If she is not careful, I might take her bodice and rip it down the middle.
* * *
Abigail was feeling a little faint. She conjectured that the only thing keeping her upright was Percival’s arms around her waist. His lips had taken such possession of her that she could not think, could only feel. She felt weak in her body, as if she might melt into a puddle on the ground. At the same time, she was desperate for she knew not what. Having Percival ransack her mouth both fueled and satisfied that hunger.
But it was not enough.
She let out a pained whimper as he moved away from her. She could feel the tremble in his hands and knew her own would be the same if she could loosen the iron grip they had on his shoulders. His arms loosened slightly about her waist and she shook her head in silent protest.
Not yet.
It was a relief when he dove down and owned her lips again. She wanted to climb him, let him demonstrate his strength by holding her up. Give him greater access to her body. All caution was flung to the wind. She did not care about the propriety of it.
Does it matter if I wrap my legs about his waist and press my bosom to his hard, firm chest? If perhaps I run my hands through his hair, and test for myself whether it is as soft and silky as it looks? Maybe pull at his locks a little, crash our mouths even closer together?
She did not have to lose him. She did not have to give him up. He was willing to spurn his noble affianced, to be with her. There was no greater gift in the world than this. Her life was truly complete.
“Abigail?” Her mother’s voice had them leaping apart like they had been stung by a hive of bees.
“M-mother,” her voice was shaky and she could not make it behave.
“What are you doing back th—” her mother’s head appeared in the doorway, eyebrows raised in surprise as she caught sight of the Duke. “Oh.”
“Umm, Mother? Percival here came t—”
The Duke cut her off as he stepped between her and her mother.
“Mrs. Thorne, forgive me for this unorthodox visit. I...simply did not want to waste any more time. I came here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage and would like your permission to call upon you and Mr. Sinclair this evening.”
Joan’s eyes were wide with astonishment but she soon got herself in hand. “Oh...well. This is a surprise. I shall have to check with...Mr. Sinclair but I am sure you are welcome to call on us at your earliest convenience.”
The Duke bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Thorne, Miss Thorne. I shall take my leave of you both.”
With that, he donned his hat and walked out.
* * *
Rosaline was still crying and her mother was at her wit’s end. The Earl had gone off somewhere soon after he’d heard the news and Rosaline was feeling abandoned. She could not understand how this could possibly have happened to her.
I am the perfect bride! My skin is flawless, my posture is second to none. I have impeccable manners. There is none better than me. So why doesn’t he want me?
She paced up and down, worrying a white handkerchief, occasionally letting out a sniff of upset while her lady’s maid hovered anxiously, awaiting her next command.
“Get me a glass of port. Hurry up.”
The girl—Rosaline thought her name might be Alice but she was not sure, it was not her place to know the servants’ names—ran out at once to do as she was bid. Rosaline dropped on the settee set against the window, watching the world outside go about its business.
She needed to speak with Lady Stanley, in fact, had expected her to call by now. The Duke’s aunt wanted this marriage just as badly as Rosaline did. Together they might be able to persuade him of the error of his ways.
So, where is she?
She reached out for the bell and rang it impatiently. The lady’s maid came hurrying in with her glass of port, curtsying clumsily.
“Yes, m’lady?”
“Get me some ink and stationery. I need to write a note.”
The girl left with a hasty curtsey, remembering at the last minute to set the glass of port down on the stool next to Rosaline. She picked it up and drained it in one go, glad there was nobody about to see her act in such an unladylike manner. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and tried to calm herself.
A tentative knock on the half-open door had her opening her eyes to see the maid peeking into the room, holding out a quill and ink bottle, a few pieces of stationery tucked under her arm. Rosaline grimaced but gestured for her to bring them forward. She hoped her stationery would not now be scented with Eau de Armpit. The stale smell of sweat and dirt was the last thing she wanted associated with her.
She leaned forward, dipping the quill into the ink pot before pausing thoughtfully, trying to think of exactly the right thing to say. The sound of the butler and the maid conversing in low tones in the corridor had her lifting her head.
“Ma’am? You have a visitor,” the maid said from the doorway. Rosaline perked up at once.
“Who is it?”
“Lord Henry Stanley, m’lady.”
Rosaline frowned. What is he doing here? Perhaps Lady Stanley sent him?
She stood up, straightening her gown. “Send him to the parlor, then.”
She hurried to the looking glass, studying her reflection. Her eyes were a little puffy but their tragic mien suited her, she thought. Her hair was unknotted and her stays were loosened. She rang the bell so that her maid could come back and straighten her out. She powdered her cheeks and added a little star just above her cheekbone to bring attention to her eyes and the sadness in them.
Her maid came in and tightened her stays before arranging her hair into a loose upswept style suitable for receiving guests. She slipped her feet into satin slippers before sweeping down the stairs, followed by her maid, who would be sufficient chaperone.
Lord Stanley got to his feet as soon as she stepped into the room, bowing over her hand before laying a gentle kiss above her fingers. They took seats facing each other.
“My Lady, I apologize for calling upon you without invitation. I had to come and see how you were faring in the wake of my cousin’s actions.”
Rosaline deflated with disappointment. “Oh…” she sighed, “I thought you might have some message for me.”
Lord Stanley frowned at her, slow to understand what she meant. “Message? From whom?”
“From your Lady Mother, of course. Where is she?”
Lord Stanley shook his head, his eyes dropping as if he was disappointed at her answer. “She is in the country. She was extremely distraught at the news, as well. I expect she has gone to gather herself.”
Rosaline nodded, “I see. Well, please do convey my regards when she returns and ask her to call upon me at her earliest convenience.”
He nodded, “I feel sure that she will do that as soon as she returns to Town. In the interim, if there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate to ask.”
Rosaline nodded, attempting to smile, “Thank you. That is truly appreciated. It has been a trying time.”
“I can only imagine.”
* * *
They sat in the parlor, waiting. No one said a word. Everybody seemed nervous. Abigail tried to regulate her breathing, not really sure that Percival would come. It all seemed like a dream. She looked fixedly toward the front door, ears pricked for the sound of hoof beats.
“He’ll come,” her mother leaned toward her, squeezing her hand. The reassurance made her feel worse, not better, and she tried to will her heartbeat to slow down. She felt it was trying to escape her chest by how hard it was pounding.
The knock on the door startled her. She had not heard a single sound of his arrival. Uncle Philip stood and went to answer, dressed in his most colorful waistcoat.
Abigail held her breath, waiting to see who would come in. Perhaps Percival had sent a servant on foot to inform them that he wasn’t coming. She almost jumped when the man himself walked into the room, behind her uncle.
He looked toward he
r mother and made her a leg. Joan curtsied in return, murmuring “Your Grace,” as she did so. Then Percival turned to face her and smiled.
All the tension she had been carrying disappeared and her shoulders slumped as she relaxed, and smiled back.
“Abigail. It is good to see you again,” Percival said, taking her hand and kissing the bare knuckles.
“It’s good to see you, too,” she replied breathlessly, unable to wipe the grin from her face even as they all took their seats.
Percival turned to Uncle Philip. “I trust you are aware of why I am here today?”
Uncle Philip snorted, “The girls have said that you asked for Abigail’s hand in marriage.”
“Indeed, I did.”
Uncle Philip leaned forward, looking as intimidating as possible. Percival watched him impassively. “You really expect us to believe you’re serious about that?”
“I am.”
“What about your engagement to whatsername? That Lady?”
“I have terminated it.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair. Just like that.”
Abigail’s eyes swung from one to the other as they spoke, unable to look away from the intensity of their interaction. Her mother sat quietly next to Uncle Philip, looking outwardly calm and impassive. Abigail did not know how she was managing it.
“Well, then. In that case, you may ask her. It’s up to her whether she wants to take a chance on the likes o’ you.”
Percival turned to face her, his dark eyes intent. Abigail stopped breathing altogether.
“Abigail. We have led each other a merry chase. But now we are here and I would like to ask you, one more time, if you will consent to be my wife?”
Abigail nodded her head jerkily in her eagerness. “I-I will.”
Percival’s face lit up with joy and he stood up, taking two steps toward her. Uncle Philip moved to intercept him. Abigail got to her feet as well, mouth opening in protest.
“Philip!” Joan snapped from her seat, and her uncle moved out of the way with a roll of his eyes, allowing Percival to reach for her hand. She took it, a feeling like coming home suffusing her as he squeezed.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She shook her head, not wanting his gratitude. “I have done nothing but agree to something I’ve been secretly dreaming of. I should be the one thanking you.”
He laughed softly, pulling her closer. Uncle Philip cleared his throat loudly and they both moved back away from each other with shy glances and secret smiles.
“Joan, perhaps some wine to celebrate this happy occasion?” Uncle Philip said, and her smiling mother moved to the sideboard, where four glasses and a bottle of Uncle Philip’s best port was waiting.
Chapter 20
The Best Laid Plans
Rosaline was looking through the week’s invitations, wondering if she even felt up to attending any assemblies when the butler came in with Lady Stanley’s calling card.
“Finally!” she murmured to herself, “Send her in.”
The butler bowed and left, returning shortly with Lady Stanley behind him. Rosaline stood up and hurried toward her, and they clasped hands in the middle of the room, staring with commiseration into each other’s eyes.
“My dear girl,” Lady Stanley said, and Rosaline promptly burst into tears. She had cried in her mother’s arms but something about seeing Lady Stanley just made her let go and let it all out.
“Oh, darling, hush,” Lady Stanley said, leading her gently to the settee and holding her as she let her misery take over.
“What are we going to do?” Lady Rosaline wailed.
“You must appeal to her womanhood. Clearly, she has my nephew entranced. But I do believe if you appeal to her sense of fairness and reality, she will let my nephew free.”
Rosaline stared at her in disbelief, “How am I supposed to do that?”
“Invite her for tea. Treat her like she deserves to sit at your table and eat your food. Tell her your side of things. Show her that should she go through with this liaison, she is little more than a thief, stealing a man from his family and loved ones.”
Rosaline shook her head. “I do not think she would listen to me. She seemed quite rude when I met her.”
Lady Stanley laid her hand gently on Rosaline's arm, looking her in the eye, “You must do your best, my dear. You must show her that you are as deserving of him as she thinks she is. Make her feel guilty for taking him away.”
Lady Rosaline fingered her ruby brooch thoughtfully. She’d taken to wearing it because she loved the color and it reminded her of the high regard with which most of society held her. It had been a gift to her from the Prince Regent on the occasion of her coming out and it was her most prized possession.
She nodded. “I suppose it is worth a try.”
Lady Stanley beamed. “Good girl. Now ring the bell and ask them to bring some paper so that we may draft something suitable that will bring her to your door.”
“All right.” Lady Rosaline felt better already. Lady Stanley seemed quite confident that this scheme would work, and it heartened Lady Rosaline no end.
* * *
An unfamiliar footman was standing at the door of the shop.
Abigail looked up in surprise and stepped from behind the counter with a smile. She surmised that he must have been sent for a gown or with a message.
“Can we help you, sir?” she asked.
He held out a missive toward her. “Are you Miss Abigail Thorne?”
“Yes, I am.” Abigail took a step closer.
“I have been tasked to give this to you and make sure you read it and give me a reply.”
Abigail frowned at him, wondering if he was a bit touched in the head. She shook her head, reaching to tear the unfamiliar seal and extracted the stationery.
From the desk of Benedict Hoskins, Earl of Huntington.
Her eyebrows went up in surprise as she read that. Why would the Earl of Huntington be in communication with her? She hastened to read the letter.
My dear Miss Thorne
I write this letter from the depths of a broken heart where I have cast my pride aside in order to seek answers. I have been given to understand that you can give me these answers and so I beg you, lady to lady, that you would call on me at my residence on 103 Mayfair Place, so that we may discuss this between us and come to some sort of resolution. I await your answer with bated breath and beg you not to disappoint me as you have caused my betrothed to do.
Sincerely,
Lady Rosaline Hoskins.
Abigail stood frozen in place, unable to fathom how to react to this message. She felt for Lady Rosaline. If she felt even a fraction of what Abigail felt for Percival, then her heart must be in pieces. Abigail just did not understand what she could do to heal her. The lady that she remembered from her shop would consider it beneath her dignity to speak as equals with someone like Abigail. Could her heart have been broken to the extent that her spirit was, too?
Abigail felt a twinge of guilt twist her gut. She stared down at the letter, trying to think what to do for the best.
“Ah, tell, um, Lady Rosaline that I shall call on her tomorrow afternoon, at her convenience,” she told the footman. He nodded and ceased to darken the doorway, disappearing so fast Abigail wondered if she had imagined him. But then she looked down and the missive was still in her hand and she knew that it had all happened.
What am I going to say?
She dropped her hands, looking unseeingly around the shop as she tried to imagine how the conversation might go.
“What are you dreaming about now?”
She jumped and came back to herself to find her friend, Claudette, standing in front of her, hand on hip.
“Claudette. You startled me.”
“Did I? Maybe you should pay more attention to your surroundings, then. I think I have been standing here for five minutes.”
“Sorry. I was thinking.”
“What
about? Your beau? The Duke?”
Abigail smiled. “No,” she said softly.
Claudette inclined her head to the side, trying to decipher the meaning of Abigail’s expression.
“What has happened?”
Abigail skipped, grabbing Claudette’s hand and pulling her to the back room. “Oh, my Lord, Claudette, you have no idea of all the things that have happened since we last saw each other! Come sit, have a cuppa and let me tell you.”
Secret Confessions 0f The Enticing Duchess (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 17