The Redemption of Lord Rawlings (13 page)

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 Rosalind’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.

The warm July breeze played lightly in her hair as she made the final descent to the balcony. The instant the doors closed behind her, Abigail knew without a doubt she was to be ruined.

****

By the time the next song was played, Phillip was in a haze of frustration. One minute he saw her, and the next she had miraculously disappeared. His masculine pride took a direct hit when he considered she may be hiding from him, but the logical side of him was on edge. What if something had happened? Hadn’t he promised to protect her even if it meant from himself?

Phillip pushed through the crush, he didn’t even see the lady until he nearly toppled her over. With a curse, he picked up her cane and came face to face with the Dowager Duchess of Barlowe.

The one woman who probably hated him as much as Mrs. Peabody herself—or more, if that was even possible. The disapproving glare in her eyes told him it was, in fact, possible.

“
My apologies, your grace.”

Clear blue eyes scrutinized him; no emotion flashed across her face, save the judgment already being poured out in such intense waves of tension that Phillip thought he might disappear right then and there.

“
What, may I ask, has you so out of sorts, Lord Rawlings? Earls do not run about at balls and step on the toes of society’s patronesses.” Her nose went up into the air.

Irritated and afraid because he still couldn’t see Abigail, he answered, “Your grace, I do apologize. If you believe my apology to be inadequate, I am gravely sorry, but there is a pressing matter that demands my immediate attention. I know it might seem odd, considering what’s so often said about me, but it appears that the reason this earl is running about, as you so brilliantly put it, is because a young debutante is missing, and I fear she will be ruined if I don’t locate her soon.”

The dowager duchess cracked a smile throwing Phillip completely off guard.

“
Look on the balcony, and, Rawlings, do try to be discreet.” Winking, the lady ambled up to the Duke of Tempest and tripped right into his blasted arms, all the while offering up the most horrifying scream that, for a moment, Phillip wasn’t sure which damsel to help. As Sebastian helped the duchess regain her footing, she sent Phillip a look of pure triumph. The distraction was for him and just what he needed if he was to obtain Abigail without anyone knowing she had been on the balcony with Devil only knows whom.

The music stopped—people gasped. As Phillip touched the door to the balcony he heard a choking noise that sounded quite like a farm animal giving birth. The dowager was truly outdoing herself. He let himself out into the moonlight and cursed. Whitmore had taken a stance to corner Abigail. His large frame hid her petite one, and it appeared he was leaning in for a kiss.

Abigail, however, looked anything but receptive, for the arm that held her reticule was raised high above his head without his knowledge, most likely preparing to bash him.

“
Ahem.” Phillip cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Miss Gates. Your sister has been asking for you, and I believe this dance was promised to the duke.”

Nodding, Abigail made a hasty retreat into Phillip’s arms and nestled into his frame. She was shaking. Cursing himself for not watching her closer, he kissed her hair and glared at Whitmore. “Don’t you have a fiancée waiting for you?”

“
You think this little interlude was my idea? With a dress like that, one could hardly blame me for taking her smile as an invitation to do much more.” Whitmore snickered and brushed past them.

Abigail hid her head in Phillip’s chest. “I hate him! You don’t believe him, do you?” Her voice was muffled.

Rage and jealousy told him she was lying, but his heart knew the truth. Abigail might be somewhat of a tease and a bit controlling but she would never do that to Rosalind. Whitmore was just as repulsive to her as he was to every other woman who didn’t succumb to the dandy’s charms.

“
Abigail, look at me.” His demand sounded harsher than he meant.

She sniffed and looked up. Her green eyes shimmered against the moonlight. Suddenly Phillip was at a loss for what to say. Original intent flew out the window the moment he saw fresh tears shining on her cheeks.

“
Rawlings, truly he forced me, I would never—” Abigail looked down. “You believe it’s my fault because of the way I’ve acted. The story of the boy who cried wolf comes to mind.” She shrugged. “After all, why would you believe me when I practically accosted you in Hyde Park?”

Guilt, he despised it. “What does it matter if I believe you or not, Abby? The problem, it seems, is how to get you back into the ball without anyone seeing you. Have you a shawl you can wear the remainder of the night?” He cracked the door and noted the commotion still taking place. The duchess was now swatting Sebastian with her fan. Poor sod. He had half a mind to feel sorry for him.

“
Why would I need a shawl?” Abigail’s breath was hot on his face. How had she snuck up on him? “It isn’t as if I’m dressed improperly, and my dress isn’t wrinkled one bit.”

Turning slightly, his eyes openly traced the dress in question. Suddenly, he was quite angry. He fought to keep his voice even through clenched teeth. “You don't know why I would ask that you wear a shawl?”

She shook her head, holding her mouth in a perfectly innocent bow. Unbelievable, she had no idea.

“
Your dress is indecent, Abby. Most men are taller than women, and you, my dear, are shorter than average. At this particular angle, I can look down your bodice and see all the way to your slippers.”

Her breath hitched, and he continued his pursuit. “Your breasts strain against your bodice in such a fashion that it makes a man wonder what it would be like to rip open your corset. The color speaks of wantonness, and had I not intervened when I did, I imagine Whitmore would have proven the very words I am saying to you now. Your dress is an invitation, begging to be unwrapped.”

Abigail gasped, her reaction palpable. She choked on a sob and with the might of an aggravated peer slapped him across the face good and hard, muttered an oath under her breath, then pushed past him to re-enter the ballroom. Phillip followed behind her, praying his cheek wasn’t as red as it felt. It was amusing that the girl would hit him so blasted hard for his honesty. She needed to hear it. He knew he had hurt Abigail, but if a little hurt was what it took for the girl to cease her crazy antics, then so be it.

Abigail continued to blaze a trail through the crowd until she reached Rosalind’s side. Rawlings followed, trying desperately not to hold his cheek, which throbbed with every beat of his black heart.

“
It seems I’ve recovered!” The Dowager Duchess of Barlowe announced, hitting Sebastian one final time on the arm with her fan. With a chuckle she was off, the music started up again, and things righted themselves. All except Sebastian, who still seemed to have endured quite a shock from the entire ordeal. He curiously looked at his arm then at the floor and back at his arm as if to comprehend how exactly the dowager had tripped and why the devil she had hit him the way she did.

Amused and in pain, Rawlings approached him. In feigned innocence he asked, “Whatever happened?”

“
No clue.” Sebastian cursed and looked truly irritated. “Say, have you seen Abigail?”

“
Over there.” Rawlings pointed. Of course his gaze was trained on her, waiting for any sort of indication that she was going to put on the shawl he had suggested. Relief washed over him when he noticed her wrap one firmly around her shoulders.

“
Hmm, wonder why she seems to be returning from the hall?” Sebastian asked.

Phillip put him at ease. “I believe she was discussing some gossip with her friends. I wouldn’t worry. She’s still quite young. The idea of being at a glittering ball hasn’t lost its appeal for her just yet.”

“
I suppose.” Sebastian gave her one last glance. “Phillip, may I ask you a favor?”

One more favor and he was going to go insane. Protecting Abigail from himself was difficult enough, throw in Whitmore and every other rake, and Phillip doubted he would sleep at all for the next two weeks. Even though his mind told him he could not possibly handle any more responsibility, he found himself asking, “What is it?”

“
You’ve known Abigail for quite some time. The girl’s been out of sorts lately. Would you mind taking her out for a morning ride? She does so love to spend the mornings on her horse. I haven’t the heart to tell her debutantes aren’t to be gadding about in the morning hours. I trust you completely in this measure, Phillip. She won’t talk to me or to Emma. Perhaps she will talk to you.”

“
Who the devil do you think I am? A priest? You think me taking her for a ride,” he cringed at his poor word choice, “will cajole her into making confession?”