The Redemption of Lord Rawlings

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Abby!” Emma snapped. “I really have no patience for this. What you did was deceitful and ungrateful.”

  “You aren’t my mother.” Abigail snorted. “Besides, I need them.”

  “For what purpose other than to flaunt yourself even more?” Emma’s eyes brimmed with tears. “I do not understand why you are making this bigger than it is. Simply return the dresses, Abby.”

  “I will do no such thing.” Abby swallowed the lump of emotion rising in her throat. A sickening feeling took over when the tears Emma was holding in spilled forth onto her cheeks in rapid succession.

  “Pardon me.” She ran from the room, leaving Abigail alone with a furious-looking Sebastian.

  Abigail swallowed. “I—”

  “Save it, Abby. I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve listened to your side, and it seems I’m correct in my assumption. Can you not be content with what you have? We demand honesty from you, and you attack us.”

  Abigail bristled. “You caught me off guard, and you know people will be gossiping about me if I return the dresses.”

  “So gossip is more important to you than the feelings of your family? Of those who love you, Abigail?”

  “No, but, you know how it is.”

  Sebastian scoffed. “Yes, I do. I know that in order to be worthy of adoration you have to do something worthwhile. You manipulate, lie, and deceive in order to gain what you want. But, Abby, you will rue the day when things spiral out of control, and the same family you snuffed your nose at will be all that’s left to help you pick up the pieces.”

  “Seb—”

  “Enough!” he bellowed. “I will see to your sister. Do what you must— keep the dresses, burn them—I don’t care.”

  The silence was daunting. Abigail wasn’t sure what to do. The thought of telling them the truth made her feel even more ill. Surely they would not approve of her feelings for Rawlings, and they would be horrified to know she bought new dresses so he would see her differently. In fact, that just might drive Sebastian mad enough to lock her in her room. The tightness in her throat was overwhelming, almost making it impossible to swallow. She smoothed out her skirt and breathed in and out, allowing the horrid feelings to dissipate in her belly.

  Abigail conceded that apologizing was absolutely necessary, but how was she to go about it? Especially since she had no plans on returning the dresses? As the seconds went by she felt more and more miserable, she finally relented and went to her room. Perhaps dressing for the dinner party would lighten her mood.

  As she donned her new blue dress, she felt nothing but emptiness in the pit of her stomach. What was she doing? She had no idea how to gain Rawlings’ attention. He was different from other men. And the confidence she had once felt in the blue satin ball gown had turned to a drapery of guilt on her shoulders.

  She tugged her gloves into place and glanced in the mirror. Her hair was adorned with a few pearls, which matched the pearls she wore around her neck. When her eyes scanned the low bodice she nearly lost her nerve. It was by all standards, scandalously low. Even though it was en vogue, her sister would not be pleased, but this was the type of thing that gained men’s attentions. So she took a deep breath and made her way to the stairs.

  Chapter Nine

  Is this the Season for reprobates? It seems this author is constantly finding more and more situations which demand immediate attention. Just how many rakes are floating around the haute ton? The numbers are astonishing. And I hate to say this, I really do. But it seems that the ever-present Lord Rawlings is now…en vogue. Not a speck of stubble was seen on his otherwise chiseled face. And even this author noticed the cut of his jacket, though attempts were made to shield the eyes. If rakes are now the thing, then I pity all ladies with eyes.

  —Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers

  Phillip nervously scanned the room. His hands itched to grab at the champagne as the tray floated by his head, but he needed his wits about him. Most importantly, this was the first dinner party after his radical reformation. At one point he thought to carry a prayer book with him just to make sure the “holy and forgiven” effect was given.

  Although Sebastian and Emma had hinted at a small party, it was obvious several members of the ton had somehow managed to squeeze their way into the private dinner, making what was once a small get-together into a rather large affair with over fifty people skittering about.

  Sighing, he made his way toward the salon where some guests were lounging and conversing. The large townhome was lit with hundreds of candles, giving a glowing result to the marble floors and expensive Persian rugs. Phillip grimaced as he remembered a time when he used to live for the candlelight, for it meant nighttime was upon him. A time when he could take advantage of women for his own pleasure and gamble until the wee hours of the morning. Now the lights flickered, mocking his every move as if to say his time was up. All the stolen moments in the gardens, on the balconies, and in the gambling halls had brought him right back to the place he had been.

  In need of a wife.

  Brushing shoulders with the ton.

  And pretending to be something he was not—good.

  “Rawlings?” There was no mistaking the voice.

  “Lady Fenton, how do you do this fine evening?” Bowing over her hand, he kissed the air above her fingers and managed a smile. She blanched and her eyes raked him up and down until he began shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Why did he feel naked beneath her scrutiny?

  “Oh my.” She fanned herself, blushing profusely. “Forgive me, my lord, it seems I’ve forgotten how striking you can be.”

  “Yes, well, debauchery does have a way of blackening one’s countenance, wouldn’t you say?”

  She lifted her eyebrow and tittered. “Ah, I would say. I would most definitely say.” What madness was this? The woman was married. It wasn’t as if he had changed so much about himself, save his clothes and style of hair. Clearing his throat, he excused himself and sought out where Sebastian was holding court with Renwick and Belverd.

  Phillip felt like a dandy standing next to the rest of them and had to fight to keep his feet firmly planted, lest he lose his nerve and run back to his home in search of black and white clothing. Sebastian had sworn repeatedly that with Phillip’s frame, he would be able to get away with colors other than black. But in order not to push him past his limitations, they had chosen a gray dinner jacket with a midnight blue waistcoat. Even Phillip had appreciated the effect…until Lady Fenton scanned him like a tasty morsel. All he could think as she assailed him with her eyes was that he mustn’t look at her bosom. For she would assume he was thinking about her bosom, and that would be devastating. A rush of memories came flowing back just as Sebastian said his name.

  “Yes?”

  “I said, 'Are you having a good time?' I noticed your chat with Lady Fenton. I do hope she has been welcoming.”

  “Yes, well, my hearing is as intact as is my honor.” He winked at Nicholas, who rolled his eyes.

  While the men continued to chat, Phillip listened and joked…and eventually relaxed. They were friends, after all, and in a twisted way it felt as though he was finally being welcomed home. Slowly, the atmosphere changed into that of old friends until it stopped abruptly. Phillip looked at Sebastian in confusion, but Sebastian’s eyes were trained on the door.

  Phillip’s gaze followed Sebastian’s line of sight, coming to rest on a vision in blue. Abigail had arrived, but for the life of him, Phillip could not figure out why it would displease the Angel Duke so, or why the sudden appearance of Abigail would cause such a disturbance for Sebastian.

  Her gaze darted in all directions until they rested on Phillip. She smiled weakly. He half expected her to twirl in a circle like she had done when she was a little girl. Instead she nodded her head and turned to the women on her right.

  Not that Philip hadn’t already known it, but Abigail was very much a grown woman. And the gown she was wearing only added to the already frustrated feelings of lust poun
ding through him. That girl needed more than a chaperone. “Someone should lock her in her room.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Sebastian said darkly.

  “My apologies. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.” Phillip inwardly cursed.

  Sebastian closed his eyes and pinched his nose. “Please, do not apologize on my account. We had a bit of a fight early this afternoon. Emma has been out of sorts ever since, and I’ve had a blasted hard time not paddling Abigail’s bottom for making my wife so miserable.”

  Did that mean Sebastian was taking volunteers?

  Phillip shook his head. First, to get that inappropriate thought of his head, and second, to shake the image of Abigail from his consciousness. All golden hair, staggering green eyes, and petite voluptuous curves. Not to mention rosy red lips and pale white skin. With his nostrils flaring, he managed to speak only one word. “Champagne?”

  “Yes, of course.” Sebastian motioned for the servant.

  Phillip relished the feeling of the dry substance as it poured down his throat. But the aching did not subside. What was that verse in the Bible? If your eyes cause you to sin, better you cut your eyes out than go on sinning? A little extreme, but in this case…it would be the only way.

  No, his mind argued. Her image is imprinted into your existence—it is in your soul. If you could not see, you could smell, you could hear, you could breathe the same air. And she would still haunt you, until the day you die.

  Phillip looked down at his empty glass.

  “Dinner is served,” a deep voice announced.

  Men began escorting women side by side to the dining room. Feeling somewhat left out, Phillip awkwardly stayed behind. But when Lady Fenton’s eye fell to him, he panicked and desperately searched for a living, breathing female he could pull. It just so happened that the only female left in the room, save Lady Fenton, was Abigail.

  Mumbling an oath, he approached her. “May I escort you?”

  Abigail’s face lit up like sunshine, and he immediately regretted his decision. He was supposed to be discouraging her. He didn’t deserve to be looked at in that manner—as if he single-handedly created the earth in six days. Roughly, he grabbed her hand and placed it on his, then without a word, he led her down the lit hallway.

  Was it his imagination or did the house have more dimly lit corridors than he remembered? And just how many darkened corners were they passing? His brain told him to move forward. His body, however, had very different entertainments in mind. Suddenly thankful that they were last, he walked a little faster. How in the devil was he supposed to help protect young Abigail when he hardly had enough energy to protect her from himself?

  ****

  It had worked! Abigail smiled triumphantly until her gaze fell on Sebastian, and then Emma. She tensed under Rawlings’ arm and hung her head. The moment of elation was not worth the scalding glare she received from Sebastian, nor the hurt she read in her sister’s eyes.

  She was not stupid. Abigail knew she had hurt her sister’s feelings, and since Emma was nearing her confinement, she was becoming more and more emotional. She couldn’t help but feel as if the darkened mood was all her fault, Abigail did not even notice that Rawlings had taken a seat next to her.

  It wasn’t common for Abigail to feel gloomy. Needless to say it took her by surprise considering it was not something she was used to. She ate her soup in silence, glancing every few minutes at Emma, hoping to gain her attention. Sebastian caught her staring and shook his head as if to warn her to leave well enough alone.

  As she fought the lump in her throat, she wanted nothing more than to rip the blasted dress off and throw it in the fire, but that would cause even more scandal. So she choked down the dry food and listened to the light conversation, praying the dinner would soon be over.

  When dinner finally ended, she pushed her chair out and retired with the rest of the ladies to the blue room, sherry in hand.

  “I just cannot believe they would invite him,” the Dowager Duchess of Barlowe said. “And I am sorry to say this, I really am, but does he truly believe a good shave will fog everyone’s memories of the drunken escapades of his past?”

  Lady Fenton closed her eyes. “I agree, your grace, but isn’t he a delight to look upon? Several times I caught myself glancing at his figure. I find that I get hot thinking about it.”

  “That, my dear friend, is age talking, not Lord Rawlings.” The dowager smiled. “It is necessary that we continue to ignore the man until he gets the idea that he is not accepted into society. Not now, not ever.”

  Abigail cleared her throat. “I am sorry, your grace, but I don’t agree with your assessment of his character. After all, who are we to pass judgment? Have we not all made mistakes in our lives?”

  “Spoken like a true innocent.” The dowager smiled sadly. “It seems that Lord Rawlings has a champion in you, my girl.”

  Abigail furrowed her eyebrows, because it wasn’t that she was his champion, it was that he deserved a chance just as much as anyone. “I may be young, but it is that innocent outlook on life that tells my heart to give everyone an opportunity, regardless of their past. Do you not agree that a person’s past can either define or change their future? If then, we project someone’s past into his or her future, we are not practicing forgiveness, nor goodness, but condemnation.”

  “Bravo, my dear,” The dowager couldn’t look more pleased, yet wasn’t she just the one saying horrid things about Rawlings?

  Rosalind, who had been quiet during the entire exchange, winked at Abigail. Feeling slightly better, Abigail relaxed, until her sister entered the room. Her eyes looked sad, making Abigail feel even worse.

  “Abigail, that dress becomes you. Who made it?” Lady Fenton asked.

  Quickly, Abigail looked to Emma, who refused to return her stare.

  “It’s from Madame Valerie’s, Lady Fenton. If you’ll just excuse me then.”

  Abigail bolted from her seat and ran to the outside balcony, choking back tears the entire way. Only when she reached the cool night air, was she able to finally give into gut-wrenching sobs that had threatened her during the previous conversation. She was being emotional, and she knew it. But Abigail could not bear her sister’s sadness or the guilt eating at her. And the fact that every young woman in attendance seemed to look to the dowager for guidance made it worse. How dare she say such things about Rawlings. She hardly knew him.

  Her corset was tight enough to hamper her breathing. Frantic, she pulled at the front, but it was no use. Her hand shook as she reached around to the back and met someone’s warm hand.

  “Allow me,” a voice said.

  Oh no.

  A man’s hands tenderly pulled at the back of her dress, and then somehow this angel in disguise managed to loosen the dress’s hold on her body just enough to ease her breathing and prevent hyperventilation.

  “Th-a-ank you,” she mumbled, completely ashamed, hurt, and scandalized. What was this stranger doing outside?

  “Abby?” She knew that voice. “Talk to me—tell me what has you so upset. You do remember you used to tell me everything. I remember a time when you could not wait to fall out of trees in hopes that I would catch you. Or fall and scrape your knee so I could blow a kiss and make the pain go away.”

  Words that dripped of poetry and sweet memories. Abigail involuntarily shuddered and turned to face Rawlings. “I cannot.”

  “You cannot or you will not? Which is it, Abby?”

  “You shouldn’t call me Abby,” she mumbled. “Thank you for…for what you did.” Why wouldn’t her voice stop shaking?

  Rawlings grinned, his white teeth glowing against his dark features. “Yes, well, I think I’ve earned the honor of calling you Abby, since I’ve known you the longest. I also believe that since I’m to protect you from rakes like myself, I can call you anything I like.”

  Abigail relented. She was too tired to fight. “You’re right.”

  Rawlings laughed. “Do my ears deceive me? Shall
I call in witnesses? Devil take it, Abby. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you utter such beautiful words.”

  “Very funny.” She shook her head and moved away, a small smile finally forming on her lips.

  “So, Abby,” he said, drawing out her name. It sounded like honey on his lips. “What has you out here trying to pull your dress off? Imagine my surprise when I stepped outside only to find the object of my thoughts clawing at her beautiful silk gown.”

  “You were thinking about me?” Curse her voice for sounding so hopeful.

  Rawlings sauntered to her side. “Yes, I was thinking you had disappeared suddenly and your father would have my head if you managed to vanish down a dimly lit hallway only to be seduced by a rake.”

  “A rake like you?”

  He looked away. “Yes, a rake like me.”

  “We had a bit of a row today. My sister, Sebastian, and myself. I said some horrid things. I did not mean any of them, but I was hurtful. And now I feel awful, and it’s all this stupid dress's fault.”

  “So you meant to punish your dress?”

  “It was punishing me!” Abigail argued. “I could scarcely breathe. And it just reminded me…of the fight.”

  “Well then, by all means remove it from your person at once.” he teased, or seemed to be teasing. “Very logical reasoning, Abby.”

  “Thank you.” She pushed at his arm and put distance between them, not trusting herself to be so close. “Why does everyone treat me like a child?” The question was more direct than she would have liked, but it seemed that every time she spoke, people responded with a pat on her hand and a reference to her age and innocence.

  Rawlings didn’t speak for a while. “Abby, you are a child.”

  She froze. The dress hadn’t been worth it, nor had her defense of his character, not that it was for show. She had failed. Gathering her strength and hoping he wouldn’t turn her down, she grabbed him by the jacket and kissed him, suddenly realizing it was the second time in which she had forced herself upon Rawlings in the past week.