by Abigail Agar
Enchanted by a Lady's Talent
A REGENCY ROMANCE NOVEL
ABIGAIL AGAR
Copyright © 2020 by Abigail Agar
All Rights Reserved.
This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Enchanted by a Lady's Talent
Table of Contents
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Enchanted by a Lady's Talent
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
A Duke's Garden of Love
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
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Enchanted by a Lady's Talent
Introduction
On the worst of days, the charming Pippa Blackwell loses something more precious to her than any other- her manuscript. Even though this piece of writing is the one she is most proud of, it appears that her mother and father will get their way, forcing her to let go of her dream of being an author. Devastated and filled with regret from the loss, Pippa worries about having no control over her future. However, when a poster at her favorite bookshop for a novel which sounds nearly identical to her own appears, Pippa hunts down the shop’s owner who apparently stole her work. Furious and determined to seek justice, she confronts him in an effort to right the wrong. However, how could she possibly do this when her heart melts everytime she sees him? Will she manage to stay true to her plan or will she follow her fiery heart?
When Doyle Brooks, the owner of a failing bookshop, finds an incredible manuscript, he decides to publish it as a way of drawing in business. Nothing makes him happier than the idea of succeeding through a story this powerful. Eager to see his shop thrive, Doyle tries to let go of his underlying guilt from the theft and excitedly dives into this new plan. However, this plan is proven to be anything but simple… When the real author shows up in the form of a beautiful, intelligent and energetic young woman, Doyle finds himself conflicted between his desire to succeed and his blooming interest in Pippa herself. Will he manage to let his feelings aside in order to save his bookshop or will he abandon everything by becoming lost in Pippa’s captivating eyes?
Against either of their wishes, Pippa and Doyle are thrown into a confusing and messy relationship as co-authors and Doyle has to decide whether or not he will truly credit the woman who has changed his life forever. When his employee, George Sinclair, decides he is also interested in Pippa, the lies, feelings and dreams of Doyle and Pippa are tested. Pippa must decide if she is willing to trust Doyle through his lies, just as he must decide what is more important: his business or his heart? Will they be ripped apart by dishonesty and the surrounding pressures? Or will their tale unfold into a true and everlasting romance?
Chapter 1
Pippa Blackwell had never felt such a surge of terror. Her large, blue eyes were wide and searching frantically, and the dark waves of hair were sagging from their pins and coming loose in little sprigs.
But she couldn’t stop searching. Not when something so important had been lost.
For a family like hers, one without title but with great wealth, there was quite a lot of space within their home to search. Her bedroom was the most likely spot for the lost manuscript, but Pippa wondered if a maid had taken the pages, not realising that it was Pippa’s own work. Maybe a maid had put them in her father’s study?
It was possible, wasn’t it?
No! Of course, it wasn’t possible. Pippa was so careful with her writings. Her mother and father hated the fact that Pippa loved to write stories and they were always trying to discourage her from doing so. Because of that, she had grown very cautious in making certain they did not see her work or stumble upon it. She always had her pages hidden in the same drawer.
But she had taken them with her that morning when she had ridden in a carriage into town with her dear friend, Fiona. Was it possible that the pages had been lost on that ride? She still had the other two manuscripts with her. There was one which she had only just begun and had been reading to Fiona, and another which she had nearly finished.
But her favourite was now gone.
“No, no, no,” she whispered under her breath, frustrated and forlorn.
The pages were nowhere to be found.
Pippa knew that there was only one thing she could do now, and it was the last thing in all the world she wanted to do. She would have to ask her mother if she had seen the pages.
Pippa straightened her spine and took a deep breath. This was not going to be fun.
She made her way to the drawing room, where she was certain to find her mother. Indeed, as she walked through the door, her mother sat working on her stitching and making a doily which Pippa knew would end up as nothing more than an addition to her pile of already existing doilies.
“Ah, Pippa. There you are. Come and have a seat. You need to work on your stitching,” her mother said.
“Why?” she asked, curious.
“Because your stitching is dreadful,” her mother replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
Pippa gritted her teeth to stop herself from saying anything to her mother as to how frustrating it was to constantly be criticised. If she did not stop herself, she would undoubtedly complain to no end.
“Now, would you prefer the cream or the ivory?” her mother asked, offering her thread.
Looking at the threads, Pippa saw her future. It was bland, just like the cream and ivory.
“Mother, I actually came in here because I wanted to ask you something,” she said.
“You may ask while you stitch. This is important, Pippa. No man is going to want to marry a young woman who has no skills,” she nagged.
“I have no skills?” Pippa asked, frustrated. How could her mother not see the value in her efforts as a writer?
“Your pianoforte is adequate, but not exemplary. Your dancing is correct in the steps, but not graceful. And your stitching is awful. T
his is something which you shall find terribly easy to improve upon,” her mother said.
“Why must I learn how to stitch though? Is it really so important to a man that I can make doilies which are never to be used for anything?”
“Never used? How can you say that? They are of great value,” her mother insisted.
“You have piles of them which merely sit there,” Pippa pointed out, frustrated that she was wasting valuable words on an argument over the validity of doilies.
“Pippa, you may not understand now, but you shall one day when you are married. These skills, which prove that we are delicate, are deeply valuable to the men we marry. They are evidence of our grace and meekness and the fact that we are frail and lovely creatures,” her mother said, with the mildest hint of irritation.
“And that is something to be desired?” Pippa questioned, challenging her mother on what seemed to her to be an insult.
Her mother’s lips flattened into a thin line of frustration.
“These are the burdens we must bear, and they are what make us marriageable. Now, sit and stitch,” her mother ordered.
Pippa took one of the spools, not having any idea if it was cream or ivory, and began her work. If this were the only way she was going to be able to speak with her mother about the manuscript, it would have to do.
“Mother, I came to ask you about something,” she said again.
“Oh, yes. What is it now?”
“You know that I enjoy writing stories, Mother,” she began, cautiously.
“Ugh, yes, I do,” her mother grimaced, not looking up from the work she was doing.
“Well, I had written one story, a bit longer than my others,” she said, not wanting to mention that it was a full-length book.
“You ought to have spent that time working on your stitching,” her mother remarked.
“Well, I am sorry, Mother, but I did not. And now, I cannot find the book. Is it possible that you have seen it anywhere?” Pippa asked.
“A book? I have seen no book.”
“It was just pages, really. I had hoped that you may have seen them,” she said, trying to downplay her attachment to the work.
“I haven’t seen it, but what does it matter? I know you, Pippa. You are only going to go against our wishes and continue writing. You will just write it again,” her mother suggested.
Pippa was heartbroken but could not share with her mother that this novel had taken her nearly a year to write just the first draft. All that work and effort was for nothing. She had done so much and tried so hard, and yet her favorite of all her manuscripts was gone.
Of course, her mother would not understand. Her mother had made it clear that none of this was important to her at all. But for Pippa, this was everything. It was her greatest joy and her most important achievement. Even though her family did not support her, she could not stop.
She was a writer. That was all that mattered to her. It was more of her identity than any position which society would give her.
Nothing was more important than finding her manuscript, and until she had found it, she would be utterly dismayed.
For now, though, it appeared that it was missing for good. If she gave up hope, her mother was right. She would have to rewrite the entire thing. But was it possible for her to write it as well?
What if she did not grasp the intricacies of the characters again? What if she made a mistake? What if she left out an important scene?
All these possibilities devastated Pippa. It was almost enough to stop her from even considering the possibility of re-writing.
In fact, the thought of that was increasingly less appealing.
“Pippa, hand me that, will you?” her mother asked, gesturing towards a needle.
She did as instructed, not saying anything as she was still so distraught about the missing pages.
“Have any of the maids mentioned seeing a stack of papers, Mother? Could they have tossed them outside?” she asked.
“Pippa, please. Let it go. It was a waste of your valuable time anyway. You have other things to focus on,” her mother said.
“But Mother—”
“Enough, Pippa!” her mother exclaimed. “You need to stop thinking about books and begin thinking about the Wentworth ball this weekend. You know, Lord Rutherford will be in attendance.”
“Lord Rutherford is a notorious rake,” Pippa mumbled.
“That is an unfounded accusation, Pippa. Stop being so dour and look to the possibilities of the future. There may yet be good things ahead if you are only willing to see them.”
“But why must I focus solely on such things which mean very little to me?”
“I am urging you to focus on the possibility that your life just might be better than you are expecting, if only you are willing to look to the future and believe that there are wonderful possibilities ahead.”
“Such as?” Pippa asked dryly. Her mother’s speech and overuse of the word ‘possibilities’ was growing old.
But her mother appeared uncertain of her own train of thought and simply shrugged.
“Marriage, of course,” she replied.
Pippa was in no mood to think about marriage. If finding a husband meant that her days would be relegated to stitching and practicing her pianoforte, there was nothing desirable about it.
Of course, she considered the possibility that she would be able to spend her days working on her books. She would have to hide such activity from her future husband, but it was still a possibility. She just might be able to indulge in entertainment of her own making while he was out.
Was that possible? Could she find a way to use her time to her own advantage?
Certainly, she would have days filled with paying calls on other grand women or having to make the occasional doily for the sake of appearances. But maybe she would still find time to work on her books?
“Pippa, dear, are you listening to me?” her mother asked.
In truth, she had not been, but she smiled and released a deep breath to calm herself.
“Of course, Mother. Forgive me for being so distracted. Now, what were we discussing?”
“We were discussing the ball this weekend. I would like for you to try and charm Lord Cheltenham, but if he is distracted by that awful Miss Winters, please focus your attentions on Lord Hamilton,” her mother instructed.
“You wish for me to marry a baron?” she asked.
“At the very least. You ought to know by now that if you cannot marry equal, you must marry up. Besides, Lord Hamilton is not just a baron. His uncle is an earl and has no sons. You never know…” her mother shrugged, suggesting the possibility that Lord Hamilton could one day inherit the title.
“And Lord Cheltenham? Why is he the one you wish for me to pursue?” Pippa questioned.
Her mother exhaled in frustration.
“Pippa, we discussed this just three days ago. He is nearly as wealthy as the king himself. Were you not listening to me then, either? Good heavens, child. What am I to do with you?”
Pippa did not respond, for she wondered much the same. What was her mother supposed to do with her, and what was she supposed to do for herself? Was she always going to be relegated to wondering what her future would be like and whom she was meant to marry and whether she would ever have the freedom to pursue her own passion?
It appeared as though everything would forever be determined for her. She would have no say at any time and that was a painful fact which she was forced to accept.
But this was her life and she didn’t want to accept it. She wanted to strive on towards a better future and would do whatever she needed to reach that. After all, it wasn’t her fault that she had ended up being born to this station. If she had been born to a poor family, she would be allowed to have more of a say in her fate.
