The Redemption of Lord Rawlings Page 9

  “Come here.” Phillip pulled her into his chest and felt her relax. Inhaling the scent of her hair was not one of his wiser moments, but he couldn’t seem to help himself as her scent enveloped him. Heavens, she was desirable. She pushed away slightly and brushed a kiss across his cheek.

  “Thank you, Rawlings. I promise to be on my best behavior and make you proud.”

  If it were possible for a person’s heart to break in two, Phillip’s would have. The earnest look and fiery determination ignited his passion. It was one thing for her to feel rejected and angry with him. But quite another for the girl to aim to make him proud. Him. Of all people. And as usual, when a moment of clarity hits, one of stupidity surely has to follow.

  So Phillip Crawford, Eighth Earl of Rawlings, did one of the stupidest things he’d ever done in his life.

  He kissed her.

  Her innocent lips, soft billowy pillows of pure feminine beauty, were immobile, but it didn’t matter, because Phillip was doing the teaching, the caressing, and the only thing he’d been yearning to do for days.

  The kiss was soft, not urgent, more of a question than the answer. When he released her, he looked into her green eyes and was dumbfounded when he saw them well with tears.

  “I have to—” Abigail turned and ran away, leaving him aroused, confounded, and feeling a trifle guilty that he had quite possibly ruined whatever shaky ground they had previously built.

  Chapter Eleven

  My dear readers, it is official. The world has gone absolutely mad. Take for example what this author discovered last night. That the dishonorable Lord Rawlings is to help chaperone one of the Season's most glorious debutantes. Dear readers, is this not the same as handing an innocent lamb to a wolf? This author is counting down the days until that particular betrothal is announced. There is absolutely no possibility that the despicable Lord Rawlings can keep his hands to himself. I’d like to see him try.

  —Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers

  Abigail was not aware of the direction she was running, only that she needed to escape Rawlings at all costs. Was it her punishment that the very day she decided against him he should kiss her? Why did it hurt so? Knowing that the kiss was more out of pity than anything is what troubled her most. It spoke of brotherly affection, of love without any sort of passion. His tenderness spoke volumes. He was a rake. Rakes did not kiss women in that way. It was, in her mind, a pity kiss. And it infuriated her and sickened her heart.

  Music became louder as she neared the great hall. Allowing herself in, she managed to find Emma and appear more together than she felt.

  Minutes later, Rawlings entered, his countenance dark. But she was done with him. Finished. She looked at the pairs dancing and decided she would find someone else to love. Even if it nearly killed her to do so.

  ****

  “I am a fool,” Rawlings muttered to himself when he saw the look of panic in Abigail’s eyes as he made his way through the crush to speak with her. Not that he was certain of what he would say. Clearly it was in both of their best interests for him to apologize, but he could not lie to himself in that way. It wasn’t fair to him or her. He grimaced as she helplessly searched around the room at everyone but him. He had only a few seconds before he could reach her side.

  Her lip was quivering. Turning, she looked at him, and then away. Phillip leaned in to speak to her but was interrupted by a young man.

  “May I have this dance, Miss Gates?” The boy couldn’t be a day over one and nine, yet the gleam in his eyes communicated all that was necessary to someone as seasoned as Phillip. He was a rake in the making. Abigail put her hand in his. Phillip, however, did not miss the smug grin the young buck gave him as he pulled her into a quadrille.

  Jealousy began trickling down his spine until he uncomfortably had to look away from the handsome couple. His feet remained planted, though his heart begged his mind to alleviate the vision in front of him by drinking it into oblivion, he still stayed and watched. Dance after dance was asked, and each time she said yes he felt insanity would be a most welcoming outcome. Anything to quiet the pounding of his heart.

  Abigail danced and twirled like any girl of her age should. Was this not exactly what he had asked her to do? Find a man her own age? Enjoy her first Season? Leave him alone? She refused to listen to him at each turn until he had ruined everything and kissed her, and now her smile seemed unstoppable and freely given to any young man who appeared to take a fancy to her, which, to his irritation, was nearly every man in attendance.

  Well, he had gotten what he asked for, and now it was time to find a wife. His mind would forget about Abigail Gates. But he doubted his heart ever would.

  ****

  As plans went, Phillip knew his was famously flawed, but he really could do nothing but continue on in the same fashion. Emma was overwhelmed if not ecstatic that he would ask for her help so personally. Not only had they established a real foundation in his name, but she also had managed to get donations from other patrons in society. And when he asked for her further involvement to help him find a wife, she was moved to tears. Which Sebastian swore up and down was due to her current state. It was not, as he put it, because she thought Phillip so helpless without her.

  So, on the eve after his mistake with Abigail, he found himself at the Tempest townhome having dinner with Sebastian, Emma, and Abigail. Emma had the brilliant idea that Abigail could help them since she knew so many debutantes.

  Phillip thought she would much rather jump out her upstairs window than help him, but she did nothing but smile as the first course was served.

  “So, have you given any thought to the type of woman you’d like to become better acquainted with?” Emma asked.

  The question should not have caught him off guard like it did. He choked and took a sip of wine to clear his throat. Abigail gave him a sweet smile before making a gallant display of cutting a small bite of meat and then very slowly putting it into her mouth as if to demonstrate how one was to eat food properly.

  He glared at her. For one thing, Abigail had made it a point to drop her fan three times. Each time she picked it up, she bent so low that he was convinced her bosom would free itself from her dress.

  And then he couldn’t get the vision of her breasts out of his mind. So he found himself staring at her in the most improper way. Once, she caught him and gave him a perplexed look as if wondering why the devil he was looking at her like a man starving. She knew exactly what she was doing. Though an innocent, there was no way she did all of that by accident.

  Then on the way to dinner, she tripped. And again, she brushed up against him but had the audacity to blush on cue! How it was possible to blush on cue, he didn’t know, the point was the little chit did it! The nerve!

  Unfortunately, his body took that as an invitation. He had to hide his arousal the entire way to the dining room, and was horrified a simple touch could cause him to be so blatantly lust-filled that he bumped into her when she stopped.

  “What is wrong with you?” she snapped.

  “You know exactly what!” He felt his nostrils flare, as if needing to expand in order to savor more of her scent.

  Abigail shook her head and looked…well, she seemed put out, but she was a master thespian. She would have made a nice living on the stage. “I don’t know what has you acting so, so…mad!” As she marched away, she sent him a seething glare and plopped into her seat.

  Suffice it to say, he felt neither guilt nor shame at all for shooting her daggers in that moment. “I believe I would prefer a girl who is meek—even tempered. And I do so love brunettes. With brown eyes preferably. And tall. I do despise looking down at women.” His shin received a kick under the table that he could have sworn was on purpose, but when he yelped in pain everyone looked at him with curious eyes.

  Yes, he had done it intentionally. He had listed exact opposites of Abigail’s character. She looked angry, so he added, “I also find that women with a vile temper seem to put me out. I shou
ld desire a lady who knows how to be a lady.”

  Emma and Sebastian watched him, both with mouths gaping open, while Abigail refused to look at him. Instead, with sudden fascination, she began pushing food around her plate in circles.

  “Well.” Sebastian cleared his throat. “I, uh, it seems we should be able to find you someone amongst the ton.”

  Emma gave her sister a scolding look. Abby dropped her fork and slouched, yes slouched, at the dinner table. Her ability to act immature was astonishing.

  “What about Miss Alexander?”

  Phillip mentally conjured up a frightening picture of a six foot wench with a heavy mop of hair and dim eyes. “Er, well, that is to say…she is quite lovely, but I believe she has a secret tendre for another man. No, she won’t do at all.”

  “Hmm…I don’t recall any of that nonsense. Are you quite sure?” Sebastian asked.

  “Quite.”

  “Well then, what about Lady Haversfield?”

  Phillip felt his eyes widen. “She is—”

  “Lovely.” Emma grinned as if it were decided. “Now that the object of your desire is settled, shall we plan out our series of appearances before the end of the Season ball at the De Creax’s? That gives us adequate time, don’t you agree, my love?”

  Phillip cleared his throat, gaining the attention of all three people in attendance. “I think you have forgotten one tiny little thing.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” Emma shrugged.

  “Oh, just another woman—or who knows? Maybe it’s a man—finds joy in my evil deeds and is at this moment probably dipping his or her quill into the ink so she can successfully blacken my name further. And although the idea of my demise would put a smile on anyone’s lips but yours.” He looked around with a calculating eye. “I gather if I pursue any sort of woman, she will somehow invent a story of even worse proportions of my rakish tendencies, leaving me exactly where I started. Alone and without hope. Or worse, locked up.”

  He hadn’t meant to add that last part in there. Amusing thing, being at your wit’s end. One starts blubbering about nonsensical things. It’s easier to reveal yourself and be vulnerable, because in the end, what does it matter? How could it get any worse?

  Sebastian was the first to speak. “Are you saying we need to find out the identity of this Mrs. Peabody before you can be successful? Many have tried. Trust me, friend. You aren’t the first to be attacked by that column, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

  Phillip pushed his food away. “Does it matter? As it stands, I am the most hated man in all of London. The only women who dance with me are Abby, Emma, and the little Hartwell girl who wouldn’t care if she were dancing with a demon in disguise as long as it got her away from Whitmore. You’ve established a foundation in my name, but can a leopard really change its spots?”

  No one said anything, because in the end, what could they really say? No, you’re wrong? Everyone at the table knew the opposite was true. Phillip was correct in his assumption. It seemed the harder he tried to be good, the more the woman flayed him alive. What profit came from being good when people only remembered the bad? Was it at all possible to start over and fresh when the sins of one’s past continue to reappear in his present?

  They finished the meal in silence. Emma changed the subject to Abigail’s last few gatherings before they were to retire to the country for the winter. And Phillip thought maybe it would be best for everyone if he politely stepped back and owned up to his past. Maybe by finally making atonement for the things he’d done, or at least what people thought he had done, he would finally be redeemed—he could be free.

  Chapter Twelve

  Confused: to be confounded, unable to make sense of what is before one’s eyes. This is how I write on this dreary London morn. It seems, dear readers, a very peculiar thing has happened at the Hartwell Masquerade. A man without a mask was seen saving a girl from being accosted in the gardens. And whom, you ask, was this gallant stranger? None other than Lord Rawlings. I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. And then the devil did the most peculiar thing. He very authoritatively scolded said girl for going out all by herself. It seems this world has fallen on its ear. Listen closely, you may hear pigs flying, for the Earl of Rawlings has just been found giving out sound advice.

  —Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers

  Phillip thought about the previous night’s discussion as he lay in bed. And finally, when he drifted off it was a fitful sleep, full of images of one woman in particular about whom Sebastian would surely kill him for dreaming. Had he not sworn to stay away?

  The Season was coming to a close, and with that the final days of agony before he could either marry the first girl who didn’t cry in his presence or sadly bow out of the race completely and atone for the sins of his life.

  Though he often wondered what he had done that was so bad compared to his peers. Sure he had taken mistresses, but everyone did that. Yes, he had been challenged to several duels over cuckolding titled gentlemen. Surely that wasn’t as frowned upon as everyone was pretending it was?

  Yes, he had abandoned Emma, but hardly anyone knew of that scandal. Racking his brain only made his headache worse. In his mind, his sins weren’t any worse than that of any other rake—other than the fact that he was known as a somewhat notorious lover, but even then the numbers were vastly exaggerated.

  Three events. Only three. And everyone worth knowing would retire to the country. They would go into hibernation until the Season’s commencement yet again. Did they never tire of this way of life?

  His troubled thoughts followed him all day, until finally he could not ignore the blaring horn that was his future. After putting on the clothes Emma had bought for him, he strolled into the Hartwell’s masquerade and winced. He had forgotten a mask and domino. How the devil he managed to do that when the entire walk he was lamenting the fact that he had to go to a blasted masquerade was quite beyond him. By the time he made his way to the hosts, he was ready to run back to the door. But Rosalind would have nothing of that.

  “Rawlings! So glad you could attend, though it seems you’ve forgotten a most important part of your costume.”

  “Yes, well…” What could he say? Old age was getting to him?

  “Never mind.” She swatted at him with her fan. “I’m sure the young ladies will enjoy knowing it’s you accosting them instead of some hidden stranger. Do try to keep that cynical look off your face. Say, I haven’t seen Abigail. Would you mind looking for her?”

  Would he mind? Would he mind shooting himself in the foot? “No trouble at all,” he heard himself say, and then numbly he walked around the room. How was he supposed to locate her when every blasted woman in the great hall was wearing a mask?

  A vision of white and red stood before him. Whoever the lady was, her dress was mesmerizing. A fallen angel in disguise no doubt. She turned in his direction.

  Cursing, he took after her. How the hoyden managed to wear such a scandalous dress was on the forefront of his mind. That and kissing every piece of exposed flesh his eyes greedily took in.

  ****

  “That’s him,” a girl whispered to Abigail’s right. “I’ve heard he’s killed a man for looking at his mistress and has two children out of wedlock that he keeps hidden in the country.”

  “Wherever did you hear that nonsense?” Abigail snapped.

  The debutante smiled coolly. “Everyone knows, or at least I thought everyone did. What did you say your name was again?”

  An unbearable temptation to put the girl in her place washed over Abigail. Smiling tightly she gave her name, a brief curtsy, and walked toward the fresh air of the open balcony.

  “Miss Gates, fancy meeting you here. Is the ball so boring that I find you seeking refuge outside?” The Marquess of Whitmore stepped out of the hidden alcove and greeted her with a rakish grin.

  “Not at all.” Taking a step around the dandified man, she moved away from his clutches. Not only was he Rosali
nd’s betrothed, but he was known for taking advantage of innocent virgins like herself.

  “Hmm, shall I escort you then? I can see I’ve alarmed you with my lavish attention. Don’t appear so shocked that I knew it was your face hiding behind that sorry excuse for a mask. It wasn’t the face I recognized, but something else entirely.” His gaze boldly scanned the exposed part of her bodice before snapping back up to hers. “Shall we?”

  He didn’t give her a chance to say no. Instead, he roughly placed his hand on the small of her back and led her the remaining distance to the doors that would lead them to the balcony outside. Desperately she scoured the sea of faces for anyone familiar, until finally they landed on the Dowager Duchess of Barlowe, who was known for her impeccable taste and stringent beliefs in the ton. It came as no shock that upon recognition, the dowager merely took in Abigail’s companion, gave her a disapproving glare, and then the cut direct.

  Lovely.

  Hiding the fear that was rapidly accumulating in her stomach, she clutched her reticule and readied herself for an attack. At least Whitmore was predictable. If she could catch him off guard, perhaps she could escape without any ruin. Oddly, being seen alone with Whitmore wasn’t close to as bad as conversing with Rawlings, but she wished more than anything it was Rawlings who was forcefully leading her out into the gardens. If he kissed her, she wouldn’t fight him.

  No, you’d just run like a coward.

  Was that it? Truly? She was afraid of Rawlings? Or was it that she was afraid of her own feelings? Oh! How had things gotten so far beyond her control? A few weeks ago she had a plan; she’d known exactly what she wanted. And now? Well, now it was nearly impossible for her to know the route her life would take. Other than his wardrobe, Rawlings seemed to have all but given up, for the Season was almost over and he had yet to find a bride. And truth be told, he hadn’t even tried.