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

by Olivia Bennet

  “I did.”

  “In the middle of a busy street.”

  “Yes, I did that.”

  “How…why did y—” she cut herself off, looking away but not before he saw the moisture in her eyes. He stepped closer to her, curling his fingers around her elbow.

  “I…do not know why I did that. I acted on impulse. I do acknowledge that it was an ill-advised thing to do. If I could make amends, I would.”

  “You are betrothed to another!” she cried.

  Percival nodded. “Yes, I am. And I do know that this will render some damage to your reputation, but you are at least not a lady so—”

  She whipped around so fast her hair flew up, slapping him in the face. “I am not a lady, so what?” she growled, “I don’t matter?”

  “That is not what—” he began to say.

  “Then what do you mean, huh? Can you tell me that you will forsake your lady and take me to wife instead, now that you have sullied me? In public?”

  Percival’s mouth closed and opened as he tried to think of something to say.

  “I…have behaved atrociously. I do admit it. I would like to tender my apologies and offer you compensation for my mistake.”

  Abigail merely stared at him, face getting redder and redder. “Keep your compensation,” she bit out. “Take me home now.”

  “Abi—”

  “Now!”

  She marched back to the curricle and struggled into it, her long skirts being a hindrance to a graceful entrance. Percival, wisely, let her be, climbing into the driver’s seat and urging the horses to a brisk trot once Abigail was nicely settled. He went over his words, trying to find out what had her in such high dudgeon.

  Perhaps she is still miffed about the kiss.

  Percival could do nothing about that, it had happened, it was over. All they could do was clean up the mess. Percival opened his mouth to say as much to Abigail, but caught one look at her face like thunder, and closed it again.

  Percival was a man who liked to be in control. He did not like to feel helpless or unsure. Having Abigail annoyed with him and not knowing what to do about it made his insides twist with irritation. He wanted to stop the curricle, twist Abigail around, and make her speak to him. Tell him what had made her bristle so.

  Women…

  He sighed internally.

  Accordingly, he drove sedately along, resolving to let her stew in her juices until she decided to let him know what the problem was. Still, he could not help huffing as he drove, his hands a little tight on the reins, his posture stiff and unyielding.

  They arrived at the shop way too soon and she scrambled out of his carriage without so much as a by your leave. He almost climbed out of the carriage and followed her, in a fit of annoyance, but remembered just in time that they were in public and he had already made enough of a spectacle of himself over this...seamstress.

  “Heeya!” He cried to the horses instead and drove off in a cloud of dust.

  * * *

  Abigail felt as though her heart was literally breaking into pieces as she watched the Duke drive off, undoubtedly annoyed that his little offer had been spurned so thoroughly. She was annoyed too. Nay, she was livid.

  How dare he suggest such a thing?

  Compensate her? Was there enough money in the world to pay for her reputation? One that she had painstakingly built despite all the odds against her. Now with one kiss, he had doomed her for a light-skirt, a demi-rep, a convenient. She had not expected him to get on one knee and make a respectable woman of her. Still, she had not expected that raffish display he had wrought instead. It only served to make matters worse and they were bad enough as it was.

  What am I going to do?

  She hunched over, shuffling her way into the shop, hoping that her mother was busy and would not notice the change in demeanor. No such luck. Joan was at the counter and looked up as soon as Abigail stepped in the door.

  Her brow furrowed in concern. “Poppet, what's wrong?”

  Abigail sighed, knowing that her mother would not leave it alone until she knew what the problem was. “Percival kissed me.”

  “Oh—”

  “In public.” She interrupted before her mother could think of something comforting to say. Joan paled and blanched.

  “Oh.” She said in an entirely different tone.

  Abigail stared at her with wide eyes as if she might have the secret to the universe. “Oh? Is that all you have to say?”

  Joan held out her hand to Abigail, “Close the door behind you and put up the closed sign. Let us go in the back and talk.”

  Abigail sighed with relief, following her mother as she led the way to the back room. Joan dug into her basket and emerged with a bottle of port, which she poured into two glasses. She dug into the basket again and emerged with two meat pasties. She gestured for Abigail to sit, before handing her a pasty and a glass of port.

  “Now,” she said, taking a seat of her own. “Tell me everything.”

  Abigail took a deep breath and told her what had transpired, leaving nothing out. Her mother listened without comment, sometimes nodding her head or urging Abigail to drink from her glass. Abigail followed her mother's commands in an absent-minded sort of way. She was too absorbed in her story to pay attention to anything else.

  She got lost in the details, reliving her shock and humiliation when the Duke first kissed her and then chivvied her into his carriage and kidnapped her! She could not believe that she had fancied herself in love with such a brute.

  Even now, beneath her anger, she could feel the sick bitter twist of hurt squeezing at her heart.

  Somehow, she had gotten it into her head that Percival regarded her as no different from any lady in his circle. She could not now fathom how she had fooled herself into thinking that his regard for her was genuine. It was clear that the only thing he was interested in was her body, and to him, she was no more than bachelor fare.

  The tears were falling from her eyes in fat continuous drops and her breath hitched as she tried to get all the words out. Her mother did not interrupt, merely held Abigail’s hand tightly in hers and watched her with eyes soft with sympathy. Eventually Abigail shuddered to a stop, sniffing as she waited for her mother to say something.

  “I wish I could make this better somehow for you,” Joan said after a brief silence.

  Abigail shook her head, “There's nothing you can do. There's nothing anyone can do. I just have to live with the shame.”

  Joan shook her head, curls flying with the force of her passion, “Oh, no, Poppet. There’s nothing wrong with an innocent kiss. You did nothing wrong. You hold your head up high and don't you dare feel ashamed.”

  Abigail gave her mother a wry smile, “Easier said than done, Mother.”

  “I have faith in you, my dear,” Joan squeezed Abigail’s hand reassuringly.

  * * *

  “What happened today?” Philip asked as soon as Abigail went to bed. “Your daughter seems perturbed.”

  Joan sighed, shaking her head, “The Duke.”

  Philip’s eyes narrowed, “What did he do now?”

  “He kissed her.”

  Philip goggled at her, “I beg your pardon?”

  “He kissed her out in the street in public.”

  Philip just stared in disbelief. “I will kill him,” he announced, standing up and reaching for his cane.

  “Philip, no, sit down. It does no good to make matters worse than they already are. She is miserable enough as it is. What do you think it would do to her to see you hanged?”

  “I cannot let this insult pass,” Philip puffed up his chest in annoyance.

  “Well, you will have to because he is a Duke and you are nothing but a commoner.”

  “Nothing? I will show you nothing.” He turned around, striding determinedly out of the room. Joan shot to her feet and followed him.

  “Philip! Stop. Wait.”

  Her lover ignored her, collecting his hat and coat at the door in preparati
on to go out and confront the Duke. Joan ran after him, catching up to him as he fiddled with the lock, and wrapped her hands around his arm.

  “Philip, stop this.”

  He went perfectly still, his breath coming as hard as a horse that had just run a race. “Are you not concerned for your daughter? Do you not feel the sting of this insult?”

  “Of course I feel it, Philip. Of course I do. Do you not think I would like to go over there and give him a piece of my mind? She is my daughter. She has had to live under a cloud for most of her life. Do you not think I know what she's feeling right now? I want to stomp my foot and cry and scream and rage just as much as you do. But we cannot do that. We have to be calm. For her sake.”

  Philip shook his head, his face pale with his upset. “It is exactly my point. You know how it feels to live under a cloud of suspicion and rejection. How can you—?” he stopped, abruptly pursed his lips and looked away.

  “How can I?” she glared at him. “How can you attempt to make things worse knowing what you know? How does it erase the stain from her name if you kill the Duke? Tell me!”

  Philip merely sighed, turning away from her. “Forgive me. I was not thinking. Shall we go to bed now? It has been a long day.”

  Joan nodded, leading the way to her room.

  * * *

  Abigail was not asleep. She was not even in her room. She had ventured out to empty her chamber pot but then paused at the top of the stairs when she heard the raised voices coming from below. She placed the chamber pot on the floor, then she crept forward to listen, totally mystified at her mother's words.

  You know how it feels to live under a cloud of suspicion and rejection? What do you mean by that, Mother?

  She watched and listened until she heard her mother exhort Philip to come to bed with her. Then she crept away, using the back stairs to reach the kitchen, and empty her chamber pot outside. She went back to bed, her head spinning with everything she had heard.

  She sat up in the bed, mulling over every word, trying to think back to her childhood and remember anything that might have been said about herself or her mother. Nothing stood out, and she knew that if she was to learn anything, she would have to find somebody who had known them before they came to London. Perhaps one of her childhood friends had a clue what her mother could mean. If there had been talk about them, surely they must have heard it.

  She tried to get back to sleep but it was hard. Thinking about the upset in her mother's voice—and Philip, ready to risk his life to defend her… It put a huge lump in her throat and she could barely breathe for holding back tears.

  She knew now what she needed to do.

  Chapter 11

  Sabotage

  Abigail got to the shop early the next day in a bid to avoid her mother. She was still quite discomposed at what she had heard the night before and was not ready to face her parent quite yet. She got the door open, closed it behind her, and proceeded to clean the shop. She scrubbed the floor, washed the windows, wiped down the counters and dusted the fabrics. Then she started in on the back, tidying up the bales of cloth, refolding the bolts of muslin and calico that lay on the shelf. She lit a fire in the grate to warm up the room and put some milk to heat up for their morning chocolate.

  All the activities soothed her troubled spirit and she was able to think more clearly.

  I was building castles in the air. It is time to wake up.

  She sighed, nodding to herself, her decision from last night crystallizing in the cold reality of dawn. There was only one thing she could do and that was agree to the Duke’s proposition. At least then, all the damned hum that would be spoken about her would have a basis in fact. She would listen to Claudette's advice and put herself first.

  What do I want out of life, though?

  She paused in her cleaning, hands on her hips and pondered the question. She had always thought that she would continue in the dressmaking business like her mother. When Joan's fingers became too stiff or aged to work a needle, she would take over and perhaps in time leave the business to her own daughter.

  Dressmaking is our family legacy after all, isn’t it?

  Now with the Duke's largesse, they could expand their business, perhaps make it an empire. It was time for Abigail to grow up. There was no prince riding to her rescue and she was no damsel locked in a tower. She was a modiste, one with a stellar reputation and well-known talent.

  If the Duke would have her body, and the world already thought the worst of her, she would gather those lemons together and make the sweetest of lemonades.

  The bell above the front door tinkled, and she peered out into the main room to see her mother stepping into the shop. Her eyes were bloodshot as if she had been crying. Abigail swallowed hard, trying to conceal her own emotion.

  “Mama. How nice of you to join me,” she gently teased as she put the mop aside and plucked a cup off the hook to pour her mother a cup of chocolate. Joan shivered, shaking the wet off her hair as she unbuttoned her cloak.

  “Thank you, dear,” she said taking the cup and wrapping her hands around it, “It's so cold outside.”

  Abigail smiled at her mother, her shoulders finally relaxing, “Yes, well, drink up and join me in my cleaning. You will warm up in no time.”

  Joan made a sound of protest but gulped down her hot chocolate before pouring some hot water in a bowl and proceeded to wipe down every surface. They worked in silence for a while before her mother took a breath, straightening up from her cleaning to fix Abigail with her regard.

  “Are you all right, my dear?” her voice was soft and concerned.

  Abigail stopped cleaning, too. “Yes, I'm fine. I have reached a decision on what to do about the Duke, as well.”

  “Have you?” Joan took a step closer. “And what did you decide?”

  “I have decided to take him up on his carte-blanche. It may be advantageous to us.”

  Joan shook her head, “No, darling. Do not do that for us. Only do it if you want to.”

  “I admit I'm attracted to the man. He is compelling and interesting, handsome and intelligent. If he were not such a brute, he would be perfect. As Claudette said, his offer has advantages to me, and it will stop the tongues wagging. What nobleman does not have a mistress?”

  Joan's face drooped with sadness, “Oh, my dear, that this burden had never fallen on your shoulders. I wished better for you than this.”

  Abigail shrugged. “Many a woman would give their right arm to be in my place.”

  Joan merely shook her head and sighed.

  * * *

  Percival received a note from Lady Rosaline with his breakfast.

  My dear Duke,

  I have a fitting today at the modiste’s and would be gratified if you would accompany me on this visit as you did the first.

  With all my love,

  Rosaline Hoskins.

  He stared at the note, surprised that Lady Rosaline would want him to accompany her again. He would have thought that she would have heard the latest on-dit by now. He was quite sure that he and Abigail were the subject of discussion at many a morning repast. There seemed to be very little likelihood that Lady Rosaline had not heard of their little indiscretion.

  What game are you playing at, little girl?

  He turned the paper over and wrote his reply, giving it to Forbes to send over to the Hoskins’ residence.

  Two can play at that game.

  * * *

  The shop was very busy, ladies milling around, talking behind their fans. Abigail suspected they were not so much interested in fabric as they were in the modiste. She could not really blame them, for she imagined the life of a Lady was quite empty with little to do but talk about other people.

  Abigail knew that the bon ton were probably all-a-mort at the exciting adventures of one of their own with a lowly dressmaker. It was therefore no surprise to see them crowd into her shop to get a look at her.

  She put a smile on her face and attended to the ladies with e
very appearance of solicitousness. Her mother tried to head off some of the bolder ones, who did nothing to lower their voices as they dropped casual insults in her direction.

  There was a sudden silence in the room and Abigail's heart dropped. She turned around slowly, knowing full well what she would see. Her gaze stopped, unsurprised, upon Lady Rosaline's face but then widened as she saw who was standing next to her. No wonder the silence in the shop was so thick it was possible to hear a pin drop.