What will happen when he runs out of questions? Will he purchase something or move on to another item of clothing?
“I shall take three shawls,” he said at last, “Now let us move on to redingotes.”
Abigail nodded and smiled, “Well, if you will follow me…” she moved to another corner of the shop.
“We have a variety of styles and fabrics for your perusal. I’m sure you’ll find something that your aunt will love,” she murmured, pulling pieces out and putting them on the display table so that he could take a look. He nodded, even though his eyes looked lost.
“These are indeed an excellent selection,” he said.
“Come closer and feel them,” she urged and almost touched him before she recalled that he was a Duke and not to be touched without permission. He stepped closer to her so she could feel his warmth all the way down her side. He looked at the selection and then turned toward her.
“I have a confession to make,” he said abruptly.
“Yes?” she looked at him expectantly, knowing that they had come to the crux of his visit.
“I do not really want to buy a coat or a shawl.”
She lifted an eyebrow in faux surprise, “Indeed?”
“Yes. I simply wish to speak with you.”
Abigail frowned, wondering what he could possibly have to say to her. “Oh…”
The Duke took a deep breath, “I…” he swallowed, looking nervous and Abigail was intrigued, “I was wondering if you would walk with me this afternoon along Hyde Park.”
Abigail almost smirked, “Your Grace, while that is a very generous offer, I fear I must decline for I will be occupied with work. However, if you would like, we have nuncheon around noon. Perhaps you could join us?”
The Duke stared at her for a long while before nodding, “I will, thank you.”
“You’re very welcome, Your Grace.”
What are you doing? He is engaged!
Her mind seemed to scream at her and her fingers trembled even as she curtsied him out of the shop. She turned around and was not surprised to find her mother regarding her with a mixture of understanding and fear.
“Is he the reason? Is the Duke why you have been moping?”
Abigail sighed, thought about denying it for a moment but then acknowledged how pointless that would be. Her mother knew her well. She knew already that she was right.
“Maybe. I don’t know, Mother.”
“What don’t you know, Abby?”
Abigail shrugged, crossing over to Lady Rosaline’s engagement gown, the irony not lost on her.
“He...I…” she began, unable to find the words to explain the unfathomable pull that the Duke had on her.
Percival Montagu...he sounds like a pirate.
She smiled absently at her fanciful thoughts but then stopped when she heard her mother’s sigh. She knew, absolutely knew, that this would not lead to anything…respectable.
Yet she could not stop her heart from fluttering at the thought of the Duke. Her mind turned to nuncheon and what they could serve that would be worthy of a Duke. All they had was some bread, cheese, and gingerbread. It would have to do.
She hurried to the back, choosing a light brown muslin gown that showed off her clear skin to perfection and paired it with an emerald green Spencer jacket that brought out the color of her moss-green eyes. She added a pair of earbobs and retied her hair in a tight bun before adding a bonnet that matched her jacket. It was more than she usually bothered with on a daily basis but not too outré as to invite comment.
She knew her mother would comment anyway and was not disappointed. As soon as she stepped back into the front room, her mother’s eyebrows went up and she opened her mouth to speak.
Abigail forestalled her, “I know. I am building castles in the air. I don’t want to be sensible about this, Mama. Please, just leave me be.”
Her mother sighed, eyes dropping as her cheeks filled with color. It was clearly an effort to refrain from speaking but she managed it, giving Abigail a curt nod instead.
Abigail was relieved. Her mother and she were close but there were still secrets between them, the name and location of Abigail’s father being one of the bigger ones. Abigail had stopped asking long ago but that did not mean her curiosity was slaked. She had it in mind to visit their old home in Brighton one day and find out for herself what the mystery to her existence was.
For now, however, she just wanted to enjoy the Duke’s company until he inevitably tired of her and sought to dismiss her. What harm could it do? They did not have a reputation to protect. In spite of their exceptional talent with a needle, and honest dealings, a cloud hung over their heads. Abigail suspected that it was linked to her mother’s secrets but had long tired of asking.
She busied herself for the rest of the morning with customers and gowns before retiring to the back room to set up nuncheon on their sewing table.
At almost noon, her mother poked her head into the room, “I am going out.” she said, “Philip and I are to meet and inspect the housing development over at Devonshire Terrace.”
Abigail paused in her work to spare her mother a glance, “Why?” she asked.
Joan hesitated, “He feels our neighborhood is not quite safe for two women. He proposes a move.”
Abigail hesitated before nodding, “All right.” She returned to cutting up the cheese, her heart accelerating with the prospect of being alone in the shop with a gentleman.
She wondered what her mother thought she was doing, leaving her alone like this when she knew full well the Duke was coming. While she appreciated the gesture of trust, she was also not ready to subject herself to the prospect of being compromised should the Duke…
But no, he would not…would he?
Abigail cut the thought off as unproductive, finished setting the table and then straightened out her skirts. Whatever the Duke wanted to talk about, he would likely feel more at ease about it were her mother absent. Doubtless, that was why Joan was making herself scarce.
She willed her hands to stop trembling as she ran them down the front of her gown, seeking to smooth it out and calm her nerves at the same time.
At the stroke of noon, The Duke of Northcott darkened her doorway and she stared at him as if she had never seen him before.
She gestured for him to enter. “We-welcome, Your Grace.”
He took one step into the shop and then another, taking off his hat and making a leg to her, “Thank you, Miss Thorne.”
She led him, blushing, to the back room and he followed her with no demur, sitting where she directed him and watching as she plated some food for him. She smiled until her dimples showed, unable to help herself. It was exceedingly strange, sitting here with a Duke, having nuncheon and yet, being here with this man felt...fated.
“Here you are, Your Grace,” she said, handing him the plate.
“Please, call me Percival,” he replied softly and she could not help but color further.
“All right, Percival,” she took her seat, her own plate in front of her, “And you may call me Abigail.”
“Thank you,” he replied as if she were some high-born lady condescending to him. She took a deep shaky breath and picked up a piece of cheese, chewing thoughtfully as she regarded him—allowing herself to really examine him.
His height was obvious even when he was sitting and the breadth of his shoulders took her breath away. His elaborately tied azure cravat lightened the dark of his eyes while his white shirt provided just the right contrast to his golden waistcoat visible beneath his unbuttoned coat. Both sat on his broad shoulders and impressive chest as if molded to it and Abigail had the odd thought that she would like to just lay her palm flat on his chest and breathe in his sandalwood scent.
Perhaps do more than breathe…She shivered at the thought.
It was a ridiculous notion, of course, one which she would never act on. She cast about desperately for something else to say, to take her wayward mind away from its scandalous
thoughts but he beat her to it.
“Tell me something, Abigail?”
She placed her cheese back on her plate and swallowed. “What would you like to know?”
“How did you come to be here?”
She raised an eyebrow, surprised at the question. Even though he was interested in her as evidenced by his presence in her backroom, she had not expected him to show curiosity about anything except, perhaps, a potential liaison between them. She held no illusions as to the direction of his interest. Her own quandary centered around the question of whether she would grant his wishes or not.
She reflected seriously on what his question might mean; whether he was speaking of here in the sense that she was sitting alone in a backroom with a man and no chaperone or else he meant here, in this shop, working as a modiste.
Perhaps it was both.
“I only mean to get to know you better, if you don’t mind,” he provided the clarification after studying her face closely. Perhaps he could see her confusion.
“I appreciate that. It is difficult to know where to start.”
He tilted his head becomingly to the side and smiled, “Start at the beginning,” he said.
She huffed, perfectly aware that he knew not the irony of his words, “Wish I knew what the beginning was,” she murmured, mostly to herself.
“Take your time, there is no hurry,” he encouraged, and she narrowed her eyes at him doubtfully.
“Isn’t there? I shall need to return to work and you probably have some duties that need doing.”
He gave her a smile, “Ah, but we can always continue the discourse at a later date,” he assured her and his words were more than a commentary on their conversation. He was saying that he wanted to see her again. Abigail did not know what to think about that.
Chapter 4
Drury Dreary
Percival had asked the question because he wanted to know Abigail better. He also wanted to see if she would confess to her family’s murky past or conceal it from him. He did not know why he wanted to get the measure of her honesty. It was not necessary to the arrangement he was here to propose. An arrangement he had so far failed to bring up.
She opened her mouth to answer him and Percival trained all his attention upon her.
“I don’t know how I came to be here. I do not know who my father is but my mother said he died when I was young. For all I know, I’m a bastard.”
Her cheeks colored prettily as she said it, though she kept her eyes on his.
Brave girl.
He wanted to reach out; maybe squeeze her hand but he refrained. It was not de rigueur to touch without permission and, lady or not, he would observe the proprieties. Well...some of them. After all, they were sitting in a room alone together without a chaperone.
“Do go on,” he encouraged.
“We came to London from Brighton when I was in my leading strings. We had a shop there as well but we had to leave suddenly.”
“Why?”
She shook her head but not as if she did not want to tell him. The puzzlement she still felt was palpable, “I do not know. All my mother would say was that conditions were importunate and it was exigent upon us to leave. All these years, she still will not tell me why.”
Percival nodded, his steward Sherwood having obtained for him all the details of their flight from Brighton. The accusations of theft had followed Mrs. Joan Thorne and her beau, Mr. Philip Sinclair, all the way to London. Undoubtedly, Abigail had been too young to know of these things and Percival quite understood why her mother would keep it from her.
“So you came to London…?” he prompted.
“Yes, we did. We arrived in London at the start of the season and dressmakers were in high demand. My mother made sure to peddle her services to as many ladies as possible and she made some exquisite gowns for debutantes. Her fame grew and soon we had enough business to open a shop here. And here we’ve been ever since.”
Percival nodded, his eyes on Abigail, “And you, Abigail? Was it your dream to be a dressmaker, too, or do you have other ambitions?”
She gave a surprised laugh at his words, her dimples on display. “No one has ever asked me such a question. Do you mean marriage ambitions?”
“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.
A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 29