The Redemption of Lord Rawlings

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Yes.” Phillip held her closer as he whispered in her ear, “The dowager was not pleased and tried to fire the girl.”

  Abigail gasped.

  “Have no worries, I’ve hired her. We need more staff at our home. It was not an issue. So you see, my dear,” he continued as they came upon their destination, “she is either home sleeping off that dreadful stuff or packing.”

  Abby let go of his arm and smiled. “I am glad we can enjoy the night together then.”

  Phillip, forgetting he was in public, leaned in to kiss his wife, but was interrupted by a kick to the shin.

  He cursed. “What was that for?”

  Sebastian shrugged. “Isn’t proper in public.”

  Phillip rolled his eyes. “Says the man who only months ago nearly mauled his wife in front of the ton.”

  “Yes well, I was proving a point,” Sebastian argued.

  “As am I.”

  Sebastian scoffed, “We all know how much in love you two are, it’s the only thing people are talking about. Well that and your stepmother’s disgrace.”

  “I was just telling Abigail that I doubt she’ll make an app—”

  ”You!” A shrill voice screamed above the noise.

  The music stopped. Abigail’s mouth dropped open. With a knowing smile on his lips, Phillip turned around and cursed.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “You, you, rake! Of all the horrid things you have done, this tops them all!” she screamed, both of her hands fisted at her sides, looking much like a three-year-old having a public fit set to get her own way. Her dress, though fashionable, was slightly wrinkled, and dark spots were visible beneath her eyes. All in all, he had never seen her look so haggard, and in public nonetheless.

  Phillip managed not to laugh. “Yes, I do believe that has been established, though I would now like to put forth that I’m reformed, just so there isn’t any confusion, you understand.”

  Sebastian choked on his laugh behind him. Several other greedy gazes took in the scene with utter delight.

  “You have taken everything! Have you no love for your only living relation?” She snickered coldly. “Oh well, I guess that isn’t entirely true. You do have that bastard John, don’t you? Though he’s somewhere in Newgate.”

  A lady gasped next to him, though he couldn’t tell if it was Abigail or a stranger.

  “You will cease, madam, and I will escort you from the premises.” He made a move to touch her but was pushed away by strong hands.

  “Don’t touch her!” Whitmore stood in front of the Dowager Rawlings.

  “It's like the theatre, is it not?” Sebastian whisper behind him.

  “Always so helpful when others are in distress,” Phillip muttered as a crazed-looking Whitmore stood proud and inebriated in front of his mother. Not sure on his feet, the man swayed this way and that. Pity, for Phillip would have liked a good fight.

  “Whitmore, go home.”

  “I will not, not until you…ap-apologize!” He hiccupped and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. The man was completely foxed, so deep in his cups that he was falling all over his words.

  “Drooling, Whitmore?” Phillip commented and took off his jacket, handing it to Sebastian who had now joined the fun by standing closer than he was before. In slow, fluid movements, he rolled up his sleeves, ready for the very unfair fight to take place.

  “I’ll fisht you!”

  “He’ll what?” Sebastian asked.

  “Fight!” Whitmore shouted. “I will fight for her. I l-loves her!”

  “I think he means love,” Sebastian said.

  “Ah, and how does she feel about you, Whitmore?” Phillip asked, for his mother had been uncharacteristically quiet.

  She blanched and began stuttering, “I, well, I…it isn’t true! We’ve nothing going on. He’s lying! He’s trying to ruin me! Whitmore is nothing more than an acquaintance I’ve seen from time to time. Truly, he means nothing to me.”

  Not good.

  Whitmore jerked around to face her. “All those times, those moments! I spread rumours for you! I delivered gossip to that horrid Mrs. Peabody! I even—”

  As the room bustled with excitement, Phillip let out a bark of laughter and began clapping. “Bravo, at least now the mystery is solved. To think, all this time I was being attacked by my own family and a man whom I once called friend.”

  “Ahem,” A man cleared his throat.

  Of course, why not add more mayhem?

  Phillip looked to the stairs. A bronze fellow, one who suddenly made Phillip feel a tad inadequate, began descending the stairway. He was a giant among others, at least a head taller than the rest. His golden hair reached all the way down to his shoulders, slightly waved at the bottom. With a tanned face more suited for the colonies, Phillip gaped in curiosity, the man smiled, white teeth glowing against his skin.

  It was the same gentleman he had seen at Whites. The one who had pulled him off Whitmore.

  The man slowly made his way to the middle of the dance floor where Whitmore and his stepmother stood fuming. As Phillip scanned the crowd, he noticed a flicker of familiarity across some faces. Who was this man and why didn’t Phillip recognize him?

  “Saints above,” the Dowager of Barlowe gasped. “Stefan?”

  Truly, it was something straight out of a Greek Tragedy.

  Walking forward, the dowager, a tear running down her cheek, embraced him. And Whitmore, whose eyes were now trained on the strange fellow as if he were a ghost, turned deathly pale and made a slow motion toward the door.

  The man hugged the dowager and kissed her hands before facing Whitmore. “Brother,' tis good to see you.”

  Whitmore froze in his steps.

  The Dowager of Rawlings fainted on the spot, only to be caught by the hard ground. She was quickly carried out, per Phillip’s head nod and Sebastian’s instructions. Leaving the two brothers in the middle of the dance floor.

  Abby approached on Phillip’s left. “Well, I guess the saying is true. Just wait for another scandal to happen and they forget about yours.”

  “Astonishing!” Phillip answered, pulling her to his side.

  The Dowager of Barlowe, teary-eyed, walked to the man announcing guests. Everyone looked up, awaiting the introductions.

  “Presenting Stefan Harris, Marquess of Whitmore, returned from the dead.”

  Whitmore, or the old Whitmore, backed away and fled the scene, leaving the true Marquess the center of attention.

  Laughing, the marquess said, “Is it not a ball? Why is there no music?”

  Straightaway, the music started up again. The marquess approached Phillip and Abigail.

  “Did I not say in due time you would discover my identity?”

  She swallowed and looked to Phillip then back to the marquess. “You did.” With a bow, he left.

  Phillip continued to stare with jealousy as the man turned on his heel.

  “How did you know that fellow?” Phillip asked, still watching the giant of a man move through the crowds.

  “Who?” Abby smiled.

  “That man.” Phillip, now flustered, pointed, but noticing the look of adoration on his wife’s face, forgot immediately why he was so jealous. And kissed her, against Sebastian’s wishes, in the middle of the ball.

  “What a mess,” Phillip murmured as he escorted his wife to the refreshments. “Champagne or lemonade?”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “Do you truly need to ask?”

  “Champagne it is.” He handed her a flute, but not before kissing her again full on the mouth. He knew Sebastian was probably off somewhere fuming over their ability to scandalize everything. But he didn’t care. He loved—no adored—no, worshipped his wife and wanted everyone to know it.

  “Rawlings?” A lady’s voice interrupted him. Snapping his head to the left, he noticed the approach of the Dowager Barlowe.

  “Your Grace.” He bowed and waited. The woman was always full of such surprises.

  “I need to apologi
ze, and I do not like apologizing. So this stays between us or there will be the devil to pay, understand?”

  Was he getting scolded? Because it felt like it. Heat crept up his neck. He glanced at Abby, who seemed just as bewildered.

  “I understand.” He was more curious as to why she would feel the need to apologize.

  “You see,” the dowager said in hushed tones. “I have kept this very thing a secret for so long and for it to get out, well my favorite hobby would be lost, and you know what happens when one has idle hands. One does things that aren’t the least bit respectable. Not that what I do isn’t a little scandalous, but what do they expect me to do, sit in my house and wait to die?”

  “Er, I am confident nobody expects that, your grace."

  Abigail covered her mouth with her hand and coughed. The minx better not laugh or he’d lose control as well.

  “Thank you, Rawlings, for your kind words.”

  “Absolutely.” He smiled, and waited with anticipation.

  “I am sorry that I listened to that horrid step mother of yours in regards to your reputation. It wasn’t my place, and I see now how difficult I made life for you. I am forever grateful this girl didn’t give up on you,” She patted Abby’s hand and somehow Abigail lost her balance and tipped champagne right onto the dowager's gloves.

  “Oh no! Your Grace! My apologies!” Abigail began patting at the wet glove on the dowager's right hand.

  “Oh, have no fear. I’ll just remove my gloves. I am after all a dowager—what can society say about me?”

  The woman had a point.

  She removed her glove very slowly and scandalously stuffed it inside her bodice. Phillip had momentary flashes of Lady Fenton doing the same thing. Why was he was always looking at his elder’s breasts? Or forced to look is more like it.

  “Well then, may I ask one thing?” The dowager questioned.

  “Anything,” Phillip answered.

  “Actually, my dear, this question is for your wife.”

  Abby tilted her head, waiting.

  “Are the rumors grossly exaggerated?”

  “Rumors of…” Abigail prompted.

  The dowager gave Phillip a very slow and uncomfortable look, starting at his toes and ending at his head. Winking, she turned back to Abigail. "His rakish reputation of course. Are the rumors true, my dear?”

  Blushing, Abigail answered, “Every single one.”

  “Delightful!” The dowager clapped and did a little curtsy to both of them. Phillip grabbed her hand and bestowed a kiss on her fingers. But noticed, as he leaned down, that they were covered in ink.

  He snapped his head to attention, looking at the dowager through different eyes.

  “Mrs. Peabody?” he whispered.

  “Our little secret. Good evening.” She laughed and waved as she walked through the crowds, yelling “move,” each time someone didn’t go fast enough.

  “Devil take it!” Phillip grabbed Abby. “She’s Mrs. Peabody? Who would have thought?”

  But Abigail wasn’t focused. Instead she was staring, quite blatantly, at his mouth.

  “What is it?” he whispered near her ear.

  “There is one rumor that I sometimes wonder about. I feel the need to see things demonstrated in order to give a fair answer to questions like the dowager's.”

  “Oh? And what is this rumor?”

  She smiled wickedly. Tracing her finger along his jaw, she leaned in and whispered, “I once heard you danced naked in the moonlight, then made love until dawn…care to show me?”

  Phillip didn’t have the heart to tell her it was another exaggeration. That he had in fact danced naked only because he had taken a stupid dare, and no women were involved. Instead he whispered scandalous and naughty things into his wife’s ear and took her down a darkened hallway.

  Reformed rake, he was…but that didn’t mean he couldn’t seduce and scandalize his own wife.

  “Where are we going?” She giggled.

  “Oh just somewhere I can ruin you. Where you can say ‘yes, Phillip’ and ‘again, Phillip’ without being heard.”

  She stopped abruptly in her tracks, then pushed him hard against the wall. “Yes, Phillip. Now, Phillip. Again, Phillip…”

  He laughed, kissed her hard, and pulled her into the next room. Grateful that this siren had sought him out when he had nothing, vowing to give her everything, and overjoyed he was able to love her forever.

  Upon A Midnight Dream

  London Fairy Tales

  Book 1

  Prologue

  That, if then I had waked after a long sleep, will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming, the clouds me thought would open and show riches ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked I cried to dream again

  —William Shakespeare

  He made the grave mistake of looking into her chocolate brown eyes and cursed himself all over again for having such delusional feelings. She wasn’t his to fawn over, but someone else’s entirely. Despite the obvious, he was in love, or at least it had felt that way ever since he first set eyes on her the year before. But what good was his love when her heart fully belonged to someone else?

  She had been betrothed to his brother and he hated himself for it. Because it meant that for the rest of his eternity he had to watch them laugh and smile while inwardly a part of him died each time her eyes gazed at his little brother instead of him.

  There were three of them. Three brothers in all and their father, “The King,” as they always referred to him, had spoiled them greatly.

  His youngest brother had set eyes on Elaina and fallen madly in love. Just as the rest of the family had. With long golden hair and deep brown eyes, she was every man's dream. And the youngest son, the one without the title, the one who was to be a vicar, had won the ultimate prize. The one thing that money and a title could obviously not buy—love.

  Stefan looked away. How much pain could a heart take before it was ripped in two? Could unrequited love kill a person’s soul with one breath?

  His body tensed when she breathed, his breath hitched when she spoke, and his passion ignited when she laughed.

  Curse her, and curse his brother Fitz.

  It was in moments like this that he wished he were more like the second son, James Gregory. Without a care in the world. But no, Stefan was too blasted serious for that. He was the heir. The marquess, living in his own version of solitary.

  “I’m to be touring India,” he suddenly announced knowing it was poor timing but needing it to be said nonetheless. His father had made arrangements after seeing Stefan mope around for the last year. It was easily decided upon that a tour of India was just the thing—though at times, Stefan wondered if his father hoped to be rid of him if only to push away the heartache at seeing his eldest son so depressed.

  The room went dead silent; his father turned a knowing eye to him. Always perceptive, his brother Fitz gave a brief nod. “Is that what you think is best, considering your position, Whitmore?”

  “I do.” Short, clipped tones fell out of his mouth.

  Elaina tilted her head and smiled. “What are you about, Stefan? You aren’t the type to go around seeking adventure. Wouldn’t you be much happier here? Where it is safe? And you can live a quiet, happy life?”

  If he hadn’t already made up his mind, her sorry speech of his character would have. “I’ll make arrangements.”

  His brother Fitz squinted through his looking glass. “Stefan, this isn’t like you? Blast,” he laughed. “You’re afraid of your own shadow!”

  The room erupted into laughter. All save his brother James, who with a gleam in his eye said, “I hope you find what you’re looking for, brother, and do try to make it back in one piece. You wouldn’t want the title passed down to someone such as I.”

  Stefan Hudson Marquess of Whitmore and future Duke of Montmouth left that following week and never looked back.

  ****

  Rosalind Hartwell felt like she was up for auction to the highest bid
der. One minute she was engaged to the most ridiculous dandy she had ever laid eyes on and next thing she knew, a man with darkened skin and sandy blond hair announced he was the rightful marquess. Head spinning, she grabbed for champagne and winced when she saw the display of male beauty standing before her.

  Whoever this stranger was, he made every other male specimen in the room appear gaunt and sick. His skin was dark, his teeth glaring against the set of his square jaw. How had her life come to this?

  She looked from side to side. Surely someone would step forward and help her? The ton, it seemed, had lost their tongues at a very inappropriate time for Rosalind. The only help it seemed came from the infamous Lord Rawlings, who minutes before had nearly punched the younger brother James, her now ex fiancé, square in the face.

  Abby, her dearest friend, and Lady Rawlings looked in her direction. Rosalind shook her head. Let the man get his bearings before he realizes he’s betrothed. Saints alive! He just came back from the dead. The last thing she imagined he would want was to be chained to a woman without his choosing!

  Adjusting her gloves, she waited. The man laughed, the music started. And she continued to wait. That is until the Dowager Duchess of Barlowe looked in her direction, even though Rosalind could have sworn the plant had hidden her.

  The bronze man walked toward her. She gulped, and for the life of her was not able to put anything close to a smile on her face. Flabbergasted, that she was.

  “Lady Rosalind?” He reached for her hand and planted a kiss on her knuckles.

  Shivers ran down her spine. Fear, that was it. She was afraid. Surely she wasn’t attracted to this barbarian.

  His next words, though there was no way for her to know it, sealed her fate—her eternity with that man. “I release you.”

  Stunned, she closed her eyes to gather herself. “Pardon? Am I some sort of wild creature that begs to be released?”

  Something flashed in his eyes, before he regained his composure and answered, “Surely, you don’t wish to be betrothed to a man you hardly know?”

  Rosalind scoffed, “And surely you haven’t been away that long as to forget the way that betrothals work. I would shame my family if I broke off our engagement. But your words and manner of speech give the impression that you are politely doing it for me, is that correct?”