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

by Olivia Bennet

  She had lost all semblance of control over her limbs—her arms strained, in conflict with themselves, wanting to pull Percival away from her center and at the same time, pull him closer.

  Unable to hold back, she let her feelings out in the form of ecstatic cries. He slid up next to her, replacing his mouth with a finger inside her, and she felt her walls pulse around it.

  Her breath quickened and suddenly the pressure she was feeling crashed in waves, her entire body atremble with the impact.

  “Come, my lady,” Percival said. He shifted yet again and Abigail had not thought it was possible to meld into one another before now. “Do not leave me wanting, Abigail, for the vision of your countenance as you reach the height of your pleasure.”

  Her world shattered in a blaze of white.

  Abigail was lost for words. She had never thought a man could be so giving, and she would never have imagined the euphoric feelings that resulted from his ministrations.

  “I don’t even know what to say. I just…thank you.”

  Percival cupped her face in his hands. “Thank you for allowing me the honor. You taste like the sweetest honey, and you’ve left me hungry for more.”

  He kissed her deeply, and she tasted her juices on his lips. Her fingers scrabbled at the buttons of his waistband and he took the hint, pulling his breeches off and freeing his erect manhood.

  “Oh!” She gasped unintentionally, covering her mouth in embarrassment.

  Percival laughed softly. “I hope it is a pleasant surprise and not a horrifying one.”

  “I apologize. I just wasn’t expecting it to be so big.”

  Percival smirked. “Why, Abigail, you flatter me so. Try not to worry. I’ll be gentle.”

  She trusted that he would. He had been perfect thus far. Bringing his lips to hers again, he caressed her cheek with his thumb.

  When he moved over her, she almost forgot to breathe. She could feel him at her entrance waiting for permission, and she nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “I love you, Abigail…my Abigail.”

  She melted at his words and grabbed his backside in encouragement, the anticipation driving her mad. He inched in slowly. Despite her wetness, it was a tight fit and she felt the burning pain Claudette had told her to expect. She winced, which did not go unnoticed.

  “Would you like me to stop, love?” Percival seemed very concerned.

  “Your Grace,” Abigail gasped, as his thrusts elicited a reaction deep inside her, similar yet different to his mouth. The flush was high on her cheeks, her words punctuated by soft whimpers, her movements quickening against Percival. “Your Grace, I am – I –”

  He held her very close, carefully sinking into her, the weight of his body making her feel safe and secure. Her legs burned with the effort of gripping him around the waist while allowing his plunder. Yet the pain was lost in a haze of pleasure and desperation. His rhythm was unhurried, gentle, and careful. She was relieved to find that the pain eventually subsided, giving way only to pleasure.

  There were lips against her ear, spilling words of encouragement that her brain could not possibly comprehend, and those lips left a blazing trail against her skin towards her lips, before capturing those, as well.

  He pulled back, dark eyes boring into hers. She felt open, raw, and flayed, never more exposed to him, than now. His breathing quickened, getting more and more ragged. She could tell he was holding back.

  “It’s all right, Percival, I won’t break.”

  A smile pulled at the corners of his lips and his thrusts became swifter, yet his touch was still tender.

  “Oh, Abigail!” he cried out as his seed spilled inside her.

  Chapter 30

  Secrets and Lies

  Things kept happening to delay the trial. The magistrate broke his leg in a bizarre carriage accident. Abigail's records disappeared from the Bow Street magistrate’s office. The officer who arrested her disappeared.

  It was a huge mystery.

  “I cannot possibly be this lucky,” Abigail said to her mother, who looked anywhere but at her.

  Abigail leaned forward and down, trying to catch Joan’s eye. “Mother?”

  Joan shook her head, looking fixedly out the window. “You just might be that lucky. You’ve always been a very fortunate child.”

  Abigail laughed. “Mother, are you lying to me? I thought you were not going to do that anymore.”

  A tear rolled down her mother's cheek, and she brushed it away hastily, “Please leave it alone, child.”

  Abigail got to her feet, heartbeat quickening in alarm. “What is it, mother? Tell me please!”

  Joan sobbed. “I cannot.”

  Abigail took a deep breath to fortify herself. “Well, then I will just have to find out for myself.”

  Joan stood up as well, reaching out a hand to detain Abigail. “Please, child, for your own good, leave this alone. Go home to your husband. Make children.”

  She gave her mother a sidelong glance. “Does that really sound like something I would do?”

  Joan simply closed her eyes shaking her head slowly.

  Rosaline burst into her father's study. “We cannot let this go on, father!”

  Lord Huntington slowly put down his pen. “What can I help you with, my dear?”

  “These unconscionable delays, Father! Why is Abigail Thorne not in gaol yet?”

  “I fear her family's criminal past is working against us.”

  “What do you mean by that, Father?”

  “I mean…that perhaps it is time to let the Duke know exactly who he is allowing to share his abode.”

  Rosaline’s eyebrows lifted almost to her hairline. “You mean…?”

  “Do not worry your little head about it, my dear. I shall handle it.”

  Rosaline just stared at him. “Do it soon Father, I grow impatient. I should have been a duchess by now.”

  “And you will be, my little rose. I promise you. Have I ever broken a promise I made to you?”

  “No, Father. You have not.”

  “Well then, trust me one more time. I shall get you what you want.”

  “I trust you always, Father.”

  Lord Huntington leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to Rosaline’s forehead. “Now calm yourself, child. Do you not have that recital to attend this afternoon?”

  She pinched her lips. “I do not like how they look at me. As if I were a laughing stock.”

  The Earl rubbed her arms soothingly. “Very soon you shall have the last laugh.”

  Percival was whistling happily to himself as he looked over the yearly accounts for his country estate in Derbyshire. His very capable steward made sure that the rents were collected on time, and the place was run with efficiency.

  I should give him a raise.

  A knock on the door distracted him. He looked up, a welcoming smile ready on his face, thinking that it might be Abigail coming to seek him out after her visit with her mother.

  “Enter!”

  His aunt walked in the door and his heart sank. He had not even been aware that she was in the residence. After storming into his room on the morning after his wedding night, she claimed that she would not be party to the travesty taking place in this house, and that she would be moving to the townhouse until the criminal—as she called Abigail—was out of “her” house.

  Percival had been inordinately pleased to see the back of her and had not even challenged her description of Abigail in favor of getting her out of his house as soon as possible.

  “Aunt Martha. This is a surprise.”

  “Well, yes. I thought by now you would have come to your senses but since you haven't, there’s something you should know.”

  Percival rolled his eyes, examining his fingernails, feeling beset by ennui. “Is there?”

  “Yes, there is. I would have preferred not to have to give you this information, but I see now that I have no choice. You must know the truth.”

  “All right then, stop with the plati
tudes and tell me.”

  Aunt Martha took a deep breath, turning to find a seat. “Kindly pour me a brandy, would you?”

  Percival’s movements were jerky and sharp as he grabbed a glass and filled it to the brim before slamming it on the table next to his aunt's seat. “There you go. Now speak.”

  “I know that you have long been heartbroken by the demise of your parents—”

  “Aunt Martha—” Percival was already shaking his head in rejection of the topic.

  “Hear me out.” His aunt pleaded. “We know that he and the Duchess were accosted by brigands on the London Bridge. And you know that those brigands were transported. Did it ever occur to you to wonder why they were not hanged?”

  “All the time, Aunt.”

  “The reason that they were not hanged was that they belonged to a gang of thieves known as the Foxes. Said gang was headed by a shadowy, powerful figure named Reginald Sinclair.”

  Percival jerked in his seat, feeling suddenly very cold. His aunt's eyes shone with pleasure at his reaction, one which—in his shock—he could not hide from her.

  The Foxes are responsible for my parents' death?

  He didn't know whether to believe her. So many lies had been told about Abigail and her family, perhaps this was just one more.

  “How can I know if you are lying to me? There is nobody to corroborate your story.”

  “I can give you the names of the two men who killed your parents. You may trace their backgrounds for yourself.”

  Percival looked away, biting his lip. He had a feeling that going down this road would only lead to heartbreak and more pain. He was happy with Abigail and they had enough problems as it was with her court case.

  His eyes narrowed as he thought. He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, hands clasped beneath his chin, as he looked his aunt in the eye. “I shall verify your statement on one condition. You must get the Huntingtons to drop the charges against Abigail.”

  His aunt leaned back in her chair a slight smile on her face. “I shall do that if you promise that once you have ascertained the veracity of my statements, that you will do the right thing for your family.”

  Percival nodded. “It is a deal.”

  Philip was working in his office when he heard a banging on the door. It was too early for Joan to be back even if she had forgotten her key and nobody else would dare treat his property in such a cavalier fashion. He picked up his walking stick, face like thunder as he strode towards the front door. He pulled it open ready to give his visitor grief but stopped short when he saw who it was.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Percival stepped into the foyer. “I have questions. You better give me some answers.”

  His nostrils flared. “I am not one of your subjects, Duke. You do not speak to me like that.”

  Percival’s breathing was coming like bellows, and Phillip understood that he was in high dudgeon. That did not mean he was prepared to tolerate any disrespect. “Farran Lew and Hugh Hiram. Are those names familiar to you?”

  “Should they be?”

  “You tell me.”

  They eyeballed each other, dark eyes boring into blue. They were at an impasse.

  “Why do you want to know about Farran and Hugh?”

  “So you know them?”

  “I knew two individuals of those names once upon a time. They are no longer in England.”

  “So they were Foxes.”

  “I did not say that.”

  “I inferred it from your reply.”

  Philip merely narrowed his eyes at Percival.

  “Your brother, he told you who to steal from? He set up your marks?”

  Philips eyes merely narrowed further until they were slits. “What is it that you want to know, Duke?”

  “I want to know if Reginald Sinclair sent Farran and Hugh to kill my parents.”

  Philip barked with laughter. “What would Reggie have possibly wanted with your parents?”

  “Their money? The jewels my mother was wearing.”

  “My brother was no small-time thief, Duke. He was a criminal mastermind.”

  “Why do you still speak of him like he's dead when we both know that he’s not?”

  Philip shrugged. “Force of habit.”

  “So did your ‘criminal mastermind’ of a brother send those two men to kill my parents?”

  “Just because a man makes a dishonest living does not mean he does not have a code of honor.”

  “And that is a roundabout way of saying what? That he didn’t do it?”

  “You need to ask Reggie yourself if you want the answer to that question.”

  Percival snorted. “It is not as if he would tell me.”

  “Well, then, I suppose you will never know.”

  Percival let the breath out of his nose, huffing like a dragon without fire. “Perhaps you ought to ask the person who gave you those names.”

  “I don’t trust her.”

  “Ah, well…”

  “I just want the truth.”

  “And then what? What will you do, Duke? Will you go after Reggie? What will you do?”

  Percival pursed his lips. “I would know.”

  “And then what? You take it out on your wife?”

  “My wife has nothing to do with this!”

  Phillip laughed. “Indeed, Reginald’s daughter has nothing to do with him possibly killing your parents. But do not stand there and try to tell me it will not alter how you view her.”

  Percival clenched his jaw.

  “Did he take the bait?” Benedict asked moments after he heaved himself off her. The townhouse was devoid of permanent staff and so they were able to use it with discretion.

  “Of course he did. He has wanted to know who killed his parents since they died. He would not pass up the chance to find out more.”

  Benedict sat up in bed, letting the sheet fall to his waist. “This has to work. It is our last card.”

  “It will. His Grace has been carrying the open wound that is his parents’ death with him for years. There is no way he will recover from knowing that the Foxes had something to do with it. He did ask that you drop the charges against the girl.”

  Benedict shrugged. “As long as we get what we want, that will not be a problem. We’ll get rid of her the same way we did all the other obstacles to our plans.”

  Martha smiled. “Indeed. But we should make it look like an accident this time. It isn’t as if we can rely on the Foxes.”

  The sound of something falling over in the other room had them freezing, listening hard. The house was supposed to be empty, apart from them.

  Martha raised her hand and whispered. “Stay here.”

  She strode out of the room, tying her robe tight about her waist. The hallway was empty of anybody but at the end of the corridor she could see that a vase had fallen off its plinth onto the floor. Surprisingly, it was not broken. Martha looked around for what might have caused it to fall but could not fathom how it happened. She walked to the stairs, searching below for signs of movement but the house was quiet.

  She sighed, shaking her head, and returned to the bedchamber. “Twas just a vase that fell.”

  Benedict mopped away perspiration that had developed while waiting. “We need to be more careful.”

  Martha dipped her head. “I agree.”

  Percival heard the knock on his office door and tensed with a feeling of déjà vu. He did not want to speak to his aunt. He was not ready to share what he had learnt or to contend with it in any way. He took another sip of his whisky, feeling that he could not get jug-bitten enough for that conversation.

  “Enter!”

  The knob turned slowly, as if the person on the other side was reluctant to come in. Percival drained his glass and slammed it to the table, getting to his feet to wait.

  He was startled when a head of dark and unruly locks appeared in the doorway. It was Abigail, not his aunt with her immaculately coiffed hair.

 
“Abigail!” His surprise was unfeigned.

  “Can I come in?”

  “But of course.”

  She took a tentative step into his inner sanctum. “I only ask because you seem to have been avoiding me for the past two days.”