“I mean that you are not closed in by family obligations and you can do whatever you please. So what is it you wish to do?”
Her glance became coquettish, “Is this where you offer me the world in return for…?”
Percival smiled, amused in spite of himself, “I am no genie with a lamp full of wishes.”
“No, but you are a Duke with unlimited resources.”
“I suppose it must look like that from where you stand.”
She regarded him with a raised eyebrow, seemingly unable to make heads or tails of his intentions. That made two of them. Percival had no idea what he was about, either. He stood abruptly, well aware that he had taken up a good bit of her time.
“I should take my leave. Will you allow me to compensate you for the meal and this lovely chat?” he asked, already reaching for his coin purse.
She flew to her feet waving her hands in a negating gesture. “Oh no, Your Grace, you are my guest. You do not pay for that privilege.”
Percival stopped, feeling embarrassed at his presumption, “Please accept my apologies for being crass.”
She nodded a small smile that did not reach her eyes. “It is quite all right, Your Grace.”
“Is it?” Percival asked. “Because you are back to calling me, ‘Your Grace’ rather than Percival.”
Her smile got wider, dimples winking in and out, her eyes shining with amusement, “Forgive me, Percival,” she said with a pretty bow.
“You are indeed forgiven if you will allow me to escort your mother and yourself to the theatre soon.”
She hesitated, seeming to want to say something but afraid. Percival waited her out, patient and quiet, giving her all the time she needed.
“I...what about your fiancée? Will she not have something to say about that?”
Percival lifted his eyebrow, letting his amusement show on his face, “Why? We have committed no impropriety.”
She honest-to-goodness rolled her eyes at him and Percival was transported, “Percival, gentlemen do not go about escorting ladies to the theatre all willy-nilly,” she explained to him like he was a babe. For the first time in a long time, he found that he was holding in laughter.
“My dear Abigail, I am well aware of what gentlemen do or don’t do, seeing as I am one of them. There is absolutely nothing wrong with escorting two dear friends to see the theatre. We are not savages, after all.”
Abigail sighed in defeat, “Very well then. You may escort us to the theatre. My friend, Claudette, is performing in a play on Drury Lane and I would very much like to see it.”
Percival felt a jolt of surprise to hear that she had a close companion on the stage but strove to conceal it lest it offend her. He was beginning to realize he had very preconceived notions about how the working class comported themselves. If he intended to continue to spend time with Abigail, he realized he needed to dispense with them.
He bowed to her and then put his hat back on, “Then I shall make preparations,” he promised.
Abigail nodded and smiled, walking him to the door of her shop. He turned to her, trying to find the right words to express to her his gratitude for her hospitality and the chance for a respite from the trappings of being “the Duke” and just answering to “Percival” for a while.
“I...thank you for the lovely meal,” he said at last.
“You’re welcome, Percival.”
He left the shop, already feeling bereft.
* * *
Abigail watched the Duke leave with a conflicted heart. She was grateful that their liaison had gone well, but also very apprehensive as to where it could all lead. There was only one path for the aristocracy and it did not involve marrying an impoverished modiste without a name.
Already she felt closer to Percival than she had any business feeling. She knew that she was risking getting her heart broken but could not seem to stop the surge of happiness that assailed her as she thought about visiting the theatre with him.
Her mother would not be pleased.
Abigail was braced for her mother’s concerns, for she knew what most of them were already and had gone over them in her own mind many times. She had no answers to offer either herself or Joan so she decided to go back into the shop and finish Lady Rosaline’s gown.
* * *
Philip took them, on Sunday afternoon, to inspect the housing development to which he wanted to move them.
“I don’t see much difference between this neighborhood and ours,” Abigail mused.
Philip fixed her with a look, “Really? Because I see much fewer vagabonds hanging about.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“No buts, Abigail.” Philip’s voice was stern.
Abigail turned to face her parents. “For the majority of my life, you have hidden things from me, stopped me from asking questions. You would not tell me why we had to live in the slum despite your obvious ability to afford better and now, out of the blue, we are to move here. What is this game you are playing?”
Philip regarded her sadly, shaking his head, “No game, Abigail, merely a wish to protect you.”
“I do not need protection anymore, Mr. Sinclair. Not from you,” she turned to face her mother, “And not from you.”
Joan sighed, face falling, “Oh Abigail…” she said, her voice trailing off with despair.
Abigail stared at them both, waiting hopefully for one of them to say something. They both continued to regard her with regret and something like pain in their eyes and Abigail turned her head away, shaking it and hiding her bitterness. Her parent would never tell her what cloud hung over her life—their lives.
“I like the place,” she said without turning around, “Let us move here.”
* * *
“And that finishes the drawing room!” Joan said brightly. She put the fabric samples aside to beam at her family with obvious delight. “All that remains to discuss are the bedchambers, your dressing room, Abby, and your upstairs sitting room.”
Abby looked from her mother to Philip and bit her lip to hide a smirk. Mr. Sinclair’s eyes were glazed over and his normally impeccable couture showed signs of wear and tear; a byproduct of a seemingly endless afternoon sequestered in the shop, deliberating with Abby and her mother on decorating decisions for the home he and Joan had bought.
Serves him right.
Abby was feeling a little vindictive following her mother and Philip’s refusal to confide in her. In fact, she was more than a little upset by the manner in which they continued to treat her like a child. Especially since her mother thought nothing of leaving her alone with a gentleman while she house-shopped but could not even tell her why they had waited this long to make a move.
“Dash it, Abby, surely you and your mother can devise a scheme for the bedchamber without my help. Do my own room the way I want at another time. Can’t be expected to decorate a ladies’ bedchamber, stands to reason!” grumbled Philip.
Philip was to have his own rooms in their house for propriety’s sake although nobody was laboring under the illusion that he would actually sleep there. Oh no, guardian he might be to Abby but he was much more than that to Joan.
“Well, I’m sure Mother and I can manage just fine,” Abby said a little doubtfully. “And I have no doubt it would look all the crack when we were done with it! But your opinions are so particular that I fear that I would hear complaints about this and that, forever on.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” Philip said stoutly. “I am the very epitome of a devil-may-care. The question is, are we done with the dressing rooms?”
Abigail shrugged, “No use asking me. Don’t even know what kind of furniture Mother and I will need in the dressing room. Never seen a lady's dressing room, after all.”
Taking pity on her beau, Joan said, “You and I can do a good job on our own, Abby.” Tongue in cheek she continued, “I’m quite sure Philip won’t have much cause to notice what my bedchamber looks like, anyway, so my tastes are unlikely to bother him. Isn’t that
right, Philip?”
Philip looked shocked, and said, “But, my dear Joan—”
“Exactly so!” Abigail said, trying to forestall a descent into bawdy territory. Her mother and Philip could be quite shameless on occasion.
To Abigail’s astonishment, she saw that Philip was bright red and flustered. He fairly leaped out of his chair. “Well, that is to say…not a conversation for company! Must go anyway; meeting a colleague at Whitechapel. Can’t take you, my dear but I shall be by later.” He bowed to Joan before turning to Abigail, “I will see you then, too, Abby.” He started walking backward out of the drawing room, stopped, strode back, kissed his beloved’s fingertips with his typical elegance, and left.
Abby watched him go with a bemused smile, thinking if she found anything close to the love that her mother and Philip shared, she would be content. Joan gave her a look.
“Well, he was in a hurry…” she exclaimed.
Abigail snorted with laughter. “I declare I’ve never seen Philip move that quickly before. However, Mother, I do not blame him one bit. What a thing to say!”
“But what did I say?” Joan asked, acting befuddled. “Was it about the bedchambers?”
“To be sure it was, you goose!” Abby said with a laugh. “You do love to embarrass that man, Mother, don’t think you have me fooled. One day he shall walk out that door and not return, you mark my words. You must stop being such a tease before it is the outside of enough.”
“Is…is that why he looked so shocked?” Joan said faintly, stammering with embarrassment. “But our…our…relations were the last thing on my mind, I assure you!”
Abby giggled. “That was only too obvious. Though I am sure it’s no credit to him if that is the case!”
“Hold on, we go too far. This conversation is far too bawdy for mother and daughter. Hand me the fabric for the settee in your chambers. I want to have another look at it.” Joan held out her hand so that Abigail could place the fabric in it. “Besides, you and your Duke are a much more interesting pair than we old scapegraces!”
Abigail narrowed her eyes at her mother. “What a talent you have for changing the topic.”
“I pride myself upon it,” her mother replied with a grin, “Come then, tell me everything.”
“There is nothing to tell…” Abigail said.
“Yet?” her mother prompted.
Abigail sighed, “Nuncheon was lovely. He asked me to the theatre. I might go. Claudette is performing. I do not know how this is supposed to work when he has a fiancée.”
Joan shook her head, “I don’t know, either. What I do know, is you were unable to take your eyes off each other the entire time he was in the shop.”
“Ah, young lust,” Abigail mused with a theatrical sigh, and her mother burst into laughter.
“You are amusing,” she said, pointing at Abigail accusingly.
“Tis the nature of the beast,” Abigail replied.
Chapter 5
Sixes and Sevens
Abigail had not slept a wink since she and her mother had been returned to Devonshire Terrace in Northcotts' carriage. Taking in a play at Drury Lane, in the company of a Duke, was more nerve-wracking than she realized.
Whatever her mother’s inklings or ideas were, she gave no sign of having given the matter any particular thought at all as she joined them on their sojourn to the theatre.
The company was performing A Midsummer Night’s Dream with Claudette in the part of Helena, the lovesick young woman desperately in love with Demetrius, the one left out at the beginning of the play in the love triangle between Lysander, Hermia, and Demetrius. Abigail thought that Claudette played the part brilliantly and hastened to say so as they visited with her after the play.
The Duke had taken Abigail, her mother, and Claudette to the coffee house opposite the Theatre Royal after the play. It was decidedly awkward to begin with, no one really knowing what to say in front of a Duke. But with the consumption of a bit of brandy-laced coffee, their tongues were quite severely loosened and soon they were laughing and joking like old friends.
There was a bit of excitement as the owner of the Theatre Royal himself wandered by to greet the Duke. He very graciously introduced the man to his companions. He complimented the women on their good looks before exchanging a few words with Percival. Abigail had been afraid that the Duke might want to distance himself after that but he seemed unbothered.
Perks of being a Duke.
“Only mind you call her Miss Thorne in company, Percival,” her mother admonished him when the man had left. “It is all very well that you share a meal in private, but she is a young lady and has her reputation to think of.”
* * *
It hadn't occurred to Percival that Miss Abigail Thorne might have a Reputation, or what he might have to do with maintaining it. In due course, he handed the ladies into the carriage, and out of it.
Miss Thorne had given him thanks, with another smile. It was enough to prompt him to hold out his arm so as to lead her into the theatre, wagging tongues be damned. He had her mother on his other arm and that should be enough for any busybodies. There was none to say he was not simply escorting dear friends to a performance they might well not afford without his patronage. A man was allowed to be generous. Still, he knew if his aunt heard of this, there would be hell to pay.
Oddly enough, that did not bother him in the least.
If he had not known better, he would say that Abigail had surely bewitched him.
He turned his attention to the show once they were seated, Abigail’s mother between them, like any good chaperone.
“She is quite a popular girl, you know,” her mother whispered to him as a lovesick Helena mused on the nature of love. “She’s never shown any interest in the gentlemen dangling after her…” her mother turned her head to look at Percival, eyes narrowed. “Until you.”
Mrs. Thorne was not to know that whatever her daughter was feeling, Percival was under its thrall as well. He could well understand her fears for all it took was one misstep and Abigail would be painted with a scarlet letter. Percival would get off scot-free as Abigail was not a lady and therefore beneath the notice of any keepers of propriety.
A drowsy watchman was on hand to receive Abigail and her mother at Devonshire Terrace when they returned from the theatre in the early morning hours, depriving Percival of one final chance to take hold of her gloved hand and help her to alight from the carriage.
Nonetheless, she smiled at him when goodnights were exchanged, and he saw that she lingered on the steps to watch the carriage depart before her mother pulled her into the house.
* * *
She felt that it was pointless to continue attempting to sleep when she knew it would not happen. Throwing off her covers, Abigail silently dressed and crept downstairs, going out at the kitchen door, deciding that a walk and fresh air would do her more good than lying in the shut-up stillness of her room.
She stood outside the door for a bit, listening to the sounds of the night and breathing deeply before padding back into the kitchen, and fixing herself a luxuriant cup of chocolate laced with sherry. She sat down, reliving her evening and wondering just what they were all about. There was no way this could end well. She knew it, so did her mother. The Duke knew it best of all.
So why are we even bothering?
* * *
“A little birdie told me an interesting tidbit today,” Lady Rosaline’s maid Alice said, as soon as she stepped in the room and opened the drapes. Rosaline squinted in the sunlight, about to reprimand Alice sharply before her words registered in Rosaline’s conscious mind. There was little she loved more than gossip and Alice fed her addiction well.
“What then? Out with it, before I have you whipped,” Rosaline said. Alice took no notice of her threat, recognizing it for the balderdash it was.
“Your intended, My Lady, was seen out and about at the theatre, with some wench on his arm,” Alice confided with glee.
“I beg your
pardon?” Rosaline assumed that Alice was no doubt being preposterous or else spinning a Banbury tale for someone’s amusement—certainly not Rosaline’s.
“Yes, yes, I have it on very good authority that he was frolicking about on Drury Lane with two trollops!”
“His Grace? That's impossible. He would never.”
“Oh, but he did...” Alice gave her a knowing glance, “he most certainly did.?”
Rosaline's heart was going a mile a minute. This news was most definitely beyond her understanding. She could not imagine what might have gotten into the Duke.
Secret Confessions 0f The Enticing Duchess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 4