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

by Olivia Bennet

  At this time of day, he was usually in his study, looking over the household accounts. He was very conscientious about it, something to do with how close to dun territory they had gotten in the last two years. They had managed to conceal their dire straits from most of their circle but it had been touch and go for a while. This match with the Duke was not only for her benefit.

  “Papa!” she cried, crashing into his study, “the most terrible thing has happened!”

  Her father raised an eyebrow, quite used to his daughter's foibles. “What has happened now?”

  Rosaline was so upset she could hardly speak. “I...the D-Duke...h-he…”

  The Earl stood up in alarm, “Slow down, Daughter. Breathe. Now tell me what has happened and I will remedy it.”

  “The Duke...he...he’s...”

  “He’s what, Rosaline? Tell me.”

  “He was seen frolicking around town with a trollop!” Rosaline finally managed to get the words out.

  The Earl frowned, “That does not sound like the Duke at all. Are you quite sure?”

  Rosaline opened her mouth to say, “Yes!” but then realized that she was basing her information on nothing but Alice’s gossip. She needed to investigate this on her own. So she shook her head and grabbed a piece of paper from her father’s desk, wheeling out of her father’s study without another word. She hastened to the morning room and sat down to breakfast.

  “Get me a pen and ink, Stevens,” she ordered the butler and he bowed, hurrying away to do as he was told.

  My dear Duke,

  I would love it if you would be able to accompany me to my fitting at the dressmaker’s for I value your opinion and as my future husband, it would behoove me to know what pleases you.

  Sincerely,

  Lady Rosaline Hoskins

  She summoned the butler, entreating him to have one of the servants deliver the note to the Duke post-haste.

  Percival read the letter and scoffed. Lady Rosaline knew full well that they were not yet married and it was likely inappropriate for him to be present at a fitting of her clothes. What did she mean by this?

  He wondered if perhaps she had heard about his night with Abigail. Innocent or not, he suspected the lady might not be pleased by it if she knew.

  Did she mean to confront Abigail in his presence? Or was his own guilty conscience making him imagine things? He sighed, knowing that he had no choice but to accept her invitation and face whatever came.

  He wrote a note of his own, sending his footman with it to Bond Street. If Lady Rosaline meant to have a confrontation, the least he could do was to alert Abigail and her mother of their impending visit.

  Once the note was sent, Percival confined himself to his office, sitting in his leather armchair, eyes on the light rain outside, and tried to decide exactly what he thought he was about.

  Two hours later, he was standing in the doorway of the Earl’s ostentatious London townhouse waiting to be announced. To his surprise, Stevens, the butler, led him not to the drawing room where he might visit with Lady Rosaline in the company of her governess, but to the Earl’s office where the man himself was waiting.

  He stood up and bowed as Percival stepped in the room, beetle-browed with confusion.

  “Forgive me, Huntington, but I am actually here to see your daughter.”

  The Earl nodded his understanding as he stepped to his drinks cabinet and poured a glass of brandy, handing it over to Percival without a word. He poured himself a glass before lifting it in toast and then draining it.

  Percival was most perturbed at this display but hastened to take a sip of his own drink. It would be impolite to do otherwise.

  “Is something amiss?” he ventured to ask.

  “Not as far as I am aware, Northcott. Perhaps you can tell me.”

  Huntington’s gaze was somber and Percival could not help raising his brow. It was one thing for Lady Rosaline to be having the vapors should she have found out about Abigail. It was quite another for her father to be regarding him as if he was some kind of traitor.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” he said, taking another sip of his drink even though he had no desire for brandy at the moment.

  “My daughter seems to be under the impression that you may be having some sort of dalliance with some trollop.”

  Percival’s jaw clenched in annoyance at that description of Abigail.

  “I am sorry that she holds such a low opinion of me to think that I would traffic with trollops,” he growled.

  The Earl had the grace to look abashed. He did not, however, back down.

  “So, you deny these rumors that are going around?”

  Percival scoffed, turning away from the Earl, “I would remind you of your place, My Lord,” Percival said, his voice hard and uncompromising, “You have no authority over me and whether or not I choose to indulge in bachelor fare.”

  He heard the Earl sigh behind him, “Indeed not, Northcott. I apologize for the faux pas.”

  Percival inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Good. Well, your daughter summoned me with a request to escort her to her appointment. Is she quite ready to go?”

  “Yes, I expect so,” the Earl said, making an evident effort to lighten the tone of the room. He rang his little bell and the butler was back in a trice.

  “Take His Grace to the drawing room and inform Lady Rosaline that he is waiting,” the Earl said.

  The butler bowed. “Yes, My Lord,” he said before nodding at Percival to follow him.

  They arrived at the shop just as several ladies were leaving, creating a press of sociable bodies at the door. Lady Rosaline lingered to speak with the other ladies and Percival stood, spine straight, hands behind his back, waiting for her. He had to work very hard not to roll his eyes at the twittering excitement his presence was generating. A few of the younger debutantes even dared bat their eyelashes at him—after all, the engagement was not yet official—and Percival had to work very hard not to laugh.

  Soon they were able to dispense with pleasantries and enter the shop where Abigail sat behind the counter, eyes on the fabric in her lap, the needle going in and out with mesmerizing rhythm.

  Percival stood, waiting for her to raise her head, enjoying looking without the need to disguise it. Her lush red lips were pursed with concentration, causing her dimples to stand out quite distinctly in her smooth, soft cheeks. He wanted to reach out and trace the pattern of them with his finger and only Lady Rosaline’s presence stopped him from doing so.

  She had none of his reticence when she saw Abigail but marched up to the counter and snapped her fingers beneath Abigail’s eyes, calling attention to herself.

  “Girl, I should like to see my gown,” she ordered, and Percival winced at her tone. Such rudeness was uncalled for but Percival did not yet have the right to reprimand her for it. He was growing less and less sure by the day that he wanted that right at all. Many men had married beneath their station, and certainly if they wished to bolster or save their heritage by refilling coffers with bourgeoisie coins.

  Of course, Abigail had no such coins and would likely be laughed out of the ton as a grasping chit with ambitions above her station. It might be better to just offer her carte-blanche though she’d given no indication that she would like to hang on his sleeve. Percival realized that he was at sixes and sevens when it came to Abigail, and no doubt he was doing her no favors by dithering like some missish madam.

  Abigail raised her head, regarding Lady Rosaline with a blank expression before her eyes slid over to Percival and she very discreetly lifted an eyebrow as if to ask what he saw in such an ill-mannered nincompoop. Or perhaps Percival was projecting his own thoughts upon her.

  He almost smiled before he remembered himself.

  Chapter 6

  Exposure

  Rosaline had watched the silent communication taking place between the Duke and the modiste with dawning horror—realizing that the prime article His Grace had been gallivanting around the
town with was the woman sewing her engagement gown.

  The gall of the dressmaker was too much to bear and if she had not been a lady, Rosaline might have slapped her. She was unable to completely ignore her revelation and resorted to ringing a peal over Abigail at the apparent deficiency of her sewing abilities. It was barely satisfying but really all she could manage while the Duke looked on.

  “Well, I never!” she exclaimed, stomping out of the shop, fully expecting the Duke to follow her, but he tarried to tender his apologies to the dressmaker, truly heightening her annoyance. Worse, the ladies who had left as they arrived had lingered and witnessed the entire fiasco.

  Rosaline wanted to scream.

  The Duke handed her into the carriage, not saying a single word to her as they drove to Mayfair where her godmother expected her for tea.

  The weather was dreadful, the usually pleasant company stifling, and her tea was over-steeped. As Rosaline idly stirred her cup her eyes lingered on the window, watching the gloomy streets outside her godmother's Mayfair townhouse, as the more fashionable of their acquaintances indulged in the latest on-dit—this time featuring Rosaline and a certain dressmaker.

  “It's quite scandalous,” Lady Jersey said, “I have not heard of such a thing in all my years. A man, practically engaged, developing some sort of tendre for a mantua-maker. Tis bizarre enough for a Drury Lane play!”

  Vivian, Countess of Huntington, coughed, possibly to remind her that Rosaline was in the room.

  The guests in her godmother’s parlor, to a one, politely ignored Lady Jersey’s slip, but Mrs. Burrell grinned into her teacup and Lady Cowper flicked her gaze serenely heavenward for a moment. “It is a shame, about the Duke,” Countess Castlereagh said. “So much love to give and his family dead. It’s tragic.”

  “One must wonder what set him off, though,” Mrs. Burrell said. “As Lady Rosaline has said, he presented his suit to her not too long ago. Now he is chasing after light-skirts? Are we quite sure about this?”

  Clementina Burrell could wonder all she liked, Rosaline knew what she had seen. She took a sip of tea and winced at the taste, and Mrs. Burrell must have taken the expression for confirmation of her suspicions.

  Rosaline twitched her shoulders forward in a shrug. “I couldn't say,” she murmured, and the conversation took a wondering turn toward the Duke’s motives and character. Mrs. Burrell wondered, but Rosaline knew it was not an imagined connection that she saw.

  Something in her expression must have given her away because Vivian cheerily interrupted the Countess in her recollection of the awful misfortune that took the Duke of Northcott’s parents—footpads waylaid them in the street—and the unfortunate consequences of it. “Yes, yes, but that's all old gossip, and what I care for is the new. A man takes his bride-to-be to his mistress to have her engagement dress made; why, isn’t it the very height of impropriety?”

  “It could all be fudge,” Lady Jersey said.

  Vivian sighed dramatically. “In any case, there is nothing to be gained by discussing it amongst ourselves.” She turned to Rosaline, “I feel sure you are making a Cheltenham tragedy out of nothing, for that dressmaker and her daughter cannot escape their family fame. A shadow lies upon their name and soon, the Duke shall know about it.”

  “I used to be frilly, and foolish,” Lady Jersey said, with the faintest of smiles. “But I learned with time that patience truly does pay. Bide your time, my dear, this ladybird cannot compete with the likes of you.”

  Rosaline hummed her pleased agreement as the Countess said, “Indeed, a lady should not concern herself with the foibles of men.”

  “Maybe so,” Lady Jersey conceded, “but all the same, the Duke is going to need to settle down soon and a little push might be just what he needs.”

  Rosaline realized she had been fidgeting with her gloves, and folded her hands in her lap before anyone noticed her extreme agitation. Vivian threw her a sharp, curious look and said, “I'm sure Lady Rosaline will take that under advisement.”

  Lady Jersey rolled her eyes and turned to Rosaline. “I'm honestly surprised there hasn't been some sort of announcement, although I know you were waiting for the engagement ball. It is only a matter of time, m’dear. Just be your proper and prim self and the Duke shall come to his senses.”

  Rosaline considered their words, as well as her own ire, which was growing by the minute. She could not sit back and do nothing. That was not in her nature.

  Nevertheless, that woman would not cut up her peace without retribution. “I am aware,” she said and raised her cup to her lips.

  Things were escalating at a rate Abigail was really not prepared for. When she had received Percival’s note in the morning, she had resolved to don her most professional veneer and serve them as she would any other customers. They were like any other customers after all, except that the Duke had been kind enough to treat them to a night on the town. Nothing else.

  Keep telling yourself that, my girl.

  The sardonic voice in her head sounded like her grandmother whom she could recall only vaguely from her early childhood. For a moment, she felt a pang of regret that the old lady was not still around for she felt sure she would have some suitable advice to offer her grandchild.

  Not that you need advice. What you need to do is to stay away from that man.

  That voice was more familiar for it sounded like Philip Sinclair at his most anxious. He tended to issue absolutes when he was feeling protective and had been waiting up for them when they returned from the theatre and was adamant that he pay the Duke a visit and make him declare his intentions.

  It was with extreme difficulty that Abigail had persuaded him to delay that course of action. Now was not the time as the Duke was barely an acquaintance. She had kept her fingers crossed behind her back as she said it, feeling more and more that things were rapidly getting out of control.

  That feeling had increased when Lady Rosaline had stormed into her shop and proceeded to complain about every little thing to do with her dress, including the color. She had seemed to finally understand that blood red washed her skin out, and blamed Abigail for the choice even though she had specifically...

  Abigail pushed that thought away from her. It was clear to her that Lady Rosaline might have heard something about their night out and was taking it out on her poor dress. Percival tried to intervene but that only made things worse. If Lady Rosaline had entered the shop with suspicions, she left with certainties.

  Now, what would Abigail do?

  She could not afford to be the subject of gossip among members of the ton. They were the shop’s principal customers and the effect of this fame could have a detrimental effect on their business. Abigail most certainly did not want that.

  The door darkened again and she looked up, unsurprised to see the Duke.

  “We are closing soon,” she said.

  He nodded, stepping into the shop and taking his hat off. “We need to talk,” he said.

  There were not many places a gentleman of the ton could socialize with a working woman who was not his mistress. London society was not built for the classes to mix except in situations of employment. Even among coffee houses, where nobody cared for the status of its patrons—and if one was not too high in the instep could comfortably sit amongst the hoi polloi and enjoy a coffee and conversation—the patrons were limited to men.

  And so Percival had a basket packed, with a pigeon pie, boiled eggs, bread pudding, and cheese along with bottles of ale to wash it all down. He thought they might take a walk at Vauxhall Gardens and have a picnic. It was an exceedingly romantic notion, he knew, but could not think of anything less...suggestive.

  Besides, he had decided that if he was to be accused of things, he might as well do them. His aunt was giving him the silent treatment and his cousin was scandalized beyond belief at his ability to be interested in anyone else when he had the illustrious Lady Rosaline throwing her handkerchief at him.

  It was a little amusing, if a lot
disconcerting.

  “I wanted to ask if you would take a walk with me in Vauxhall Gardens,” he ventured to say, once Abigail had condescended sufficiently to rest her green gaze upon him.

  “Vauxhall Gardens?” she repeated, “Why, Claudette should think I was cheating on her with some other theatre group!”

  Percival smiled, glad that she was making jests.

  “What if I solemnly swear to lead you away from any tempting plays and steer you only to secluded coves where we might sit together and eat in peace?”

  “I would ask what your intentions were, young sir,” she continued to tease.