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

by Olivia Bennet

  Percival knew who Mr. Philip Sinclair was as his steward, Sherwood, had done a thorough job of researching Abigail’s background. He hesitated but in the end, there was only one thing to be done.

  “Show him in,” he said.

  He straightened his spine, rounded his desk to sit in his chair, crossing his legs and folding his hands so his signet ring was on display. He did not know why he felt the need for a display of power, but something told him that Mr. Sinclair was a dangerous man if crossed, and he needed for him to know that Percival was dangerous, too, albeit in different ways.

  The man in question strode into his office, taking the seat opposite him without waiting to be asked. He inclined his head in greeting.

  “Duke,” he said, with just the barest hint of insolence hidden behind the use of his title.

  Percival remained calm. “Mr. Sinclair. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this day?”

  The man leaned forward, his blue eyes flashing with something that looked like annoyance. “I came to inquire of you what your intentions are with Miss Abigail Thorne.”

  Percival let one eyebrow rise insolently, “And what business of yours is that?”

  “I am her guardian,” Mr. Sinclair growled.

  Percival straightened in his chair, wondering how much he should say, “I see…your…ward is, however, a grown woman, able to make her own decisions and I have asked her to make one.”

  “Regarding…?”

  Percival sighed, knowing that Mr. Sinclair would not simply let it go at that. “Regarding a certain matter of carte-blanche.”

  Mr. Sinclair was already shaking his head, “No. Not my Abigail. She’s not doing that.”

  Percival leaned in, eager to explain. “Mr. Sinclair, I do assure you that it would be perfectly respectable and many women of her station have—”

  “No!” Philip was on his feet, looming threateningly over Percival’s desk, “My Abigail doesn’t do that. If you want to be with her, you will damn well offer her marriage. Nothing less. You hear me, sir?”

  Percival simply stared, quite nonplussed at this display. Surely such aggression was…unnecessary.

  “Mr. Sinclair, with all due respect to your ward, she is no lady to be offered marriage or nothing.”

  The man straightened to his full height, fists clenched, “No, you’re right. She’s much better than any lady in existence. You will not play about with her heart, you understand me, Duke? Do not think you would be safe from me here in your castle, if you did. I know people who are a lot more dangerous than you.”

  Percival frowned in shock. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Oh no, Your Grace. When I do threaten you, you will know. Now do the right thing by my ward, or leave her be. She is too good to play a wanton for the likes of you.”

  Percival was taken aback by his vehemence. He would have thought that a nobody like Mr. Sinclair would feel privileged to be associated with him. But if the Duke was reading him correctly, Mr. Sinclair was ready to kill him to prevent his ward from becoming Percival’s mistress. It was a strange notion, to be sure. But he had already noted that his preconceived notions about the lower ranks were balderdash.

  Or perhaps Mr. Sinclair was after the title. His ward, coming from nothing to a duchess, would truly be something to boast about. It would open doors presumably closed to him at the moment. But was using threats of violence the best way to go about achieving that? Percival narrowed his eyes, getting to his feet. This situation had just gotten a lot more complicated.

  “Mr. Sinclair, thank you for stopping by. I shall take your words under advisement.”

  Mr. Sinclair nodded curtly, turning to leave but then stopped abruptly, and looked Percival in the eye. “My ward is innocent. She need know nothing about this meeting.”

  Percival nodded curtly, eyes narrowing as his anger grew at Mr. Sinclair’s presumption that he would tell on him to Abigail. The other man strode out of the office as if he owned the manor and Percival snorted his disgust. He sat back down, chin in his hand as he pondered upon the conversation.

  “What game are you playing?” he murmured thoughtfully to himself.

  Abigail was at the shipyards to collect bolts of fabric sent to them through a contact in the East India Company. She had asked Claudette to accompany her, for she needed to confide in someone and her particular friend was best placed to answer her questions.

  They hid nothing from each other so Abigail knew all about Claudette’s entanglement with the Earl of Wallingside.

  “Do you love him?” she asked, unable to contain her curiosity any longer.

  “Well, I like him well enough,” Claudette replied. “Falling in love with a lord really isn’t wise. Sooner or later, the liaison will be over and he will leave me a tidy sum of money that I can use to better my life.”

  “So it is merely a transaction to you? You give him your company and he compensates you?”

  Claudette’s face clouded at that description but she simply shrugged in agreement. “Why do you want to know all these things? Have you caught the eye of a lord?” she teased.

  “A Duke, actually,” Abigail said, looking Claudette in the eye. Her friend laughed, clearly thinking that Abigail was joking but when she did not join in, Claudette stopped, mouth open.

  “Wot? A Duke? What…what did he say? What did you say?” her voice was high with disbelief.

  “I said I would think about it. He said I make him happy.”

  Claudette snorted. Abigail gave her a quizzical glance. “They all say that,” Claudette explained, “and once you satisfy them, they are very happy.” She nudged Abigail, laughing at her scandalized expression.

  “I…don’t. I don’t want to be some man’s plaything,” Abigail was hesitant, not wanting to offend her friend but she really needed to express her fears.

  “Ah, you can’t look at it like that, Abby! You are not his plaything. He is your benefactor. He will make it possible for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life. What is wrong with that?”

  Abigail stared unseeingly at the shipyard traffic, lost in thought. “Nothing, I suppose.” She said at last, “But…”

  “But what?”

  “I think that I could love him.” Her voice was very quiet as she said it.

  “Oh, Abigail,” Claudette reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “In that case, you must refuse his offer. It will only bring you heartbreak and misery.”

  Abigail slumped down onto a nearby bench, shoulders hunched. “He is already engaged to the most frightful creature. I think she knows about us.”

  Claudette hastened to take a seat by her side, rubbing at her shoulder comfortingly, “Does she, indeed? That’s doubly a reason why you should leave him alone. If the wives know who you are, they can rain misery down upon you.”

  “I heard all the nobility have dalliances with people other than their spouses. Even the women. Once the babies have come, they are free to venture wherever they want.”

  “I heard that, too. It does not mean you will not encounter a jealous wife or husband occasionally. I expect sometimes even the blue-bloods develop attachments to each other.”

  “You speak true.” Abigail sighed, “So what do I do now? Should I tell him no?”

  Claudette squeezed her hand, “I cannot tell you what to do but I urge you to look out for yourself first.”

  Abigail nodded, “I understand.”

  The problem is, I don’t think I know what is best for me.

  Percival tensed as the sound of his aunt’s sharp haranguing voice permeated the peace of his office. He sighed, getting to his feet to go and see what had upset her now. She had been away for a week and a half in the country and as soon as she left, Henry was off to Bath, “to take the waters” as he said. He had tried to inquire whether Henry was not feeling well but all he got from his cousin was that he was feeling “just a touch of the megrims.”

  But now his aunt was back, which meant Henry would not be far behi
nd. He stepped into the hall, listening as she berated Forbes for the crime of leaving her bags on the stoop for longer than she deemed necessary.

  “Aunt Martha,” he interrupted her mid-harangue, “How lovely to see you. When did you arrive?”

  She turned with surprise to face him and he realized she had not known that he was at home.

  “I...just got in. Forbes here is a little slow. Perhaps he is too old for this job and needs to be replaced!”

  Percival ignored her words, taking her arm and leading her away from the hallway and into the drawing room. “You must be tired. Shall I have Cook prepare you some tea with a bit of sherry in it? Perhaps with some honey cake to tide you over until dinner?”

  His aunt subsided at this evidence of his care. “Yes, I think some tea would be just the thing. The journey was very fatiguing.”

  “I imagine so.” Percival tried his best to radiate sympathy though he was seething at his aunt’s poor treatment of the servants. She might always have been this way but in the wake of his talks with both Abigail and Mr. Sinclair, he was more awake to the notion that the pedestrian class was worthy of respect as well. Forbes had been with his family since before his parents had died. His aunt had no right to speak of him that way.

  He deposited her on a chair, ready to escape to his club now that she was back, but she held on to his arm.

  “Percival?” she said, which stopped him in his tracks. She liked to call him, “Your Grace” just to remind everyone, including him, that he was a Duke—as if he could ever forget. As if he would ever be allowed to forget. His mind immediately jumped to the night he’d taken Abigail and her mother to the theatre. The sheer freedom of being simply, “Percival.”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I should be grateful if we could speak.” Her voice was soft and gentle and filled with concern. It put Percival immediately on guard. His aunt did not speak like that unless she wanted something that might be difficult to extract from him. The last time she spoke to him like that, she had wanted him to bequeath Henry one of his properties, “so that he didn’t feel left out.”

  It had been laughable at the time, and his mind still boggled at the fact that he had managed to maintain a serious mien as he informed his aunt that would not be possible, and reminded her that as the only son of the late Viscount Stanley, he had his own properties, run down as they may be.

  That had elicited hysterics that had gone on for days but Percival had stood firm.

  “What is it you would like to speak about?”

  Lady Stanley sighed, her whole body projecting the sadness she apparently felt.

  “Percival, it has been brought to my notice that you have been seen about town cavorting with a dressmaker’s daughter. I cannot imagine why you would do such a thing. Would you care to tell me?”

  Percival was surprised at how fast word had spread. He had thought he would have at least a few hours after his aunt came to town before she would be at him with a bee in her bonnet. Then he remembered that Lady Rosaline and his aunt were well acquainted with each other. It would not have surprised him if the chit wrote, entreating Lady Stanley to intercede on her behalf.

  Of course she did that. What did I expect?

  Percival sighed inwardly and took the seat opposite his aunt. He arranged his face to project earnestness. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  His aunt leaned forward, looking him in the eye. “Tell me the truth, Percival. For your own good.”

  Percival could not help the sardonic smile that crossed his face. “Aunt, I ceased to be under your guardianship years ago, which means I do not appreciate being spoken to like a wayward child who needs to be punished. If I say I do not know what you are talking about, that is exactly what I mean.”

  Lady Stanley’s eyes were wide with surprise at his answer. Perhaps because her own son permitted her to speak to him as if he were a child, she had forgotten that Percival outgrew that voice years ago. She leaned back, blinking rapidly, clearly attempting to find a new tack. Finally, her shoulders slumped and she glared at him with narrowed eyes.

  “People are talking, Your Grace. You cannot afford this kind of scandal. Whatever...arrangement you have developed with this girl, it has to stop.”

  Percival laughed bitterly, looking at his aunt with challenge in his eyes. “Or what?”

  She shook her head. “Do you wish us to be ostracized from society?”

  Percival held up his hand in a quelling gesture, “Cease your hysterics, Aunt. Nobody is going to be ostracized for speaking with a seamstress,” he said with a snort.

  “No, but if you break your word to Lady Rosaline because of her...”

  “My word? When did I give this word?”

  “You asked for her hand. She could sue you for breach of promise!”

  “Calm down. I have not said I will not marry Lady Rosaline. This is mere fudge and conjecture on your part and hers.”

  Lady Stanley relaxed back in her seat with relief, “Oh. Well, that’s all right then.”

  Percival scowled, “I am glad to put your mind at ease.” He stood up, towering over her, face like thunder. “Now if you will excuse me...”

  He walked out of the room without another word, seething at his aunt’s interference. Forbes was standing at attention at the end of the hall.

  “Get me Sherwood, would you?” Percival called to him, “Tell him to find me at White’s.”

  He surged out of his manor, climbed into the waiting carriage and drove off towards his club. What he needed was some time with his close friends, Wallingside and Weston, who would care nothing of his marital state or who he took to wife.

  Perhaps he would take in a game of cards and allow the fates to decide what he would do next. Should he win, he would ask for Abigail’s hand. If he lost, he and Lady Rosaline would be making an engagement announcement.

  Chapter 9

  Mixed Signals

  “I don’t see what the problem is, old man,” Green slurred at him, “You’re a bloody Duke. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

  Percival snorted, “Easy for you to say, second son. Heavy is the head that wears the crown.”

  Weston leaned forward earnestly, “Exactly, old chap. You wear the crown. Doesn't that mean you at least get to choose who shares your bed? Stop listening to what all these other people want. What do you want?”

  Percival blearily narrowed his eyes, trying to think what the answer to that question was.

  I want Abigail. But do I want her in my bed or at my side for the rest of my life?

  That was the question he had to answer before he left the club tonight. He was winning steadily as both Green and Weston were quite in their cups by the time he arrived and did not provide much challenge.

  Is it a sign?

  He shook his head, trying to clear it of the fog of alcohol that was impairing his thoughts. He was a man of five-and-twenty. It was time to produce an heir and a spare.

  A family.

  He sighed, realizing that he wanted that more than anything. He closed his eyes, bringing to his mind’s eye a picture. His future family. A wife, children. Little green-eyed devils with dimples in their cheeks like their mother. The tightness in his chest fled. He felt at peace. This was the vision of the future he wanted.

  He mulled over Green’s and Weston’s words. Could he do whatever he wanted to because he was a Duke, or did he have an obligation to uphold certain traditions? He wished he knew what his father would have wanted. He had inherited the title from the man, surely he must have envisioned his own version of a future that did not involve getting killed by brigands on a London bridge.

  It is not like I will ever know now.

  He took another gulp of his port and tried to pay attention to the intricate tale Green was telling of his adventures in Paris the previous summer. Normally that sort of thing amused him to no end but today he could not seem to pull himself out of his megrims.

  Abigail got back to the shop three hours
after leaving for the docks, having taken the scenic route back. Her lip was almost bloody with how much she had been biting it. She was no closer to a decision and was contemplating talking it over with her mother.

  She knew what Joan would say.

  Follow your heart.

  Abigail sighed. Her heart wanted to be with the Duke, but not as his mistress. So, what was she to do? Demand that he break his engagement and marry her? She could not in good conscience do that. There was no reason to think he would even consider it. Why should he? She was a mere lowly dressmaker. She had no right to the attentions of a duke. She should feel so lucky that he wanted her for a mistress.