The Redemption of Lord Rawlings

by Rachel Van Dyken

  “Yes,” he said.

  Rosalind clenched her fist, for her arms suddenly felt heavy, as did her eyes and her legs. Oh no, it was happening. It could not be happening in the middle of the ballroom! Her tongue became heavy inside her mouth, swaying on her feet, she only ground out, “As you wi—” before she fell into his arms.

  ****

  Stefan was at a total loss. A complete and utter state of awe. For never had a women ever fallen asleep while he was talking.

  Ever.

  And that included the ninety-seven year old Indian woman who smoked that devil's herb all hours of the night.

  She managed to stay awake.

  His fiancée, however, had not.

  “Lady Rosalind?” he said quietly, though he wasn’t sure why. Not only had he caused the greatest scandal known to the ton by showing up alive and breathing at the Season's end, but also his fiancée had promptly fainted in his arms.

  “Good heavens, is she dead?” The Dowager Barlowe fanned herself vigorously as she motioned for help. Several people began whispering behind their fans as they watched the scandal worsen. Rosalind moaned in his arms. The girl looked slightly foxed, though he knew she was nothing of the sort. Merely sleeping.

  Just what he needed. More attention. By all means gather round. Seems I’ve single handedly killed the woman I’m supposed to marry. Please, feast your eyes.

  “Have you a place I can bring her?” Without waiting for the affirmative, he scooped the tall girl into his arms and began walking through the crush to the nearest room he could think of. Not wanting to ruin her reputation, but unable to think of any other option, he pushed into the first room that the dowager had pointed to and promptly dropped the girl onto the leather sofa.

  “Well we cannot just leave her. It isn’t to be done.” The Dowager continued her incessant fanning, just as the object of their discussion let out a very unladylike snore.

  “Is she…” He looked down at the beautiful face. Impossible. He didn’t trust his own ears. And then her bow shaped mouth opened, just slightly, and let out a puff of air. “Snoring,” he finished, completely astonished.

  Feeling around him for a chair because he dare not take his eyes off the sleeping beauty before him, he finally managed to grab at something and sat.

  Directly onto his grandmother.

  “Do you mind?” The dowager pushed flailing hands at his large form.

  “Apologies.” Scattering off his grandmothers’ lap, he raked his hands through his long, unfashionable hair.

  Make that three impossibilities in one night, the last and final blow to his pride being that he was so focused on Lady Rosalind, and consequently unable to think straight, that he’d landed in his grandmother's lap. Something that hadn’t happened to him since he was a lad of eight.

  “Well, I’m off then. Have a brilliant time, Stefan, and it is so good to see you back. I’ll be expecting you in the morning, and sorry about all that excitement out there. After all, I had to play my part, couldn’t let on that I knew you were back before everyone else. Think of what your father would say.”

  “You did admirably.”

  The dowager smiled. “Yes, well, I once tried for the theatre, many years ago, but did you know that they don’t take to women with opinions.”

  “I’m sure they don’t.”

  “It is of no consequence. I shall leave you with…” She pointed, but words stopped coming. Instead she shook her head and tsked out loud before closing the door behind her.

  Stefan’s gaze were glued to the door his grandmother had exited, waiting for the inevitable.

  The door jerked open. “Oh my heavens! I nearly forgot myself. You cannot be alone with her!”

  How astonishing, he had been gone for six years and his grandmother, bless her soul, is ever so much the same as before. Why, even birds flying about drive her to distraction.

  And he loved her to a fault. “Well Grandmother, I can promise you that I’ll be very discreet. Now why don’t you scurry off and have some sherry, hmm?”

  “Yes, yes, only if you think it best, Stefan. After all, you are betrothed.” What she didn’t know wouldn’t necessarily do her any harm. With a satisfied huff, she patted his head, quite a feat considering the little woman had to nearly jump up to reach it, and closed the door for a second time.

  Alone, completely alone with a woman.

  Not that she was a relative stranger, but then again he had achieved to shock her into sleep. How exactly he had managed to accomplish such a feat was beyond his comprehension.

  Without much to do other than watch her, he took a seat on the sofa across from her and waited.

  Looking away from her peaceful face, he did the only thing he could think of doing.

  First he hummed.

  Then he tired of his own voice, so he began counting.

  But he was never one for mathematics.

  So he braved another glance at the beauty before him.

  And cursed.

  How was it possible that he was betrothed? And to such a woman as that? Rosalind Hartwell. Was his father daft?

  Stefan was unable to comprehend the happenings since his so-called death. It pained him to think his family hadn’t even tried to search for him. They merely took a sailor's word for it that the ship he was on had wrecked, taking the cargo and all its passengers, save one, into the cold blue sea.

  And to return months later only to see his brother had quite simply gone mad and his father had lost complete control of the family. The only semblance of control it seemed they had was to pawn off the marquess to the Hartwell family in hopes of an alliance.

  The Hartwell and Hudson families went back over a hundred years. It was said that each Hudson heir must always marry into the Hartwell family, that some sort of curse would be released upon them if they didn’t go along with it.

  Stefan hadn’t been a good listener when his father had spouted off about the odd way the family did things.

  After all, he had been too busy falling in love with his brother’s wife.

  He cursed again and shook his head. Maybe he should have stayed on the little island he shipwrecked on. Surely that would have been a more welcome environment. He’d had food, if one could call fish every day food. He’d had clothing, well at least a ripped shirt and useless cravat. Oh, and he’d had companionship. A small tiny rodent that often fought with him over nuts and other food.

  Woodland creatures. Yes, that’s what he’d had when he was shipwrecked. Could it be that he was actually jealous of the woodland creatures and their easy lives now that he was stuck in this blasted room with Rosalind Hartwell?

  And why in the blazes did he continue to use her full name in his mind?

  “Rosalind Hartwell.” He tried it on his lips. Well blast if it didn’t feel good. But of course it would.

  One more tiny glance, his brain told him. After all, for some cursed reason, she was still sleeping.

  He obliged himself.

  Soft red hair crowned her head. Pale milky skin and a body that would make Isis green with envy. One thing was for certain, Rosalind Hartwell was a sight. And as much as it irked him, even when she snored, her lips looked beautiful, untouched, begging to be bitten.

  Bitten?

  Perhaps he had malaria. Yes, that was it. He was ill, this was why he was thinking about biting—nay—attacking a sleeping woman.

  Or maybe it was just because he hadn’t been with a woman in...

  Well, as previously noted, mathematics was not his strong suit.

  “Mmm.” The beauty stirred.

  As did his blood.

  Exactly what he needed at that point, another reason to follow his more primal instincts.

  “Mmmm.” She said again, but her eyes were still closed, though now he noted that they seemed to move back and forth rapidly as if she was trying to blink but her eyelids were too heavy to put forth the effort.

  “Mmmmm!” Louder this time.

  Clenching his teeth,
he managed not to choke, or swear, or think too many ungodly thoughts when the wench stretched her arms high above her head and yawned. Beautiful breasts strained against the confines of her dress until the devil in him hoped they would pour over the dress, giving him adequate reason to be lusting after her as much as he was.

  “Where…” She spoke in a deep voice, eyes still closed.

  He waited.

  “Where am I?” She blinked several times, then looked directly at him and let out a scream so blood curdling loud that he was sure his ears were weeping with agony.

  “Shhhh!” he put his hand over her mouth, which in hindsight probably wasn’t the best of ideas, considering she had just met him.

  Elbowing him in the ribs, she scurried away. He caught her waist and pulled her back until she was sitting quite comfortably on his lap.

  “Hello.” He knew it was the worst possible way to wake a well-bred lady. First stare at her sleeping form, scare her senseless, and then say a polite greeting as if it was the most normal occurrence in the world.

  Savages, shipwrecks and rodents were looking better by the minute.

  “Release me, you beast!”

  “Promise not to bite, elbow, or scream? I’m not sure my ears can take another one of your screams. Perhaps we can come up with some sort of signal next time you feel the need to open your mouth?”

  She continued to squirm, making things devilish and difficult for him. And not doing any favors for his current state of…fascination with her body.

  “My lady, cease your moving before I give you a true reason to scream.” Stefan tightened his grip on her waist and slowly, effortlessly bestowed a kiss on the exposed side of her neck. He told himself it was to scare her, and it was. Sort of.

  The minute his lips touched her neck, she froze. He relinquished his hold and very slowly planted her next to him on the sofa.

  “I must say.” Stefan adjusted his cravat. “That was a first for me. I imagine it isn’t common for a woman to swoon in your arms so willingly.”

  Rosalind snorted and turned her brilliant blue eyes onto him. “Surely you don’t think it was your presence that caused my swooning? I was merely hot.” She fanned her face with her hand as if needing to show him how sweltering it had been.

  “Right,” he said. “And that explains how your body went completely rigid when you fell?”

  Turning away, she shrugged. “Are we going to discuss my swooning all night or did you have business with me?”

  “Business.” He laughed. “I was merely releasing you from the betrothal contract, so yes, let us call it business.”

  “And I believe I said as you wish.”

  “No, actually you said as you wi— and then you fell, quite wantonly, into my arms. Taking into account that I’m a gentleman, I’ve decided not to hold it against you.”

  Rosalind scooted away. “Are we finished here?”

  Attempting to mask the concern he felt, he asked, “Only if you assure me that you are in perfect health.”

  “Of course. I can’t say I’ve ever swooned before. I assure you, I’m in perfect health. Good night, my lord.” With a huff she pushed from the sofa, took two steps, and began falling again.

  Stefan cursed and caught her just before she hit the floor. “You do realize this is twice in one night? If I were one for happy endings, I’d say you just marked me as your long lost prince.”

  ****

  Rosalind glared, but was still somewhat paralyzed. She hoped, in vain, that the horrid thoughts she had in her brain were somehow seeping into his as she turned her gaze to his handsome face. And saints alive, he was handsome! Truly, it was unfair to have only been betrothed to him for a measly few hours.

  Was it so terrible to hope for a kiss from a man such as this? At least once before she died from this dreadful disease?

  “Rosalind?” He brought his monstrous hand to her cheek, “I shall send for your carriage. You need to be put to bed.”

  “Yes, more sleep, why hadn’t I thought of that?” She replied, still unable to move for her legs had fallen asleep.

  “Shall I carry you again?”

  Why did she have to have so much pride? Begging her legs to work, she waited before finally responding with a, “If you would be so kind.”

  Lugging her seemed effortless for him. And it was quite nice being in his arms, if only for just a few steps. At this angle she could see his strong jawline, that of a Nordic god or a Roman gladiator. He seemed the type to kill first and later ask questions as he stepped over the bloody body.

  Unable to hold her head any longer, she gave in to the temptation to lay it against his broad chest. He smelled of spices and soap. Closing her eyes she took her fill of his smell, for it was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

  It was then that she noticed they had stopped walking.

  “Why have we stopped?”

  The barbarian chucked and looked down at her, “I wanted to give you a chance to take your fill before we went out into the night, there’s no telling how much the putrid night air could take away my scent, you know.”

  Feeling the blood pound into her face Rosalind hid deeper into the crook of his shoulder. “I was doing nothing of the sort.”

  He laughed. “So you say, Rose, so you say.”

  Rosalind snapped her head in his direction, controlling the urge to comment on his use of her nickname, one that only family used. The nerve.

  The heaviness in her limbs began to lessen as he led her out the servant’s entrance into the cool night air. Never had a spell happened so suddenly, and in the middle of a ball nonetheless!

  At least she could be thankful people were focused on Lord and Lady Rawlings as much as they were her. Well that and the sudden resurrection of the true Marquess of Whitmore. Curse him! Did that mean she had to call him that loathsome name? It left a terrible taste in her mouth, addressing him as Whitmore, as if he was even close to being as slimy as his younger brother.

  Her fingers tingled, as well as her feet. Good, this was good. She could walk and wouldn’t have to continue to be carried by the Nordic god, who found nothing wrong with carrying her and touching her in the manner he was.

  Goodness she could feel…him.

  They stopped. And how she hated to admit that the thought of getting into her carriage without the warmth of his body made her a trifle sad. It was irritating that within their short acquaintance with one another, he could make her feel such ridiculous emotions!

  Well, he had released her from the contract, and now she was free to go to her estate in Sussex to suffer the fall and winter months without the city air threatening to burn her lungs.

  “Rose?” He put her gently onto her feet, and only then did she notice that her skirts were billowed and wrinkled, giving him quite a view of her ankles.

  And curse her body for getting a small thrill when his gaze lingered longer than was appropriate. Take your fill. You won’t be getting any more of it!

  “And here, I bid you goodnight.” he steadied her on her feet, then bowed gallantly in front of her before turning on his heel and leaving.

  “Good night.” Rosalind clenched her teeth as her gaze followed his disappearing form. The man was going back into the ball? Surely, he wanted to see to her to safety? And make sure she made it home?

  Was he whistling?

  The noise pierced the night sky. Apparently he had a lot to be thrilled about. His betrothed didn’t hold him to his contract, and he was back from the dead, ready to claim his throne and every other swooning woman in the London vicinity.

  Gathering up her skirts, she launched herself into the carriage. Really, he was doing her a favor, because now she was free to seek out a man of her own choosing. A man who was tall, muscular, had beautiful eyes and—

  “Saints alive.” Just because she had successfully described his every characteristic did not mean she wanted him. He was merely fresh in her memory that was all! It had nothing to do with her desire or anything else fo
r that matter. What she needed, she thought as the carriage jolted, starting its short journey toward Mayfair, was to get away from London. Her best friend's marriage had done something to her. Surely that was it. And the shock of not having to marry. And, well, her disease didn’t help matters.

  She had forgotten about the unfortunate disease. How was she to explain that away to anyone who asked? For she was hardly the type of woman to swoon in a man's arms. Quite the opposite, in fact. Part of her brain, the sane and logical part, told her she needed to call the doctor and see if it was worsening. But the girlish fantastical side of her brain said everything was fine and it was just a one-time incident.

  As the carriage pulled up to her parents’ home, she let out a sigh. Now that sleep would be impossible for the next few hours, she might as well notify her father of the broken contract.

  Rosalind steadied herself on the edge of the carriage and slowly put weight on one foot and then the other. Careful not to take a misstep, she made her way to the front door and opened it, utterly exhausted that she should have to put forth so much effort in something so simple.

  It seemed after every episode she was sluggish, her limbs unable to work properly.

  With a sigh, she looked up at the large mansion. Correction, the second largest mansion on Mayfair, for the first had always belonged to the Whitmore dynasty.

  Rosalind took a much needed calming breath, she opened the door and walked in. Her father, recluse that he had been recently, was most likely in his study drinking brandy and watching the flames dance in the fireplace for no other reason than he was slowly going mad with age. Or so he claimed whenever he was nagged by his wife, the current Countess.

  “Father?” she pushed the large oak door open. As expected, he was sitting in his favorite chair facing the fireplace, swirling brandy in his glass.

  “Ah, Rose,” he said without turning around. “What brings you into my study this time of night?”