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

by Olivia Bennet

  Her mind went back to the kiss he’d given her before. His tongue in her mouth. His teeth biting gently down on her bottom lip. She did not have the words to ask him to kiss her again. She simply moved her head, and parted her lips and hoped that he accept her mute invitation.

  He did not disappoint, capturing her mouth with his, plundering its depths, his tongue moving in and out in a way that reminded her of the dogs she’d seen mating in the street, except they weren’t using their tongues.

  She wanted to lean back, beg, plead but she did not have words for her desires. She squirmed instead, pulling him closer and he groaned as though in pain. His hands were like bands around her waist and his mouth was hard and demanding against hers. She relaxed, surrendering herself to him and allowing him to do whatever he would to her.

  “Percival,” she whispered as his tongue moved from her mouth to her cheeks.

  “Yes. Yes.” He whispered back, “Give yourself to me, Abigail. Please.”

  Chapter 16

  Domesticity

  Abigail stiffened, pushing him away and searching his eyes.

  “Percival…” she said, and he tried to lean in and kiss her again, but she stopped him.

  “Percival, stop.”

  “Why?”

  He did not want to stop. He wanted to keep kissing her. It felt good. It felt like everything he had ever wanted. She stood up, moving away from him.

  “We cannot do this now. Both of us are reeling from the things we have heard. We should get some rest.”

  Percival opened his mouth to protest, even though he knew she was right. He closed it again without saying anything and sighed instead.

  “I do not want to leave you alone.”

  She looked over at the sofa. “I suppose that you could be comfortable on that?” she pointed at it.

  He surveyed it with a jaundiced eye, “I suppose I could…or we could just share the bed.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, “Perciv—”

  “I simply mean to sleep. Nothing else.”

  Abigail regarded him with suspicion, “You mean it?”

  Percival glared, “I am a man of honor, Abigail. I keep my word.”

  Abigail nodded reluctantly, “All right, then.”

  * * *

  Henry and Lady Stanley were in the drawing room when Forbes announced that Lady Rosaline had come to call. Henry straightened up with excitement, but his mother sent him a quelling look, and he subsided.

  “Send her in. And bring us some tea and crumpets.”

  Forbes bowed and left, returning soon after, escorting Lady Rosaline. Henry stood up, a smile of welcome on his face.

  “Lady Rosaline, how lovely to see you.”

  “Lord Stanley,” she held out her fingers for him to kiss. “I have not seen you since that lovely supper we had.”

  “Yes, well, I have been busy,” he looked away, not wanting her to see him blush.

  Lady Rosaline turned to Lady Stanley, “It is good to see you again.”

  “You as well, my dear,” Lady Stanley replied as they bussed each other’s cheeks.

  “What is the news?” Lady Rosaline asked, seating herself. Henry took his seat by the window, simply watching them. He knew they were talking about Percival, again.

  “Well, I told him of the girl’s murky background and he just left. Walked out of the house and he hasn’t been back since.”

  “What murky past?” Henry could not help but interrupt. “What girl?”

  Both of them turned to face him, surprised he was still there.

  “The girl who has turned his head. The dressmaker.” His mother said, amazed he did not know this. Henry was not one to keep up with the latest on-dits, however, so this was all news to him.

  “The dressmaker turned his head?” He asked in surprise, “Are you and he not still engaged?”

  “Indeed we are,” Lady Rosaline said at once, “she is merely an annoying distraction.”

  “Ah, I see. And what news is this you gave him, Mother?”

  “She is the daughter of one of London’s most notorious criminals...”

  “Lud! Is that true?” Henry asked, sitting up with interest.

  “Yes, indeed.” His mother seemed quite pleased with the news.

  “He must be quite discomposed.”

  “Never mind that. We must find out where he is,” Lady Rosaline said.

  Henry stood up. “I shall go and seek him at his club. He is probably drowning his sorrows with his companions.”

  “Yes, do that Henry. Then come back and report what you have learned,” his mother said. Henry nodded and walked out of the room, fetching his coat and stepping out of the house. He and Percival barely got along but he wanted to make sure his cousin was all right.

  * * *

  “We are not spending every night together. Today is a special case.”

  “Of course. I understand that.” Percival nodded, tilting so that his head rested on Abigail's shoulder as they lay in the bed. Abigail let him, going so far as to put her arm around Percival when he started to slumber.

  She lay down beside him on her back, closing her eyes when she felt Percival tilt his head so it was against her shoulder. She debated pushing him away but decided against it. Percival was asleep, and he looked so peaceful.

  There was no need to upset him again. It warmed her heart that he trusted her so. One did not fall asleep so easily unless they felt safe. Abigail sighed softly, lulled to sleep by the sound of the Duke’s breathing.

  * * *

  Percival was the first to wake the next morning, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings before he got his bearings. It took him a few minutes to realize he was awake, in spite of the sun peeking in from beyond the drapes and the dust motes dancing in the air.

  Abigail was tangled around him while still sound asleep. Her head was on his chest, one arm was across his torso, her legs entwined with his.

  He indulged himself by staring at her sleeping form, enjoying the peace of the morning and her presence.

  Percival smiled, carefully brushing his fingers through Abigail's hair. She mumbled something but did not stir, and Percival grinned outright.

  She is quite fetching when she is asleep. Such a tempting morsel.

  He cut that thought off before it led him to do things she was not ready for.

  He never would have taken Miss Abigail Thorne for a cuddler, even when asleep. He continued to pet Abigail's hair as he thanked the Almighty for this chance just to be with her.

  He knew when Abigail woke up, they would not talk about how she had ended up so close to him in her sleep.

  The last thing he wanted to do was make Abigail uncomfortable, and he knew he was absolutely the luckiest man in the world.

  * * *

  Joan had blocked out the memories and it took a while for any of them to come back. The bloodier ones would come to the fore in nightmares; others would assail her in a flash of sudden recollection. None were good, she hated when they would come, especially when she was not alone.

  No matter how much she would try to conceal her shock and horror of the memories, something would give her away. A full body jerk, a gasp of breath, a jerk of her fingers...She could only imagine the faces she made.

  She could remember her life from the time she had been an apprentice dressmaker in her mother’s shop, up to the time she allowed Reginald Sinclair to sweep her off her feet.

  The years after that were fraught for her, with the constant danger of death, exacerbated by her pregnancy. She lived from day to day, moving from one place to another as Reggie tried to keep her safe. It was no life for a woman and Reggie knew it. However, until he had gained control of the Underworld, he could not let her go for fear of what might happen to her on her own.

  Her troubles escalated further with the onset of the blue megrims after the babe was born. She could not rouse herself to care properly for her child and if it were not for Philip, heaven knows what would have happened
to poor, vulnerable Abigail.

  When she and Phillip had set off for Brighton, leaving carnage and death behind, it had been a new beginning for all of them. She had just wanted to forget the past and give her daughter the future she deserved. She had not meant to hurt her in any way.

  Yet, here are the chickens, home to roost.

  * * *

  “Are you all right?”

  The voice startled her, and she turned to see Philip walk into the room.

  “Have you heard anything yet?” she asked him, wiping the tears from her eyes.

  “No, I haven’t. I have people everywhere, searching. But so far, no word.”

  “Where could she be?” Joan choked on the last word, afraid that she had lost her daughter for good.

  Philip sighed, “I have not heard from the Duke. Perhaps he knows something?”

  Joan looked sharply at him, “Please, find him. Find out.”

  Philip simply nodded and left.

  * * *

  Percival stood in the sitting room looking towards the kitchen, knowing it was empty of food. A soft step had him turning to behold Abigail standing in the bedroom doorway, barefoot, wearing her camisole and an apron.

  His gaze traveled from her head to her toes, stopping to get lost in her green eyes and catching on her dimples before settling on her toes, peeking out of her skirts like delicate beacons, calling to him.

  “I should go and get us some food. Do you have any funds?” he asked.

  She smiled, shaking her head slowly.

  He nodded, “Then excuse me while I get you some victuals.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. It is the least I can do.”

  “Don’t you have a busy day ahead of you?”

  “I do, indeed. But I cannot leave you starving and alone.”

  “I am not alone. I expect I can get something if I walk to Claudette’s.”

  “I am sure you can. But allow me to stock your pantry anyway.”

  Abigail walked slowly toward him, “I appreciate it.”

  * * *

  Abigail paced up and down, waiting for Percival to come back. Claudette had been by to ask if Abigail would like to accompany her to the theatre for practice, but Abigail had declined—not just because of Percival. She also felt restless and disturbed.

  While she had felt safe and happy to sleep in his arms the night before, today she felt she had lost something by doing so. Perhaps not her virginity, but the innocence of not knowing how it felt to sleep with a man's arms around her, his scent permeating the air, the hardness of his flesh a bulwark against the dangers of the world outside.

  This feeling of loss was a slippery slope and she felt her world unsteady beneath her.

  A knock at the door stopped her pacing, and she stared at it, wondering who could be on the other side. There was no reason for Percival to knock, Claudette most certainly would not, and she really hoped that her mother did not know where she lived now—she would be so mortified.

  “Who is it?”

  “My name is Andrew. I was sent by the Duke of Northcott to bring you these supplies.”

  Abigail hurried to the door and opened it to see a tall, uniformed footman standing nervously on her stoop, his hands laden with packages. She stepped back, opening the door wider.

  “Come in.”

  He nodded, stepping into the house but taking care to leave adequate room between them.

  “Where shall I put these, miss?” He asked, looking nervous, as if he did not know what the correct form of address was.

  She pointed to the kitchen and immediately he hurried there, putting down the packages on the table. Once he was done, he turned to her with a bow, “Is there anything else you'll be needing, miss?”

  Abigail shook her head, bemused at his behavior. “I think I am well-supplied. Thank you very much, Andrew.”

  He looked surprised at the usage of his name but simply bowed again, favoring her with a shy smile, “You're welcome, miss.”

  He quickly walked out of the room, down the hall, and out the door as Abigail watched. She turned to the packages, wondering what Percival might have bought.

  No one ever had good thoughts on an empty stomach.

  Not wasting another second, she began to tear open the packages, finding an embarrassment of riches in the form of sweetmeats, cakes, pies, even a packet of tea leaves and another of coffee.

  She stored all the goods in the pantry, put the kettle on for some tea and arranged some pies and cakes on a plate. She would break her fast in style before deciding what her next order of business would be.

  * * *

  Once she ate, Abigail realized that running and hiding was not making her feel any better. In fact, it was probably responsible for her discomposure.

  She looked around the unfamiliar room, a hideaway; not a home. She didn't want this. She didn't want to be the afterthought, the one who came after everybody else. If she accepted this, she did nothing more than serve a function.

  Perhaps she could have brought herself to it with some other man that she respected but did not love, however, she could not with Percival. It would break her heart to be but the Duke’s mistress.

  She got to her feet, her mind made up. She would go to the shop and confront her mother. She would find out what had happened all those years ago, the truth this time. She would find out who she really was.

  * * *

  Abigail walked to the shop, still quite angry at her mother but knowing she would be worried about her. She had not meant to disappear, but now that she had a place to stay, she did not want to go home yet. However, she had no clothes, nothing really, except what she stood up in.

  She unlocked the door, surprised that her mother had not yet opened the shop. She went to the back, collected a few supplies, and put them in a satchel. Then she sat back to wait.

  An hour later, when her mother had not yet appeared, she decided to open the shop. Since she was here, she might as well do some work. She put the closed sign to open, and then looked through the to-do pile of fabrics to see what she could work on. It gave her a turn when she found that Lady Rosaline’s gown was still there. Somehow, she had expected that it would have been taken or thrown out or burnt.

  She was tempted to slash it into little pieces but just then, she heard the front bell tinkle and a customer was in the shop. She pasted on her best smile and went to see what she could help them with.

  Her bewildered mother walked into the shop three hours later, looking quite flabbergasted to find her busy with customers.

  “Abigail!”

  She looked up, one eyebrow raised, “Yes, Mother?”

  Her mother just gawped at her in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

  “I work here, last time I checked.”

  “Uh—” Joan said, her face alternately flushing and paling.

  “You should sit down before you fall down, Mother,” Abigail said, turning to collect some soft kid gloves from storage for a customer.

  “We have been searching frantically all night for you!” her mother hissed, finally finding her words.

  “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I…was with Claudette.”

  Her mother slapped her forehead, “Claudette! Why ever did I not think of her?”

  “I have no idea. You know she is my dearest friend.”

  “Indeed, she is.” Her mother said quietly. She took a deep breath, “Abigail—?”

  “We have customers, Mother,” Abigail said, sweeping around her to take the gloves to the client. She busied herself with work, paying no mind to the twittering around her. The Quality did not bother to keep their voices down while discussing her alleged transgressions, in her shop.

  With the turn her life had taken, however, their malicious talk was less important than the dust that blew into the shop. That she would be forced to sweep out. The ton, however, would spend their
money on her wares in a quest to be at the forefront of today’s on-dits.