“Never.” A hot tear slipped down Abigail’s cheek. Her heart twisted as if she had lost everything in the world—the love of her life, the opinion of the only one who mattered—with nothing left to lose, she took one last leap of faith. “The first. The last. Rawlings, you have always been the only one.”
And Abigail Gates attempted to kiss Rawlings for the third time in two weeks. But this time he met her halfway.
Desperate fingers wove into her hair. His lips were hot and frenzied against hers. Urgently, Rawlings pulled her against him. The hardness of his body inflamed her. He was wrong. She had never been truly kissed. Not until this very moment.
Suddenly, his hands were everywhere—touching her, caressing her, teasing her, until she thought she might cry out. It was such pleasurable pain, almost unbearable, when his teeth nipped and teased her neck. She felt marked, scarred, as if he was branding her as his own. And for a moment she was certain Rawlings had lost complete control, just as she had, the very minute she set eyes on him.
“So beautiful,” he muttered before dipping his tongue into her mouth.
Was it so wrong of her to want more of him? To cling to him as if he was her last breath? He took and she gave. Willingly, wantonly, because she loved him. Despite his faults, he was hers, and in this moment, the unredeemable Lord Rawlings was perfect.
When his hands slid to the front of her riding habit and pulled at her short jacket, she leaned into him. But as his warm hand came into contact with the thin chemise, he froze.
Rawlings pulled back abruptly. Agony washed over his features, and he stared at her. Then finally a morbid smile creased his lips, and he laughed. “It would never have been that way with Whitmore. Never. But tell me, were you comparing us?”
Dumbfounded, Abigail could only stand there. Hair mussed, lips swollen.
“Of course, I was,” she answered.
“And?” His voice was strained.
“You’ve been measured and found wanting. Good day, Rawlings.” Abigail shakily pulled at the reins and managed to climb onto her horse without bursting into tears.
****
He hated himself.
Loathed himself, actually.
How had things gotten so dreadfully out of hand? Had she any idea the power she held over him? It was as if he couldn’t keep his mouth from saying the things he continued to say to her—out of jealousy, possession, desire. His baser instincts demanded he make an excuse for the way he felt about her.
His mind played back the previous night—the look of terror, not passion, on her face. Trembling she had run to him.
“I’m an idiot.” He ran his fingers through his hair.
Though, as his arousal dissipated, he realized she had kissed as an innocent, which should have hinted to the fact that he had misjudged everything. Miserably.
The woman was a maze of confusion. He hadn’t helped the situation by kissing her so desperately, as if he had no control over himself and was left with no recourse but to give into all he’d been struggling to keep inside.
Well, Sebastian was going to kill him.
It was inconceivable that Abby should go home and keep silent about his behavior. He had not only hurt her feelings, making false accusations because he was a coward and a rake, but he had thoroughly ruined her in the process.
Mounting his horse, he thought about his options. What if she said something? What if Sebastian were to demand they marry? Would it be so terrible? His lips still hummed with Abigail’s fresh taste.
The lying had to stop. The rejection—everything. Could he continue to deny himself happiness? Furthermore, was Abigail the happiness his broken soul had been searching for? His head hurt from all the thinking it had been doing of late, and his body was more than irritated with him for allowing things to get out of control without any release in sight.
As Phillip turned his horse back toward the Tempest townhome, he wondered if he would forever be doomed to sleep with one eye open in case the object of his desire decided to pull a knife on him. He smiled. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if Abigail did that or worse. It seemed he would always be safer if he didn’t underestimate the chit.
She was a spitfire. Confident. Not exactly trustworthy, but a challenge to him at every step, and she made no excuses when he accused her. She sat like a lady and endured his venomous charges with dignity. And then she had kissed him.
What had she said? It has always been you. The first and the last.
Impossible. His mind was playing tricks on him. She was merely fascinated by him; it was nothing more than that.
Although he never thought himself the coward, he waited. If Sebastian called him out, he would confess his sins. But if nobody was the wiser, he would keep silent. For Abigail was the only woman Phillip knew he would lose his heart to, and he wasn’t sure he trusted her with the remaining pieces.
Chapter Fourteen
This author is curious if anyone saw the sunrise the other morning. Many said it was beautiful, but a little bird also informed me there was a lovers’ spat ruining the morning serenity. Who, this author asks, would be out so early for a tete-a-tete? Could it be Rawlings and his mysterious new bride? Or has he given up the hunt completely and found a mistress for his last days as a free man?
—Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers
After the incident at the Hartwell’s Masquerade, the kiss the previous morning, and the unfortunate incident of Phillip accusing Abigail of being a wanton chit, it was apparent that Abigail Gates was trying to kill him. Mercilessly and splendidly bringing him to his knees, all the while smiling her innocent smile and using her fan in the most aggravating way. Yes, death should be so sweet.
It was the second to the last event of the Season. Sebastian had said nothing to Rawlings save to ask if he had discovered the identity of Abigail’s infatuation.
“Well, old chap, you see, it seems Abigail’s been under the misapprehension that I’m redeemable, so it looks as if we are to be brothers-in-law.”
Muttering an oath, he walked through the maze of people. It seemed as the Season came to an end, people grew more desperate. Debutantes no longer stayed near their chaperones but were found wandering—prowling was more like it, especially if they were lacking in marriage offers.
Chaperones became lax, because they too were tired of guarding their charge’s honor just as much as the girls were exhausted by keeping it. Yes, there was always fresh scandal just before the end. Didn’t he know it? Wasn’t he facing the exact same desperation? His feelings toward Abigail had only been enflamed, and now it seemed he had no desire to marry anyone except the one girl he knew he was supposed to keep his hands off of.
And she was busy making him pay for the things he said. Twice he had seen her speak with Whitmore. And twice Whitmore had whispered into her ear. He should have gone to Sebastian, told him everything, admitted his feelings and gotten the whole blasted thing over with. Instead he had decided torturing himself would be the better alternative. So he watched while her fan flipped this way and that. He pretended not to care when Tuluse, a young man aspiring to be just as infamous as Phillip himself, kissed Abigail’s delicate fingers.
Shaking, he tried to look anywhere but at Abigail. People pushed around him, careful not to touch him as if his sin would somehow rub off onto their prudish bodies. And then the strangest thing happened.
The Dowager Duchess of Barlowe made a grand show of parting the sea of people in front of her until she stood before him. Of all the horrible things to happen to him, this would be the worst.
Phillip gazed down at her with a smug grin and bowed. It was only a matter of time before one of society’s most powerful dowagers would call him out on the carpet in front of the ton. Hadn’t she been blackening his name just a few days past at the dinner party? The woman had made her opinion quite clear among the other ladies that he, Lord Rawlings, was truly beyond redemption.
He waited…and waited, then waited some more for the lady to say something
—anything to set his nerves at ease.
“Lovely weather this July, don’t you think?” She made a move to stand beside him but refused to make eye contact.
Phillip couldn’t help it as his gaze scanned the shocked and offended faces of those around him. “It seems we shall be in for a sweltering ball at the end of the week.”
“Agreed.”
Never had Phillip been at loss for words around an elderly woman before. This was a first for the rake. “I, uh, that is to say…ahem, I—”
“Sweet heavens, Rawlings, do try to speak in complete sentences. It’s hard enough for these old ears to pick up what others say when they aren’t blabbering like fools.”
“Right.”
“Well then, it has been a pleasure, Rawlings, a true pleasure.” The dowager turned to him, curtsied—to him, and then the saucy minx smiled and patted him on the shoulder before taking her leave.
What had just happened wasn’t lost on him, for the moment she ambled away, several other members of the ton approached him.
The grumpy dowager had, without any sort of help, brought him back into the bosom of society, simply by talking of the weather.
Wonders never cease.
It had made sense that Tempest couldn’t do it, for Tempest had caused his own string of scandals a month before, but this woman—revered for her strong opinions, worshipped because she, too, believed that the ton should rule the world—she accepted him.
But as Phillip shook hands and conversed with those around him, he could only wonder why.
****
Abigail wallowed in utter boredom as the man whose name she forgot continued to animatedly discuss the difference between good horse flesh and poor horse flesh. He lost her the minute he said, “You’re a woman, so I won’t make the assumption that you adequately know how to ride a horse.”
From that statement on she nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled, all the while trying to think of ways she could insult him without making herself look wretched. What did her sex have to do with her horse-riding ability? The man spoke interminably, droning on and on despite the glazed look in her eyes. Then she saw something eerie.
The sea of people began shuffling, as if parting. The Dowager Duchess of Barlowe made her way toward Rawlings. Abigail’s stomach dropped to her knees. She had to get to him—to rescue him. That woman would rather be eaten alive by rabid dogs than associate with Rawlings. Everyone knew her disdain for rakes, especially Rawlings. Hadn’t Abigail just defended Rawlings to that old bag?
Gossips said the dowager had been seduced by a rake during her first Season. If it hadn’t been for her dowry and the late duke’s obsession with money, she would have been ruined. As it was, the dear lady did not have a love match. Instead she had to idly stand by while her husband not only spent all of her money but flaunted his mistresses at several ton gatherings as well. The woman was a stickler for rules. It wouldn’t surprise Abigail one bit if the dowager were elected queen one day.
Rawlings seemed just as shocked as Abigail felt. She knew the smugness he exuded was just a defensive mask firmly put in place toward the evident cut he knew was coming. But the dowager did the strangest thing. She stood by him, and then her lips moved…as though she were speaking... to Rawlings!
Unable to feign interest any longer, Abigail muttered an apology and pushed past the young man who had been boring her to tears. Minutes I’ll never get back in my life.
As her feet carried her closer, she could hear hushed whispers. “Rawlings? She is associating with him?”
The dowager smiled—the old cow smiled at Rawlings! Then she turned to him, winked, and patted him on the shoulder as if he was some sort of long lost son. The woman wouldn’t even touch her lap dog. She believed outward signs of affection spoiled people.
Surely the dowager was foxed. Abigail carefully inspected the woman’s gait as she left Rawlings’ side. A graceful fluid stride carried her back to the side of the room.
“Impossible,” Abigail said aloud.
“Indeed,” a husky voice said from beside her. Turning, she came face to face with the most bronze-looking man she had ever seen. While his features were unapologetically English, his face spoke of long exposure to the elements.
He smiled, revealing blinding white teeth against his tan skin. He towered over her, and she could only stare. Never had she seen a more intimidating man in her life. However, somehow he put her at ease. Behind his enormous build was tenderness.
“My apologies, my lady. I do not wish to thrust society into more gossip. We have not yet been introduced, so I will take my leave. Enjoy the evening’s events, Miss Gates.”
Then he was gone. How did a giant disappear in a throng? Abigail’s head snapped back to Rawlings, who was now overwhelmed by crowds of people. So that’s all it takes? One respectable woman patting him on the shoulder, and immediately he’s in the bosom of Society again.
A paralyzing fear clutched her as she watched several debutantes giggle and make their way towards Rawlings. Her Rawlings.
Oh, no!
Panic racked her brain. Every time she made a play for him he was as skittish as a church mouse. She couldn’t lose him; she wouldn’t lose him. Why had the idea of living without him and giving up been so easy to swallow earlier that day?
Because she knew she was lying to herself, and because his possessive kiss spoke otherwise. But time, it seemed, was not on her side.
Abigail considered his reactions. He only made mistakes when he was angry, when he was—jealous.
A thoughtful smile creased her lips. She bit her lip and went in search of Whitmore. Perhaps it would be easier than she thought?
It didn’t take long to locate Whitmore, for he could always be found around women of low moral fiber with nothing left to lose. Wonder of all wonders, he was standing in a group of loud women who seemed just as foxed as Whitmore himself.
“My lord.” She curtsied and tried her best to manage a seductive smile.
His demeanor changed immediately. “Why, Miss Gates, it is such a pleasure. I do believe we should finish our conversation in the gardens, wouldn’t you agree?”
Abigail swallowed the bile in her throat. “Lovely.”
Whitmore gently grabbed at her arm, then froze. A look of absolute fear washed over his features. “I-I, um.”
“Whatever is the matter, my lord?” Abigail teased.
“I saw him. My bro—”
“Your what?” she coaxed, for he had stopped midsentence.
“Impossible. I’ve merely had too much to drink. I need…” Sweat beaded on his forehead. “My apologies, Miss Gates. I’ve suddenly taken ill.” He spun on his heels and stumbled out of the room. Abigail was left staring after him in amazement. What the devil? Had the world flipped on its ear that night?
Her plan was over before it even began. She exhaled a frustrated huff of air and decided to get some weak and bitter lemonade—anything to keep her thoughts of Rawlings and her jealousy at bay.
“Blast!” Her dress was caught on something. Not wanting to gain any unwanted attention, she tugged at it, all the while fanning herself profusely as to ward off anyone who may think she needed assistance. She glanced down and noticed that the edge of her dress had wrapped itself on the table leg. How, it had managed to do that, she would never know. Muffling a curse, she nonchalantly pulled lightly as to not draw attention.
“Cursed thing!” She pulled harder, fanned harder, and felt all together exhausted, but the dress would not budge. Abigail glanced around and bent quickly to yank her skirts free, leaving her posterior high in the air as she pulled and pulled until it finally wrenched free, sending her toppling over.
She swore again, as the man who had previously bored her beyond recovery, helped her to her feet and began brushing at her skirts.
“No, I’m unharmed there is no need to—”
His frantic preening drew more attention than necessary. Soon enough there were ten men moving in all around her to save h
er from some sort of catastrophe or ruination.
“Oh blast it! Let me die right here, right now,” she prayed, closing her eyes in mortification. She hoped somehow she would make it out of the crowd unscathed.
****
Never had Phillip been so angry. His pulse raced, muscles strained beneath the cool composure that was his smile as he gazed across the room at Abigail.
Again. She had done it again. And this time was the last time he would be used. It was his job to protect her from the men who cared nothing save for her fortune and the way she batted her eyelashes. Or perhaps it was the gleaming sun-kissed hair, which seemed to cause everyone in her vicinity to begin salivating like ravenous wolves.
The crush parted before him as he strode across the room to where she stood, batting those infuriating eyelashes and blushing at the fawning lot surrounding her.
“Gentlemen.” He offered a curt nod to the mob of the eager pups swarming Abigail. Knowing his presence caused them unease, he decided to show the aspiring rakes how to properly seduce a girl. “Abigail,” he said.
A resounding gasp followed, for he was using her Christian name in public. Ignoring the disapproval, he lifted her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it, lingering above her fingers as if he was having second thoughts about releasing her hand. “And might I say your dress is breathtaking this evening? Though I must admit I am shocked to see so many men fluttering about as I do now. You promised me a dance, but may I beg a favor?”
Angrily, she pulled her hand away and rubbed it, as if to dissolve the memory of his lips against her hand.