Secret Confessions 0f The Enticing Duchess (Steamy Historical Regency)

by Olivia Bennet

  He released her abruptly, taking a step back and all she could do was stare in disbelief.

  What just happened?

  He took her hands in his, looking into her eyes, “I will take my leave now. May I see you on the morrow?”

  She simply breathed hard, unable to articulate.

  “Abigail?”

  “Y-yes you m-may see m-me on the morrow.”

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss upon her knuckles, “Thank you.”

  She nodded jerkily, and he let her fingers go, bowing to her before turning around and walking out of the room. She opened her mouth to call after him but then closed it again because she realized she did not know what to say. She flopped down onto the sofa, staring unseeingly out the window, fingers on her lip as she relived the kiss. Never in her life had she felt such a thing. Perhaps being the Duke’s mistress would not be as awful as she had imagined. If he kissed her like that all the time, it might well be worth it.

  Oh, Abigail…

  She shook her head at herself, bemused at how easily she was swayed. One kiss and she was ready to throw herself at the Duke. She stood up, briskly straightening her skirts and stiffening her spine, then walked out of the room with determination.

  I am going to wash up, change my clothes, prepare some supper, and go to bed. The rest can wait.

  * * *

  Martha sat up in the bed, pulling a shawl around her naked shoulders and straightening her chemise. She turned to her lover with a contented smile, watching him smoke his cheroot.

  “Benedict?” she said softly, “I think we need to talk about my nephew, the Duke, and this whole...disaster with the dressmaker girl.”

  Benedict snorted, “Have we not talked about him enough? It is time to act, my dear Lady Stanley. Your nephew must marry my daughter. There is nothing she desires more and I would have her be a duchess. I have just the thing that will help us forget all about this other woman.”

  Martha turned to face him, “Whatever you have, it better be damning. Beneath his polite mien, Percival is an obstinate man. He must be brought to see the advantage of the match with Rosaline over this...Paphian. I cannot force him to make the right choice. Even in my position, there is only so much influence I hold over him.”

  The Earl of Huntington favored her with a blue glance. “You just need to apply the right pressure.”

  It was Martha's turn to scoff, “Pray tell, what is this right pressure you speak of?”

  The Earl sat up as well, his chest gleaming from their exertions, “The man longs for a family of his own. It is clear to me and it is why, even though it is clear he does not hold much fondness for you, he still tolerates your presence. Because you are his family. Use that. Fill him with visions of a houseful of children and the possibility of love. Shed some tears. Tell him you are concerned about his cold and distant demeanor. Impress upon him that your heart would feel lighter and you would feel you have not let your dear sister down if he were to marry.”

  Martha fixed him with a look. “You know I have done all that, Benedict. That and more. What else is there?”

  Benedict gave her a sideways smile, eyes gleaming with amusement, “You must tell him who this girl’s father is.”

  Her face brightened with interest, “Pray tell, who is he?”

  He puffed out a plume of smoke. “Do not fear, I will tell you. And that is not even the most damning part.”

  Martha’s eyes widened, and she leaned over closer. “Tell me everything, My Lord.”

  * * *

  Percival was having his breakfast when his aunt sauntered into the room looking extremely self-satisfied. The smile on her face made him want to stand up and leave the room at once—it did not bode well for him. He knew that from experience.

  “Good morning, Nephew,” she said, even as he stood up to hold her seat for her.

  “Good morning, Aunt, I hope you slept well?”

  “Indeed, I did. Thank you for asking.”

  The serving girl picked up a plate, waiting for his aunt to indicate her selections. A footman poured her a cup of beer while Percival pretended to immerse himself in the day's newspaper. Once she had her plate, his aunt dismissed the servants from the room and Percival knew he was right to feel a foreboding.

  “Percival?” she began, her voice soft, “I have some news that I would like to share with you.”

  He looked up from the newspaper, unable to help himself.

  “News?” he folded the newspaper and put it aside, turning to face his aunt completely. “That sounds quite ominous,” he said, trying to make light of it. “Is it not in the newspaper, this news?”

  His aunt sighed, looking as though it pained her to bring up this topic, but Percival was not fooled. Whatever was happening here, Lady Stanley was enjoying it.

  “I have learned something quite…distressing…about the dressmaker with whom you have recently been associated.”

  Percival glared at her, feeling the urge suddenly to put his arms around her neck and squeeze until she spat out whatever she was parsing out like pieces of gold.

  “Get on with this, Aunt.”

  Lady Stanley sighed, leaning forward and looking him in the eye. “Well, I know she has been accused of thievery and you should know it is not without foundation,” she said slowly and carefully.

  Percival shot to his feet, his eyes wide as he stared at her in shock, “I beg your pardon?”

  “According to the information I obtained,” she informed him as she buttered her bread, “Miss Thorne’s father was the head of a well-known criminal gang. Her mother is probably still a part of them…after all, they left Brighton under a cloud.”

  Percival threw his napkin down on the table. “You have proof of this or is it just some damned hum you have come up with to discompose me?” he demanded.

  Lady Stanley spared him a glance before biting into the bread. Percival tapped his foot impatiently as she chewed. “Percival, I am your aunt and I hold only your best interests at heart. If you do not believe me, then feel free to ask your petite amie yourself.”

  Chapter 13

  Revelations

  Abigail veritably floated to work the next day, her head still very much in the clouds. She kept reliving that kiss, unable to believe that anything could feel that good. She could not understand how these blue-bloods could stand to share their spouses if, indeed, that was how it felt to be close to them.

  I cannot be his mistress if he is going to marry that girl, Lady Rosaline. I could not stand to imagine him touching her the same way. I have to turn him down, or insist on marriage.

  Abigail nodded to herself, mind made up. She spent the rest of her walk enjoying the sunrise, nodding to other pedestrians as she passed them. She hummed as she opened the door of the shop, flicking the sign to open, and sashayed inside. She grabbed the broom to sweep up the dust that had gathered overnight.

  She whirled around the room using the broom as her partner, laughing quietly to herself. She knew she was in love and with his declaration last night, felt that Percival might feel just a little bit of what she did. Perhaps she did have a prince, after all.

  “Well, you are in a good mood.”

  She turned around to see her mother standing in the doorway, arms akimbo.

  “Mother! You startled me.”

  “Sorry, I thought you heard me come in. Is this joy I see in you a result of your talk with the Duke last night?”

  Abigail merely beamed at her, causing her mother to raise eyebrows.

  “Do tell,” Joan urged excitedly, taking a seat on the customer bench.

  “Oh, tis nothing. He only said that he intended to propose to me. Marriage. He intended to propose marriage.”

  Joan's mouth dropped open, “No! Really?”

  Abigail nodded her head repeatedly, “Yes, really. He said so himself.”

  Joan placed a hand on her heart. “Well...this is a surprise.”

  “You're telling me,” Abigail snorted.
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  They regarded each other for a minute without words before they both squealed excitedly. Joan jumped to her feet and opened her arms, enveloping Abigail in them as she leapt forward.

  “You got what you wanted,” Joan said, her voice thick with tears.

  “Well, not quite yet. He is still engaged to Lady Rosaline and he has yet to formally propose. Let us not put the cart before the horse.”

  “Yes, yes you're correct. We shall curb our excitement until the time is right.”

  * * *

  “Explain yourself, Aunt.” Percival said, as he slowly dropped back into his seat.

  “I know you feel that this girl has given you something us mere mortals cannot touch...”

  “Get on with it, Aunt,” Percival said, almost tearing his napkin in two.

  Lady Stanley sighed tragically, “In the course of my enquiries, I learnt of this gang named The Foxes. Heaven knows why, it sounds like such a silly name for a band of criminals.”

  Percival gritted his teeth. “Aunt…”

  “Yes, yes I'm getting there. Well, it turns out that little Miss Perfect was born just a few months before the head of this gang, her father, was murdered. As is appropriate. He who lives by the sword and all that.”

  Percival was breathing hard, wondering at the extent his aunt would go to discredit his chosen. “Abigail said she has no idea who her father is.”

  “Perhaps she does not. But her mother most certainly does. As does her guardian who was the man’s brother.”

  “You mean Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Indeed.”

  “But Abigail’s surname is Thorne.”

  “She uses her mother's maiden name to disguise her identity.”

  Percival was shaking his head. “I do not believe this.”

  “What don't you believe, Nephew? That the woman you have set your sights on is nothing but a common criminal?”

  “She is no criminal, whoever her father might be.”

  “Oh yes? Then why did she not tell you the truth? You cannot trust these people, Percival. They will use you and they will take you for everything that you have. You must cut all ties with them.”

  Percival stood up abruptly, and throwing down his napkin, strode out of the room. He needed some air. He needed to think. If what she said was true, why had Sherwood not uncovered this information?

  Who is lying to me? My aunt or Abigail?

  He shook his head at his tiger who was waiting outside the door with his carriage. Instead, he turned down Mayfair Place, resolving to walk to his club and think things through. This was a quandary indeed, if it was true. It certainly made association with her that much more difficult. It was one thing to be of a lower class, but to be a criminal…

  There was a slight drizzle and the wind was sharp, blowing through his hair and numbing his face. He was glad of it, for it cleared the fog in his mind. He would need some time to make a decision on what to do next.

  * * *

  Benedict, Earl of Huntington, made his way to Bond Street. He was of the opinion that it was past time he put those dressmakers in their place. He could not imagine what made them think that they could bamboozle his daughter’s betrothed into going back on his word. They were nothing but glorified incognitas. And it was time that they knew it without a shadow of doubt.

  He barged into the shop to find the two women in an embrace, in the middle of the shop! He was taken aback by this inappropriate display but put that aside in favor of stating his business.

  “Which one of you is Abigail Thorne?” he demanded.

  They both stared at him as if they did not understand the King’s English. Perhaps they were foreign, who knew? That would explain a lot. All these criminals probably came from Ireland.

  He looked from one to the other, waiting for them to answer. “Well?”

  * * *

  Abigail stared at the man. She remembered him from a confrontation with Lady Rosaline, who had called him “Father” which probably meant this man was some sort of noble as well. Abigail sighed, stepping forward.

  “I am the one you are looking for.”

  Her mother took a step as well, so that they were standing side-to-side, “What do you want from my daughter?” she demanded, hand on hip.

  The man smiled but there was no happiness in the gesture. “You stole my daughter's ring.” He declared, “And you will give it back.”

  “I know not of what ring you speak. I am not a thief. I have stolen nothing.”

  The man took a step closer, his eyes narrowing dangerously, “You are not a thief?” he sneered. “You, the daughter of one of the biggest brigands in London, are not a thief?”

  Abigail felt as if someone had doused her in cold water. “W-what?”

  “Did you think you could keep your father’s identity secret forever?”

  “M-my f-father’s identity?”

  The man snorted, “Don't play coy with me, girl. I know your father was Reginald Sinclair. I know that your guard dog is his brother. If you thought to hide behind the respectability of your mother’s maiden name, know that is no more.”

  Suddenly Joan leapt forward, pushing at Lady Rosaline’s father. “Get out. Get out. Get out!” she screeched, her face red and twisted with anger.

  The man looked comically surprised at the attack, but Abigail did not have the wherewithal to even smile. She was reeling from his revelations.

  My father was a brigand. Philip is my uncle?

  She did not know which piece of news was the more shocking. She watched as her mother hustled the noble out of the shop, slamming and locking the door behind him. She leaned against it breathing hard, her forehead against the hardwood.

  “I never wanted you to find out,” she whispered into the wood.

  Abigail merely stared, unable to comprehend the sharp turn her life had taken in the last five minutes.

  “You...lied to me?”

  Her mother turned around, arms reaching for her. “Abigail—”

  Abigail took a step back, slapping her mother's hands away. “No. You do not get to touch me. You do not lie to me my entire life, and then get to touch me,” she said as she took another step, then another, until her back was to the wall. She held her hands out to ward her mother off.

  “Abigail, please—”

  “No! Stay back. Leave me alone.” She snatched up her reticule and ran out the door.

  * * *

  For a while, she just wandered the streets aimlessly without a clue as to where to go, the man's words looping in a continuous staccato scream in her mind. She felt as if her skull was a cage and the words, a bird beating repeatedly against the bone, trying to escape.

  My father was a brigand!

  She wanted to know more. At the same time, she wanted to act as if she had never heard those words.

  I cannot go home.

  Her whole body slumped with despair. Her mother and the man she thought of as her father had lied to her for her entire life. She did not know what to think of them. Were they criminals, too? Her mother had told her that her father died, though she had never said much else about him. Abigail had thought that was because it was too painful.

  She spotted a bench and collapsed onto it, head bent in anguish. She covered her head with her hands, wanting to scream with misery. She wished there was somebody else she could go to. Someone she could be sure would tell her the truth.

  But who can I trust to do that?

  She knew she could not go home but she needed somewhere to stay. She straightened up, realizing that her feet had brought her to Drury Lane. She looked up at the sun, conjecturing that Claudette was likely rehearsing at this time of day. She looked around her, trying to find the theatre house where her friend was performing.

  If anyone would appreciate her story, it would be Claudette.

  * * *

  “So, you’re saying this man told you that your father was some sort of brigand?” Claudette repeated with wide, interested eyes, “Cor...that is...bon
kers. What a bumble-broth! What will you do about it?”

  “What…can I do? It isn’t as though I can go into the past and change anything.” Abigail sniffed, and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.