Abigail stopped, her breath stolen by the sheer beauty of the clearing in which they found themselves. It was surrounded by trees, with just a small gap in the upper foliage that let in the late evening sun rays. In the middle of the clearing were a collection of large rocks, a flat-topped one in the middle, surrounded by three rather more round ones—like a table with three stools around it.
Abigail gawped, turning to look at Percival in surprise, “How did...?”
Percival seemed pleased with her delight, “I stumbled upon this place one day as I was walking alone in the gardens looking for peace. I found it here.”
Chapter 7
Indecent Proposal
Pleasant conversation passed between Percival and Abigail as they sat on the rocks and ate their food.
It was a perfect day. The setting sun cast pink hues across the few wisps of clouds in the sky, turning the world into a giant rose-colored landscape. Birds chirped overhead as if discussing the possibility of stealing some bread pudding; maybe a boiled egg. The meal was delicious. Before they knew it, dessert was starting to wind down.
“Surely you jest?” Abigail laughed. She covered her mouth to stop what was left of the pigeon pie in her mouth from falling out.
Percival swallowed the bit of cheese he was chewing on. “No, it’s true.”
“Faradidles!” she exclaimed, “Or else I have been reading Shakespeare all wrong.”
Percival was curious. “How did you even learn to read?”
“My mother knew and she taught me,” she replied shortly and Percival let it go at that. A comfortable silence passed between them as they enjoyed each other’s presence. Abigail tilted her head back as a light breeze passed over them. Percival, propped up as he was on his elbow, watched the line of her neck. He swallowed, feeling that his mouth was suddenly excessively dry.
“This was a wonderful idea, Percival,” Abigail turned her head to regard him with serious moss-green eyes, so deep yet clear.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“However, if we do not wish to cause scandal, we need to leave,” Abigail sighed, but made no move to get up. Percival moved his elbow, lying on his back, and gazed up at Abigail.
“What?” Abigail questioned with a laugh.
“Just thinking,” Percival said.
“About anything in particular?”
“Just how peaceful and wonderful it is to be here with you,” Percival sat up and faced her.
Abigail shook her head in amusement but said nothing, her eyes lidded as if she might be thinking about doing what he wanted to do—kiss her. Instead, she made a move to start gathering their things to put back in the basket. She managed to pack everything away but the blanket.
She stood up and looked down at Percival. He was still lying on the blanket.
“Come on, old man…take me home.”
Percival got ponderously to his feet. “Old man? I know not of whom you speak.”
Abigail merely grinned at him.
“You let your daughter go out alone with this man, Joan? Why?” Philip demanded, on being told, upon inquiry, that Abigail was once again out and about with the Duke.
“What was I to do, Philip? Forbid her? You know how stubborn she is. That girl does whatever she pleases. Just like her father.”
Philip frowned, hearing the resentment in her words. He could understand Joan’s bitterness, for Reginald Sinclair had left her with a stain upon her name. Nevertheless, he had also made sure that she and his daughter would always be protected by entreating his brother, Philip, to watch over them. There was more than one facet to the notorious knave and Philip opened his mouth to remind Joan of it, but then decided it wasn’t the right time and would only distract from the pertinent point at hand.
“You should have gone with her then, Joan,” he said.
“She is no lady who has need to be chaperoned, Philip.” Joan spoke rather sharply, “And she knows full well how to defend herself should he try anything.”
Philip sighed, not wishing to argue about it, “I know full well she can defend herself because I taught her myself. But the world will see her a certain way if it is known that she is gallivanting around the town alone with a Duke.”
Joan came and put her arms around him, “I know that you are upset because you care but God's honest truth is that the world doesn’t care about a slip of a girl who sews dresses for a living.”
“Maybe not, but they care about the Duke.”
Joan had no reply to that and she just sighed, turning away.
“Yes, well…perhaps you should go and speak to him, find out his intentions and let him know that Abigail is not alone in the world. That she has defenders.”
“Indeed, I shall do
that. But now allow me to distract you with a nice bath. Don’t think you have me fooled for a minute—sitting in the drawing room ‘sorting fabric’. You are as anxiously awaiting her return as I am.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t worry, did I?” she said with a smile. Philip gave it back to her, but gentler.
“No, you didn’t say that.”
Abigail’s early life, as well as her rustic upbringing in Soho, had not taught her the nuances of polite society. Instead, she had learned something better—to view herself as a person of merit. She learned to listen to her instincts, and follow them, and have a care for her own well-being and that of her family, rather than worry about the expectations of others.
Her mother and guardian had let her run wild so she did. She also exercised her not-inconsiderable mind to learn the intricacies of dressmaking so as to help her mother produce some of the most sought-after fashion in London.
She learned how to dance from Philip because it seemed enjoyable. He also taught her to ride because it was necessary. Her friend Kenny, a jarvey, taught her to drive a coach pell-mell down country roads for the sheer joy of feeling the wind in her hair. With such talents and her family behind her, she saw no need to play things safe.
Percival was a somewhat different case. He had spent years embedded in the midst of fashionable London. Where Miss Thorne’s learning had been haphazard and by apprenticeship to her mother, Percival’s had been with focus and deliberation, to take over his ducal seat once he attained his majority.
He was socialized to overlook anyone not of his station unless they were of some use to him. He treated Abigail like a lady because it came naturally to him to do so with a woman whom he esteemed. His aunt and his cousin had shown him how shallow and artificial the Quality could be and he reacted to that by withdrawing more and more into himself.
Before he met Abigail, he would never have dreamed of taking a girl on a picnic without the benefit of carriage and servants, ostentation and comfort. He assumed any girl would expect that from him. Abigail’s enjoyment of his simple gesture had him simultaneously boggled and distrustful. He kept a watchful eye, to see if he was being gulled, but her emotions seemed genuine and true. He did not know what to do with that knowledge.
But people have a way of rising to their circumstances and getting used to things they would never have imagined. The day after the picnic, Percival had woken thinking of new ways to spend time with Abigail, the bon ton be damned. On the second day after that, he was back in her shop, asking what she would like to do next. Abigail had confessed that the picnic at Vauxhall was her first time there.
“You shall laugh,” she said.
“I promise not to,” he said solemnly, although he was already grinning.
So the next day had him clearing his drawing room, Abigail in his arms, learning to dance the quadrille. Abigail had a great passion for learning, and Percival knew that if she wanted to fit in the Duke’s life, she would have to learn some new things.
When presented with the prospect of urchin-turned-modiste-turned-possible light o’ love, he was of the opinion that a finely turned ankle and elegantly cut gown might do more good than a thousand words. Competence on a ballroom floor might do the rest.
So they danced up and down an imaginary set, laughing at Abigail’s clumsiness and Percival’s inability to explain what to do, with the butler, Mr. Forbes, playing fairly decently on the grand piano.
Percival could not remember the last time he had enjoyed himself so much. For a moment, he was prepared to risk it all, break his incomplete engagement to Lady Rosaline and take Abigail to wife. But even as she stumbled, he knew that he would be condemning her to a life she was not used to living. Her freedom of movement and thought would be curtailed. She would be expected to follow certain conventions she was unfamiliar with.
It would not be fair to her at all. No, offering her carte-blanche is best.
“A penny for your thoughts,” she said, as they moved about.
“I do not sell my thoughts for less than a monkey,” he responded with a smile.
“Ah, His Grace’s thoughts are worth more than all of the rest of ours combined, of course,” she teased drolly.
“Indeed they are. You can scarce afford them.”
“I was thinking of marriage,” he said, deciding that the time was nigh for him to present his proposal, “and how the ton would talk should I break my promise to Lady Rosaline and take a new bride.”
Her mossy-green depths regarded him without judgment. “Were you intending to do so?”
“No—I don’t think so. I…am a man of honor.”
She merely looked at him, clearly waiting for him to continue.
“But I have seldom been this happy in the presence of anyone before. Perhaps I was when my parents were alive but I do not remember them.”
She made a sound of sympathy in her throat but was otherwise silent.
“I do not wish to lose this.”
“Well,” she said at last, “perhaps we can defy convention and continue to be friends. We have done nothing wrong.”
“Indeed, we have not. But a bachelor and a young unmarried woman spending time together invites talk. For what happens should someone propose marriage to you? He would not tolerate such a communion. Unless I can truthfully say that you are under my protection.”
“I do not think I shall marry,” Abigail said sadly.
“Every young lady marries,” Percival said, bowing over her hand and depositing a soft kiss upon it.
“Except the poor, the ill-favored, and the soiled doves,” Abigail said.
Percival laughed, “Yes, except those.”
They danced in silence for a while before Percival ventured to ask, “So will you accept my protection?”
Abigail looked thoughtful, “I will think about it.”
The door knocker sounded and the butler immediately stood up to go answer it.
“I am not at home, Forbes!” Percival called after him.
“The butler says he’s not at home,” Rosaline said indignantly. The carriage door was slammed shut; no doubt the footman was losing patience with her, too. “How can he not be at home? We are engaged!”
“Perhaps he truly does not want to be engaged,” her mother, Vivian, Countess of Huntington, said from where she sat in the carriage, waiting for her daughter. She had accompanied her on this ill-advised unannounced visit to the Duke’s door in an attempt to temper her more impulsive tendencies. In that way, Rosaline was much like her father.
“Then he ought to have the decency to jilt me to my face!”
“I’m sure the Duke would not be so callous as to do that. You have to learn some patience, my dear. Some men will not be rushed.”
“That is very well in the normal way of events,” Rosaline said, tugging at her bonnet in irritation, “but he proposed to me!”
Vivian sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “Well, he signaled his intention to propose to you; that is why we are to have a ball. It is not canceled, is it? He has not gone back on his word.”
“I can’t just let him...”
“You cannot control what he does; only what you do.”
“He said he wanted me.”
“Did he? I do not recall that happening but if it is indeed so, then you must let him woo you in his own time. And if it is not, well, there are always other—”
“I don’t want anyone else! I want him.”
Vivian simply shook her head.
Percival was quite pleased with himself.
He had done it at last. He had provided clarity to their situation and asked Abigail to be his mistress. His heart wasn’t quite happy with that decision but his head told him it was the most sensible course of action. All that remained was for Abigail to agree with it.
He was aware of her friend Claudette’s arrangement with the Earl of Wallingside and so he knew that Abigail was no stranger to that world. He wondered if he should have done more to a
ssure her that should she agree to his arrangement, he would be good to her, treat her well, and respect her, and should there be any issue from their union, he would provide for them for life.
He paced in his office, unable to put his mind to his work until this was resolved. Abruptly he turned, ready to go to the shop and make his thoughts known when Forbes walked into his office.
“There’s a gentleman here to see you, Your Grace, name of Philip Sinclair.”
Chapter 8
Reckoning
Secret Confessions of the Enticing Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 6
