All she knew was that it had to do with a dark and mysterious past. Abigail could well understand that her mother might feel Abigail’s opinion of her would be compromised if she knew what this past was. Abigail had long ceased to try and persuade her otherwise for it was clear that her mother would not be budged.
She arrived at the shop just as the sun was peeking over the horizon and she paused to appreciate the beauty of the sunrise. A light drizzle had her hurrying in, leaving the door propped open behind her. She set about cleaning up the shop and arranging the window to display their wares to best advantage.
The bell tinkled and she looked toward the door to see a tall dark-eyed man filling up the doorway, one eyebrow raised as he watched her. She was standing on a ladder, cleaning the ledge of the window of all the dust that tended to accumulate overnight. She descended the ladder, feeling mortified at being caught in such a position.
“Welcome. What can I do for you?”
It was only as she reached the floor that she noticed the young lady standing in front of the gentleman. Abigail didn’t know how she could have missed the lady. She was dressed in an elaborate confection of pink lace and silk, not really appropriate for a walking gown. Her mouth was pursed in a displeased frown and Abigail suspected she was not fond of being overlooked.
Abigail could not even fathom why her eye had been drawn straight to the man. The fine cut of his clothes lovingly embraced his impressive physique and named him for a dandy. His dark hair and dark eyes drew the eye, but not to the exclusion of all else. At least, Abigail would say so if anyone asked.
Still, even knowing that the lady was her customer, she could not stop her eyes from sliding to the man. He held himself straight and stiff, clearly uncomfortable but braving the unfamiliar setting like the gentleman he was.
Abigail snorted quietly to herself before stepping forward with a welcoming smile and a curtsey.
“Good morning, My Lord, My Lady, how may I help you today?”
The lady preened, “We are newly betrothed and seek to procure a gown for the engagement party.”
Abigail experienced a sinking in her belly that felt like disappointment. How can that be? I do not even know them. Nevertheless, her eyes drifted—again—toward the gentleman and she nodded stiffly.
“Felicitations to you both.”
The lady practically skipped, taking the man’s hand and pulling him over to the array of fabrics on display. Behind them, now revealed by the emptied doorway, was an older woman, clearly the girl’s chaperone.
Abigail gave her a stiff smile before walking over to the happy couple so as to be on hand should they need any suggestions as to fabric or design.
The lady was holding different colored fabrics against her flesh and Abigail took a moment to study them both. They were not familiar to her which simply meant they had not frequented her shop in the past. The man wore what was clearly a signet ring on his finger, his hands held rigidly behind his back as he listened attentively to his fiancée. He did not strike her as particularly interested in the look and feel of the fabrics upon his Lady’s skin but he paid sufficient attention to pass inspection. Why can’t I stop looking at him? She was frankly bewildered.
Suddenly he turned his head and his eyes met hers. Beetle-browed, eyebrows forming a perfect arch just below the sweep of his unwigged mane, he turned back to his bride-to-be, all agog again at her chatter.
Abigail took a deep breath and looked away from them, trying to compose herself.
Come on, Abigail, you are better than this. Fiddlesticks! Why isn’t Mama here? I could leave the happy couple to her. What is wrong with me?
The bell tinkled again and two more ladies entered the shop, nattering away to each other. Their eyes fell on the gentleman and their conversation stopped quite abruptly.
“Your Grace!” the one in front exclaimed, “If this is not the last place I would ever have expected to see you.”
Her face went puce as she realized her faux pas, and she stepped back, lashes lowered demurely, “Forgive me, I did not mean to speak out of turn,” she said.
The Duke made a leg, “It is quite all right, Lady Ahern. I do understand. This is probably the last place I, too, would expect to see myself.” He gestured toward his companion, “May I present my fiancée, Lady Rosaline Hoskins?”
This led to a new eruption of twittering and excitement and Abigail retired to the corner to set out some ribbons for them to examine once they were done with pleasantries. She did not know why it hurt to hear the lady referred to as His Grace’s bride-to-be. It was patently ridiculous to feel this way about a man she did not know and had not clapped eyes on before this morning!
“Girl!” the lady called, gesturing for Abigail, “I require this fabric, please.”
The lady was pointing at a blood red silk that would complement her pale skin but clash horribly with her strawberry blonde locks. Abigail opened her mouth to say that it might behoove her to choose a deeper red, the color of claret, perhaps. But then she closed her mouth again and with an internal shrug, fetched her scissors.
The Duke was watching her with interest as she took a measuring tape to his betrothed and then wrapped fabric around her.
The lady fluttered her eyelashes at the Duke and simpered. “How does it look, Your Grace?”
He seemed thoughtful as he examined her and then his eyes slid to Abigail, “I would like to hear what the mantua-maker has to say, first,” he said.
Abigail narrowed her eyes at him, feeling cornered. No doubt the Duke was of the same opinion as to how the red clashed with the lady’s coloring.
Of course, he didn’t tell her. Oh no, I have to be the villain of this piece. She snorted quietly even as she composed her face into something suitably solicitous. “Uh, well, the color is lovely and no doubt you would look stunning in anything,” Abigail began, still unsure whether to offer her unvarnished opinion, “However, a darker shade might suit you better.”
The lady turned her nose up at Abigail. “Do you presume to tell me what would suit me better?”
Abigail hesitated as the Duke looked on, seemingly with bated breath, awaiting her reply.
“I...just thought—”
“Don’t think,” the lady cut her off, speaking sharply. “Just do as I say and make me the gown that I want.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Abigail said and sketched a curtsey. She waited until the lady’s back was turned before rolling her eyes and then her cheeks filled with color as she realized that the Duke was regarding her with amusement.
She turned away toward the safety of the counter and extracted her extensive design collection for the lady’s perusal. She was a consummate professional and would not let the presence of a duke fluster her in the slightest.
The lady drifted toward her, looking over the designs with a disinterested air. She turned to her fiancé with a coquettish smile, “Which do you choose, Your Grace?”
The Duke stepped forward, frowning, then studied all the designs with interest.
He pointed to a complicated Parisian design. “This one.”
The lady immediately began to gush about the perfection of his choice.
She leaned toward him, her bosom on display. “Do you think I shall look ravishing in it?”
“I think you shall be a sight,” he replied before turning back to Abigail, “May we see your fichus? I fear Lady Rosaline forgot hers at home.”
Abigail bit her lip to hide a smile, going at once to the corner where they kept the tuckers. She selected a discreet green one that would complement the lady’s gown and offered it for their inspection.
The Duke barely looked at it. “Perfect. We shall take that now. Do you have the measurements you need to sew the gown?”
Abigail nodded. “Indeed, I do, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. We shall let you get on with it. Come along, my dear,” he said, holding his arm out to the lady, “We shall take our leave of you now, Miss…?”
“Thorne
,” she hastened to answer him, “Abigail Thorne.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Thorne. I expect we shall be seeing quite a lot of each other should this gown live up to your reputation.”
Abigail’s mouth was dry and she did not know what to say, “I...yes, I-I expect we shall.”
And what is your name?
She longed to ask the question out loud but knew that it was not her place.
* * *
Percival was well aware that his plan had gone awry. He had stepped into the shop and suddenly he forgot that he didn’t want to be there. His first sight of the modiste was her pert behind shaking from side to side as she stood on a ladder cleaning, while her gay yellow muslin shimmered in the sunlight.
That was all he could see, along with the tight bun of her luxuriant dark hair. But then she turned around, regarding them with wide, moss-green eyes; their gazes had locked and everything else had seemingly disappeared. All he had wanted was to take her hand and lead her to his home, ensconce her in his chambers, and never let her leave.
It was disconcerting, to say the least.
She had come towards them, skirts swaying from side to side, and they both startled when Lady Rosaline spoke. For surely they had both forgotten that they were not alone. Whatever he was feeling, she was probably feeling it, too.
But then Lady Rosaline introduced him as her fiancé, causing the brightness of the modiste’s gaze to dim and she looked away from him. Percival felt the loss of her regard like a knife to the heart.
He stayed for the entire visit, simply looking at the modiste whose name he did not even know until they were leaving.
Abigail Thorne.
The name was like a caress in his mind as he thought of her, the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled, the eloquence of her moss-green gaze as she took Lady Rosaline’s measure…and found her wanting. Percival had thought he was content with his decision but to see the censure in Miss Thorne’s eyes had only reinforced his own doubts. Perhaps Lady Rosaline Hoskins was not as excellent a parti as he would have liked to think.
It was a quandary for sure.
His aunt would be disappointed but until he was sure of his feelings, Percival decided to delay the official engagement.
He knew one person who would be pleased by that decision. Henry hardly bothered to disguise his calf love for the earl’s daughter. Perhaps he ought to direct Lady Rosaline’s attentions towards his cousin.
He wondered why his aunt had not made that match if she was so eager for an alliance with the Earl of Huntington. On the other hand, Percival was not wont to make decisions based on sentiment for it was an unreliable measure by which to navigate one’s life.
He prided himself on having mastered his emotions and basing his choices on logic and reasoning. It might have had something to do with being orphaned so young, Percival was not sure. But he had made this choice willingly and he could not go back on it without sufficient reason.
Besides, feelings aside, the modiste would be more suited to be his mistress than taken to wife. He could delay the engagement and sort out this temporary confusion before getting leg shackled. What could possibly go wrong?
Dismissing the thought, he called his steward to him.
Sherwood stepped into the room with a bow. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“I have an assignment for you, Sherwood. There is a dressmaker’s shop on Bond Street ran by an Abigail Thorne. I need you to find out everything you can about her.”
Sherwood frowned, “Yes, Your Grace?”
Percival gave him a look and Sherwood turned around and left the room.
Percival sighed, turning back to his accounts. Whatever happened next, he was done letting his emotions rule his life.
* * *
It was as if he was a ghost, simply following the trail of his parents as they walked along the street, their hackney carriage two streets away. Where they were coming from, he did not know. He shouted at them, fruitlessly, trying to get them to stop; to turn back. But they just kept walking toward their doom.
He saw the brigands long before his parents did. Three of them, hiding in the shadows, watching the Duke and Duchess approach them obliviously, lost in their conversation. He ran forward, trying to push his parents out of the path of the robbers; get them to cross the street perhaps - anything to avert the looming danger.
His hands went through their bodies and all he could do was watch helplessly as the street rats assailed them, surrounding them so fast that Percival could barely blink. They tore the Duchess’ rings from her fingers, her ear bobs off her person, leaving her ears torn and bleeding. Then they reached down, tore her lace front off and grabbed her pearls. When the Duke tried to intervene, they hit him on the head and he fell, bleeding and unconscious on the ground.
“Father! No!” Percival cried but the Duke didn’t hear him.
He sat up in bed, bathed in cold sweat, breathing hard and wondering why that particular dream had returned. Why now?
He staggered out of bed, grabbing the pitcher of water by his bedside and gulping it down without the benefit of a glass. He closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the dream. His parents had passed on when he was nothing more than a youngling, waiting at his aunt’s house for them to come for him.
They never did.
He had learned to live with the grief and accept the loss. But he had always hoped that one day he would marry for love just as they did. That was before heartbreak and disappointment taught him that love was for fools and children.
Nowadays all he wanted was peace.
Chapter 3
Nuncheon
Abigail was fiddling with Lady Rosaline’s gown, working on gathering the material so it would disguise any imperfections about her waist.
She could not seem to bring herself to focus on the work. Her mind kept returning to the Duke. The way his eyes had lingered on her as if he knew that she was entranced by him. The span of his knuckles as he had signed the chits. He had such big hands. She felt he might be able to lift her off the ground with them.
And why would she be thinking about a duke lifting her off the ground? It made no sense to her at all and she tried to dismiss her thoughts but could not quite manage.
She sighed, turning away from the fabric. Her mother came in from the back room and then stopped short, eyes narrowed.
“All right, Abby, I have had enough of your Friday-face and sighing. Won’t you tell me what is bothering you?”
Abigail blushed to think that her mother had noticed her moping. “There is nothing wrong, Mother. Simply a flash of the megrims. I expect they will go away soon.”
Joan swayed over to her, placing an arm around her shoulders. “Whatever it is, dear girl, you know you need only but tell me and I shall try to make it better.”
Abigail smiled, reaching up to squeeze her mother’s hand. “I know that, Mother. I promise you, if there was something to tell, I would tell you.”
The bell tinkled and both women looked up. Abigail felt her heart speed up as she caught sight of the tall, dark, handsome figure of the Duke.
What is he doing here?
And alone, to boot?
The Duke stepped in the room, “Forgive me, but I...wanted to make an inquiry,” his eyes were on Abigail and she was suddenly short of breath.
“Uh, oh, well that’s quite all right, Your Grace” she said stepping away from her mother and hurrying forward to pull up a chair for the Duke, “Please be seated.”
The Duke adjusted his breeches, sitting stiff and straight in the chair and Abigail felt the need to curtsey or give some acknowledgment that they were in the presence of nobility. She wasn’t sure whether she should or not and so ended up standing stiff and frozen. She bit her bottom lip, waiting for him to continue. He glanced to the side where undoubtedly her mother was still standing behind the counter and then back at her.
“I...wanted to purchase a few fripperies for...my aunt.”
Abigail
could not help how her eyebrow rose doubtfully, “Your aunt?”
“Y-yes, my aunt. I thought to get her a wrap and a redingote.”
“Do you know her sizes?” Abigail asked.
The Duke seemed nonplussed for a moment, “Erm, well, one does not need a size to buy a wrap.”
“That is true, Your Grace,” Abigail inclined her head, not wanting to argue with the Duke, “But for the redingote…”
“Ah, you wish to know her girth?”
Abigail hesitated, not really wanting to agree with that description but also not wanting to argue with him, “Er, yes. The measure of her shoulders and waist would be helpful.”
He looked over at Abigail’s mother, “She is more or less the size of your…?”
Abigail hastened to introduce them, “This is my mother, Joan Thorne. She and I run the shop together.”
The Duke inclined his head, “A pleasure to meet you. Percival, Duke of Northcott, at your service.”
Joan sketched a proper curtsey, even bowing her head, “Pleased to meet you, Your Grace.”
“Your daughter is quite the modiste if I may say so, ma’am.”
“Why, thank you, Your Grace, we are much obliged for the sentiment.”
There was a pregnant moment in which no one said a word.
Abigail sought to break it by whisking around and spreading her fingers wide to show the Duke their display. “Ah, so we have quite a few wraps.”
The Duke stood up, not even looking at the array of fabrics. “So I see. Which would you recommend?”
Abigail picked up a few shawls that she thought might suit an older woman and draped them on the counter for the Duke’s inspection. He stepped forward, running the fabric between his fingers.
“Hmm,” he said.
“Are they suitable or would you like me to show you some more options?”
“Show me some more,” the Duke said, and Abigail was not in the least surprised. Whatever he had come for, it was not a shawl. She allowed him to ask her as many pointless questions as he wanted. At some point, she noticed that her mother had retired to the back rooms again. She was too busy enjoying herself, seeing just how outlandish his questions could get.
A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 28