Hell's Belle

by Annabelle Anders

  “She,” he grunted. “No, she trained for battle. Loud noises don’t faze her.”

  Emily wished she’d trained for battle. “What’s her name?” Good heavens! She was making ordinary conversation. It must be ordinary, because he showed every indication of boredom.

  “Aminta.”

  “Aminta? That’s Greek, you know.” Such an appropriate name for a horse that didn’t spook. “It means the protector.”

  She finally captured his attention. He turned away from the window, his gaze falling on her with a questioning look. “You really are a bluestocking, aren’t you?”

  He spoke the word somewhat disdainfully. Why would she wish to help such an arrogant fool? Oh, yes! Rhoda. Perhaps if she married him off to Rhoda, she herself would stop obsessing over his wonderfulness.

  The pig.

  Damn him.

  She lifted her chin. “Any man who is put off by an educated woman isn’t worth the minerals of which his body is composed.”

  He laughed. Ah, yes, he would find amusement from her once again. “Miss Goodnight, if you’d listen carefully, you’d comprehend that I did not say that I couldn’t appreciate bluestockings. I simply verified my initial assessment.” He raised his hands defensively, as though she were a pugilist who would attack him. “Never let it be said I’m put off by educated women. Good God, I fear you might have my body broken down into its simple substances!”

  Sophia and Prescott both chuckled at that. When Emily met Sophia’s gaze, however, she had the good grace to pinch her lips together in disdain.

  Just then the carriage jerked to a halt.

  They’d arrived.

  Marcus waited for Prescott to climb out and then assist the duchess and their child. Miss Goodnight waited beside him, patiently holding some sort of carpet bag on her lap. It likely contained books.

  Not many guessed at the meaning of Aminta’s name. Leave it to the minx to make the observation.

  As the doorway cleared, he gestured to Miss Goodnight to precede him. Her brown eyes flew open wide, as though she’d not expected gallantry. Even with the blasted spectacles, he noticed her eyes now. She rose, crouched over, and edged sideways to make her way past him. Just as she did so, the carriage jostled and with nothing to grasp to regain her balance, she tumbled onto his lap, dropping her bag onto the floor.

  “My apologies, my lord!” Her breath fanned against his throat as she gasped her regrets. Despite all her bristle and intellectual outrage, she was still a woman. Marcus couldn’t possibly ignore this fact with her squirming around on his lap.

  Soft bum. Tiny waist. He’d not considered before what she hid beneath her petticoats and drab dresses. For one outrageous second, he imagined what her thighs would feel like wrapped around his waist. The tender skin between a lady’s legs never failed to arouse him.

  When she pulled back to peer up at him, Marcus had to blink himself back to reality. Except… one of her eyes looked perfectly normal, but the other was hugely magnified behind the remaining lens.

  The glass had fallen out again.

  A little freakish, to be sure, but she also appeared adorably confused and more than a little… lost. Marcus couldn’t help but laugh.

  Her face scrunched into a scowl, drawing even more hilarity from him. “Lord Blakely! I’m glad you find my handicap so amusing!” She turned her attention to his shirt front, lowering her face closer to it, and her curious hands began searching his person. “It must be here somewhere!”

  It took him another moment to realize she wasn’t suddenly overcome with his masculine assets so much as to fondle him, but that she was searching frantically for her lens.

  Tiny fingers explored down his sternum, past the waist of his breeches… Good God! Did the woman not know what she was doing? She’d dropped to the floor and now kneeled before him, her fingers probing still. His thighs, around his lap, the seat.

  “Hold still, woman!” he finally ground out. And then…

  Crunch.

  “Oh, no!” She froze. Apparently, she’d forgotten all manners, all sense of social boundaries, as one of her hands rested on his no longer… well… uninterested—

  “It’s moving!”

  Ah… yes. Marcus wasn’t sure whether he ought to cover his face in mortification or turn the chit over his knees for a good spanking.

  “Your mentula.”

  “My what?”

  “It’s… er… Latin,” she mumbled but hadn’t yet withdrawn her hand. In fact, she appeared somewhat mesmerized. As though she’d like to investigate further.

  A swim in a frozen lake. Vomit. An unemptied chamber pot. It took all of Marcus’ imagination in order to conjure images so that he could bring himself under control.

  “You.” His voice came out sounding strained nonetheless. “You crushed your lens. Have a care not to cut yourself.” Gripping her elbows, he lifted her ever so carefully from the floor. That dazed look on her face finally twisted into horror.

  Marcus ignored it.

  Instead, he bent over and retrieved what was left of the lens—all seven pieces of it. “I’m afraid you’ll have to locate that other pair, Miss Goodnight. This one’s quite beyond repair.”

  She’d begun scrambling around, collecting the books that had spilled from her bag. Mostly romantic drivel, he saw… except for… Hell’s bells. Did her mother know the extent of this hoyden’s reading? The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure?

  He could not quite make out the author before she hastily stuffed it into the worn but sturdy bag.

  “Can you see to walk with only one lens?”

  She seemed disoriented, but he wasn’t sure if it was from her unanticipated examination of his mentula or her impaired vision.

  “I’m fine. Quite fine.” She refused to look in his direction, choosing instead to feel around the door in order to climb out.

  When she did so, the sunlight reflected off the remaining lens in her spectacles and nearly blinded him. The sensation reminded him of when one of the boys at Eton had used a magnifying glass to torture insects.

  Marcus blinked and then, afraid she’d tumble to the pavement below, grasped her by the waist until he was certain she’d exited safely.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Manipulations

  Emily sat, somewhat dejected, in one of the most beautiful chambers she’d ever been in.

  From what she could see of it anyhow.

  Her mother hadn’t allowed Hettie to come along, insisting she’d need her services herself, and so Emily had opened her trunk herself in search of the other pair of spectacles.

  All she’d managed to do was spread everything around the room and become slightly nauseated in the process. She experienced almost normal vision if she kept one eye closed but even that managed to give her something of a headache.

  She didn’t want to bother Sophia though, what with the baby… and Prescott, of course.

  And as horrified as she was by her current predicament, it was nothing compared to the mortification she’d experienced when she’d realized exactly what it was she had been stroking.

  She moaned again. Something she’d done quite a bit of since being left alone to fend for herself. How could she possibly face him again? She’d been frantic to locate the lens! But, oh, you stupid idiot, Emily! You addlepated, dizzy-eyed pignut!

  There were not nearly enough words in the dictionary she could call herself.

  And now, unable to see clearly and dizzy from her efforts, she was even more of a mess.

  But, oh!

  Good heavens! Recalling the feel of him beneath her hand! She’d been so frantic in the moment, but now, remembering…

  His chest had felt hard and warm. As she’d moved her hands downward, he’d been, not softer, but sinewy. Yes, he’d felt sinewy.

  And then, his legs. They’d felt hard as wood. And between them! It had jumped and then stirred.

  Emily had thought for a moment that he had a mouse in his pants.

  Another moan.<
br />
  Oh, the tragedy of it! Of course, it hadn’t been a mouse!

  She should have turned away quickly. She ought to have realized what she had done and pretended nothing was amiss.

  But noooo! She’d had to draw attention to it, and to the fact that she was touching it.

  Had she even petted it once or twice?

  Another, even louder moan.

  A knock sounded on the door but then it pushed open without the person on the other side awaiting a response. “Emily, are you unwell?”

  “Rhoda?” Emily closed one eye and squinted to see if the person entering matched the voice.

  “What on earth are you doing?” Oh, yes, the voice belonged to Rhoda. The human blur grew larger until Emily could ever so slightly make out her friend’s teasing smile. “You look odd. What have you done to your glasses? One eye is larger than the other.”

  Emily explained the afternoon’s trials in as short a version as possible. “And now I cannot locate my spare pair of spectacles, and I’ve no maid to assist me with any of this.” She hated feeling so disconnected. People with perfect vision did not understand this sensation. If they had to experience even one day with her miserable eyesight, they’d be singing their gratitude daily.

  “You silly girl.” Rhoda paced across the room, reached up, and made a jerking motion. Ah, that was where they’d placed the bell pull. “I’m calling for a maid, you nitwit.” She then began scooping various garments off the floor and holding them up for inspection. “What have you packed? Your usual? If you don’t wish to live the rest of your life in Wales, we’ll need to come up with gowns more appealing than these.”

  “My predicament! What of yours?” It seemed like ages since they’d seen one another. “And I’m dreadfully sorry. Mother wouldn’t allow me to attend the garden party with you. You didn’t experience any unwanted attention, did you?” Emily wished she could see Rhoda’s face. She had a feeling Rhoda wouldn’t admit to needing assistance where men were concerned.

  Rhoda froze for the slightest moment before bending down again and then tossing another garment onto the huge bed. “Where do you think you put the spectacles? Inside the trunk? Did you wrap them in a cloth or something? Could they be with your jewelry?”

  “In a little green drawstring bag.”

  “Hmph.” Rhoda searched around. Apparently as fruitlessly as Emily had. “I don’t see anything like it.”

  “Nothing untoward has happened, has it?” Emily asked. Rhoda had changed this past winter. St. John’s passing had left her less forthcoming, less… optimistic. Rhoda, Cecily, Sophia, and Emily had shared nearly everything up until recently. It seemed they all had secrets now.

  Locating a seat that Emily hadn’t draped in garments, Rhoda’s blurred shape made herself comfortable. “Why? What have you heard?”

  Oh, dear, had somebody said something at the garden party! “You do know, don’t you?” Rhoda must be aware of the bet. How else could Sophia lure her away from London? “Sophia didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Oh, dear.

  “Well.” Emily really wished she weren’t the person to deliver such distasteful news to her friend. “It seems that some sort of bet has been placed. At White’s.”

  “About me?” Rhoda must have sensed that the bet was not an innocent one, for her voice had that dead, hopeless quality. Just like shortly after St. John’s death.

  Emily pushed herself off the floor and, hands outstretched, waded through the contents of her trunk until she somehow managed to find her way to the window. When she got there, she knelt on the floor and peered into her friend’s face. Ah, much better.

  Now, how to put this…

  “One of the members, one of the less reputable ones, if I say so myself. Apparently, White’s isn’t as discriminating as they’d like people to believe. By the way, have you heard that Lord Blakely has been denied? His father, of course.” But wait. She’d veered from her original point considerably.

  Rhoda had narrowed her eyes in frustration by this point. “Emily. What about this bet?”

  “Oh, yes, the bet. Well… the bet is about, um… you.” Oh, but this next detail was most unpleasant. “Someone has spread a dreadful rumor that you, er, well, lifted your skirts for St. John… um, before he met his end.”

  A part of Emily wished she could place her own bet at White’s! She’d bet them all that Rhoda had done no such thing! And then she’d win ten thousand pounds!

  Or possibly lose it. Because a part of her—a teeny tiny part, mind you—niggled her with doubt.

  Rhoda enjoyed male attention.

  Well, she had anyhow.

  Ever since St. John was killed, Rhoda hadn’t flirted like she used to. Emily and Sophia speculated that it was because she was mourning, but now, what with the rumor and the bet, Emily wondered if Rhoda had perhaps given her virtue to the Marquess before he met with his demise. On the understanding that he would make her an offer, of course.

  “How does one of these ignoble gentlemen win the bet?” Rhoda jerked Emily’s thoughts back to the conversation at hand.

  This would be indelicate as well. Emily didn’t do well when it came to glossing matters over. “Amorous congress with the object of the bet. With you.”

  Rhoda gasped, and her eyes went wide. As the dreadfulness set in, she slumped forward. “Men are bastards, Emily.” Her voice rasped as she spoke into her lap. Emily rubbed one hand along Rhoda’s back in a futile attempt to soften what she’d just said.

  “But I have a plan for you.” Emily figured now would be as good a time as any to explain her scheme.

  Rhoda turned her head and slid her a suspicious sideways glance. At least it appeared to be suspicious. It just as easily could be interested. Drat, these broken spectacles!

  “Just hear me out.” She’d reveal all so that Rhoda could make an informed decision. “Blakely’s father has taken their quarrel to another level and blacklisted him everywhere in London. Blacklisted his very own son, if you can imagine that!”

  Rhoda lifted her head and shrugged. News of this feud was nothing new.

  “But Blakely isn’t going to go down without a fight! He certainly doesn’t wish to give his father the satisfaction of making him leave England again.” Of course, Emily only suspected this. “A perfect revenge for him is to marry somebody else. Defy his father’s wishes completely! And how perfectly delicious it would be for him to marry a lady already wrapped in scandal!”

  Rhoda looked horrorstricken but Emily went right on talking.

  “You! Rhoda! Yes, you! What could possibly be better than the two of you dashing up to Gretna Green over the next week or two to tie the knot! Solves your troubles and serves Blakely’s purposes as well! And not that I’m inclined in any way to harm any of our avian friends, but my plan kills two birds with one stone, rather nicely, might I add?”

  “Blakely?” Rhoda shook her head in disbelief and then burst into laughter. “Blakely? He’ll never marry. He’s bamming you. I’d think you, of all people, would see past any foolishness to the contrary.”

  Emily rose and pretended to be admiring the view from the window. Lord Blakely had indeed most assuredly asserted to all and asunder that he’d not marry as long as his father lived. He so hated the man.

  But her plan exacted an even greater revenge. He simply needed to hear her out. “Well, um, he hasn’t exactly agreed to it yet, but he will. I didn’t wish to present the idea to him unless I knew you would be willing.” She lifted her thumb to her teeth and chewed on the nail. “I realize it’s quite a bit to take in right now, but you are in something of a muddle. I don’t want those immoral fellows saying things about you. This would quiet them up in a jiffy. What do you think?”

  “Stop chewing your nails, Emily.” Rhoda’s voice gave nothing away. But then she hopped out of her chair and began rummaging around the room.

  “Are you still looking for my spectacles?”

  “I am not,” Rhoda announced fir
mly. “But I’ve come to a decision.” She seemed to be examining Emily’s dresses and then dismissing each of them in turn. “You may tell Lord Blakely I will consider such a stratagem, but you must do something in return for me.”

  “Oh, yes! Rho! I’ll speak with him about it right away.” But wait, what? She must in turn do a favor for Rhoda?

  “You need a husband as badly as I do, Emily, and you’ve had even less success than me.”

  Emily knew this to be true, but… “I know. I know.” She squeezed her eyes together tightly and then tossed the broken spectacles onto the bed. “I just, I… I don’t know how!” Emily understood the finer points of mathematics, science, history, and philosophy and was better versed on the classics than most English professors. But when it came to attracting a gentleman, she’d proved herself to be an abject failure.

  The thought of it lowered her spirits considerably.

  “Sit down.” Rhoda steered her to the chair by the window. “And listen.” Rhoda rummaged around in the trunk and withdrew Emily’s escritoire. Without asking permission, she pulled out what Emily guessed to be some foolscap and a pencil and shoved them into Emily’s hands. “Take notes.”

  Emily lifted the paper close to her face, pencil poised, and listened.

  “Number one,” Rhoda dictated. “Sophia will select all of your gowns for the next fourteen days. You need to stop hiding behind the bland colors you’ve fallen into wearing. Number two, you will not wear your spectacles. You have gorgeous eyes when they aren’t magnified to twice their size. Number three, although you cannot see the various men, I shall point you in the direction of one of them and you shall gaze longingly toward the blur, or whatever it is you see. And listen to him. Ask him questions about his childhood, about his hobbies.” She exhaled loudly. “Talk about the weather, for God’s sake.”

  This would never work.

  “That’s all?” Emily asked. She’d do all of it except for the spectacles part. She couldn’t get by without them. There was no way on earth that she’d set them aside, despite what she’d told her mother last week. “Surely I’ll need to do more than that.”