Hell of a Lady Read online

  Despite the scandalous duel that had grievously injured his… male parts.

  “How is Daphne, er, Lady Kensington?” She’d remind him of the lady he’d ended up married to.

  No need to flutter her eyelashes at him or encourage his preening boastfulness. Even though that was what gentlemen wanted. They wanted to feel their superiority. It was at least half of what made a man feel worthy.

  “My countess is well,” he answered tersely.

  “And your baby daughter?”

  He grimaced but did not answer, unusually intent, it seemed, on steering her away from the ballroom guests.

  She had no need to be wary of the earl. She reminded herself that she had nothing to fear. Flavion Nottingham was no longer, in truth, a man. So, why was she suddenly feeling so uncomfortable?

  Her mother had attended the ball and would be seated with the other matrons. Would Rhoda be overreacting if she demanded that he take her back inside?

  But, no, Kensington was harmless.

  He guided them away from the terrace and down a dark path. In the distance, she caught sight of a tall fountain surrounded by lanterns. Was it an angel or a devil? An odd work of art for such a pretty setting. Water shot up from the wings, and mist hovered around the stone creature.

  She shivered to think an angel could appear satanic, as well as the opposite.

  People were like that, too.

  With an invisible moon, stars twinkled dimly in a mostly black sky, making for a very dark night. Furthermore, the glow of the candles inside the ballroom failed to illuminate much through the windows. Rhoda shivered as the earl’s arm slid around her waist.

  His breath blew hot behind her ear. “Much better, don’t you think?”

  Much better for what? The air? Was that what he referred to, the fresh air?

  She doubted it. His too-familiar touch sent a shiver of fear creeping along her spine. “I’m fine. Nonetheless, my lord, I wish to return inside now.” She must return to her mother. She slowed her pace and resisted him at last. She ought not to have come outside alone like this.

  He chuckled but held fast to her, his grip becoming almost painful. “Ah, so, you wish to pretend reluctance, Miss Mossant? Does that make you feel more like a lady?” His words confused her, but his tone set her heart racing in fear.

  Without warning, he spun her in his arms and dragged them both off the path, behind one of the tall hedges.

  And then hard, cold lips landed on hers.

  Stunned, Rhoda pushed against his chest and twisted her head. The taste of whiskey and cigars evoked a wave of nausea.

  “Don’t play games with me.” He was stronger than he looked. One arm held her in place, and the other hitched her skirt higher. “I have too much to gain.”

  How had this happened? In the matter of a few seconds, she’d gone from casually strolling through the Countess of Crabtree’s garden to fighting off a vicious attack! She kicked out at him, but as her slippers encountered his boots, realized the futility of such a strategy.

  “Stop it, my lord!” she tried imploring him. Perhaps she had been too passive, allowing him to touch her as he had throughout the dance. Had he thought she wanted him to do this? “My lord, stop! Please! I don’t want—” His mouth smothered her pleas.

  Real panic set in. The earl’s hand was now clutching at her bare leg. “Ah, yes, you like a little fight, eh?” He ground their teeth together. Rhoda didn’t know if the blood she tasted was his or her own.

  Why would he do this? Surely, he couldn’t expect any gratification? At that moment, it didn’t matter that he lacked the necessary equipment. His hands roved over her arms, and he sought to touch her intimately. Rhoda squirmed and pushed at him, crying, angry and terrified at the same time.

  Justin had resented Kensington for the set he’d reserved with Miss Mossant. He’d seen the look in Kensington’s eyes even before the dance began—a lasciviousness that belied any good intentions.

  Perhaps Justin identified it so easily because of his own improper inclinations toward her.

  Watching the dancers turn and step to the cheerfully paced music, Justin admitted that he’d been attracted to her the first time they’d met but then been disappointed upon hearing St. John’s boasts. He hadn’t wanted to allow his cousin’s words to dictate his opinion, but was human, after all.

  His gaze searched the dancers making turns about the parquet floor and inexorably settled on the chestnut-haired beauty again. Miss Mossant did not appear excessively flirtatious, but she didn’t shun Kensington’s advances either. After the first dance of the set ended, the bounder led her off the floor and toward the doors that opened to the terrace. As they disappeared, she put up no argument.

  Justin gazed into his glass. He was not mistaken, she considered him naïve. He’d heard it in her voice.

  But if she knew his thoughts, she would not think him so benevolent. Even now, his imagination ignored his conscience.

  If she’d go walking alone in the dark with him… He shook his head, dismissing his untoward thoughts.

  When the second dance of the set commenced, a few matrons were tittering and pointing at him with interest. God, he hoped news of his recent inheritance hadn’t been made public yet. He’d prefer to bide a few more days in anonymity.

  Damn. They looked to be heading his way… with purposeful intent.

  Before he could be cornered, he placed his wine on a sideboard and then slipped through the French doors. The air outside the ballroom met him in a refreshing gust. Perhaps he could make his departure with the hostess being none the wiser.

  The door closed behind him and he didn’t look back to see if the matrons would be so bold as to follow.

  His collar scratched uncomfortably. It hadn’t done that before. He’d always felt more than comfortable wearing it. Guilt, likely.

  Jamming his hands into his pockets, he turned onto a poorly lit pathway. What the devil? Rustling sounds stirred from behind a barrier of foliage. Likely, he had nearly stumbled upon a tryst.

  “Does that make you feel more like a lady?” snarled a gruff-sounding voice from the dark area off the path.

  Justin crept closer. If this wasn’t a consensual encounter, he’d feel compelled to intervene. Not that he was a confrontational man. As a vicar, he’d learned to stifle violent impulses that came over him. He preferred using words to settle most disputes.

  He’d also learned, however, that without a willingness to use his fists, talking could be futile.

  In an ideal world, neither would be necessary. Hopefully, his suspicions would be proven wrong and he could return inside to finish his wine.

  More rustling, and then all of his senses came alert. “Stop it, my lord! My lord, stop! Please! I don’t want—”

  Miss Mossant’s voice. Apparently, she’d issued an invitation she wasn’t willing to entertain in full. But she sounded distraught, frantic. Justin lengthened his stride until he came even with the couple. He could barely make out two shadowy figures.

  Dash it all, she appeared to be resisting the earl. Yes, the situation had turned ugly indeed.

  Although he’d heard rumors of the earl’s infamous history, he’d never been introduced. According to most of the ton, Kensington had been something of a rake before his emasculating injury. Obviously, the extent of it had been exaggerated. Otherwise, the man would lack the motivation that seemed to have overcome him with Miss Mossant.

  What would members of the ton think if they knew the extent of debauchery practiced by some of their beloved so-called gentlemen?

  The scene before him did not appear consensual.

  Justin tensed. “The lady has asked you to stop, Kensington. I suggest you honor her request.”

  Kensington stilled for a moment upon hearing Justin’s words. “Walk away, Vicar. You know nothing of these matters.”

  Hell and damnation. Justin took one step forward, but before he could grab hold of the bounder’s collar, Miss Mossant lifted her knee and lan
ded it with surprising accuracy. The earl stumbled back and then bent over forward, gasping.

  Although Kensington deserved it and would receive no pity nor assistance from Justin, his own dangling parts retreated considerably at the thought of experiencing a similar blow.

  It seemed he’d not have to bruise his knuckles after all.

  Miss Mossant met his gaze, a combination of fear and anger burning in eyes that looked almost black. Her lower lip trembled, and she hugged her arms in front of herself protectively.

  With a moan, Kensington dropped to the ground and curled himself into a ball.

  What this situation required, Justin assessed, was finesse.

  To prevent Miss Mossant from becoming the subject of yet more gossip, he needed to lead her away from watchful eyes, to someplace where she might repair herself. An alluring array of chestnut curls had escaped her coiffure, tumbling down her back. More troublesome, her dress appeared disheveled and had torn in one place. A trickle of blood dripped from her swollen lips.

  His gut clenched at the sight.

  Justin stepped around Kensington to where Miss Mossant stood frozen. She nearly collapsed before he took hold of her arm. As unobtrusively as possible, he tugged her bodice back into place and then dabbed his handkerchief at her lips. Although his hands were steady, his heart raced.

  “Remind me never to anger you, Miss Mossant.”

  She didn’t laugh, blink, or respond in any way to his attempt to break through her lifeless trance.

  Others strolled nearby, at a distance of fewer than twenty yards.

  Maneuvering her so that she would be indistinguishable in his shadow, he tucked her hand through his arm and led them along the veranda away from the ballroom entrance. They had no choice but to pass a few other guests.

  “Is everything all right there?” a tall, elderly gentleman turned away from his companion to inquire.

  “Positively delightful evening for a stroll.” Justin nodded toward the couple standing near one of the large potted plants. He blocked them from getting a good look at Miss Mossant. “My Lady, My Lord,”

  Tall glass-paned doors beckoned at the far end of the terrace, and from what Justin could remember, they led into one of the Crabtrees’ drawing rooms. With any luck, the doors would be unlocked and the room empty.

  He steered the passive young lady in that direction and released the breath he was holding when the door swung open. Miss Mossant stepped inside but then stood unmoving while Justin lit a few of the candles.

  “An unusually dark night.” Best to burn only a few. He didn’t plan on remaining here long. Just enough time for Miss Mossant to gather her calm so that he could escort her to a ladies’ retiring room.

  Her stillness gave him pause. Caramel eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking. She wasn’t trembling or shaking, but she seemed frozen from the inside.

  Justin could have gazed upon her silhouette all night long. If he were that sort of fellow, that was. He turned away from her and examined a painting placed at eye level. She needed a moment. He’d give her a level of privacy to compose herself.

  The urge to comfort her, to hold her tightly against him, was strong. But with a woman such as she, his initial desire would hastily be replaced by another, less platonic one.

  He was a man of the church, but a man, nonetheless.

  But that would make him no better than Kensington.

  Finally, the rustling of her skirts signaled that she’d cast off whatever spell she’d been under and had crossed farther into the room. Perhaps she was ready to face him now.

  When he turned and caught sight of her expression, he tried to interpret her thoughts. Finely arched brows lowered in concentration, and she seemed baffled. Confused. “I–I thank you for your most timely arrival, Mr. White. I cannot imagine… If you hadn’t come along…” Her hands fluttered.

  A shiver ran through her, and he glanced around for a quilt. “Are you cold?”

  She shook her head.

  And then her soulful eyes widened to stare at him. “I must find my mother! She’ll be worried if she doesn’t see me at supper.” The mysterious beauty went to take a step but caught herself on the back of a chair when her knees nearly buckled. “I…”

  When he moved to assist her again, she stayed him with one hand, grimaced, and then seemed to shake off her confusion. Moving slower this time, she lifted her skirt as though she’d carefully pick her way to the exit.

  Justin seized her by the arm. “First, the retiring room, I think.” If she were to reenter the ballroom in her present condition, her ruination would be complete. He held her gaze steadily, making certain she understood his meaning.

  Comprehension dawned, and she nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, of course.” At least the corridor wasn’t well lit. “Thank you, Mr. White.” Shaking him off, she turned again to leave.

  “Miss Mossant?” He stopped her with his voice this time. “You would do well to avoid such circumstances in the future. Not all men are so easily thwarted.” She really was too beautiful, too sensual, for her own good.

  Her jaw tightened but she did not meet his gaze again. She nodded. “I am ever so grateful for your kind advice.”

  And then she was gone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A New Lord

  Rhoda fumed as she strode toward the retiring room. The vicar’s condescending advice had shaken her out of the dazed shock left over from Kensington’s appalling behavior.

  Mr. White ought not to deserve any of her wrath, really, as his arrival had given her the opportunity to escape. And then he’d led her to safety. But she rebelled inside that he’d taken it upon himself to imply that she had somehow been at fault.

  Why was it always the woman’s fault when a man ran afoul? When Kensington had lied to, married, and then cheated on her dearest friend Cecily, Cecily had been the one shunned. She’d been shamed and blamed by the ton not only for her low birth, but because she’d failed to hold her husband’s attention.

  And when poor Sophia had been harassed by her stepbrother, no one had protected her either. It had been her responsibility to keep him at bay. Her responsibility to make certain her bedchamber door remained locked at all times.

  Rhoda huffed out an irritated breath. Kensington’s impertinent attentions had not been welcomed by her, had they? But of course not! Still, a niggling of doubt plagued her.

  Had she done anything that might have given Lord Kensington reason to believe she’d be receptive to such advances? Had she, by not chastising his touch during the dance, inadvertently given him reason to suggest…?

  But, no! That was ridiculous! She understood the difference between mutual attraction and unbridled lust. Kensington had acted solely upon his own impulses.

  Apparently, he’d recovered from last year’s injury.

  Rhoda’s hand shook as she repinned an errant curl. He’d suggested that her protests were some sort of playacting. His assumption had been wicked, vicious… perverted!

  Her dress was wrinkled where he’d gathered it into his fist. She moistened her hands and tried smoothing the creases away. She wished she could wash away the remembrance of his touch. Her stomach lurched sickeningly at the thought of his hand on her leg, reaching under her gown…

  She’d been so stupid! She should know by now that men were not to be trusted!

  She ought to have learned from St. John!

  She stifled a groan. Surely, he’d loved her, hadn’t he? Surely, he’d had every intention of meeting with her father?

  But he had not. He’d recklessly delayed. And then died—leaving her alone to deal with what she’d done—what they’d done.

  She could never forget what had transpired between them, how it had felt to be with him, skin to skin; how it had felt to give herself to him. At least no one had known. She’d told no one that she had given in to him. Not Sophia, not Cecily, not even Emily, who’d known something was off.

  She’d been incredibly lucky he’d not left her with child. S
he dared not contemplate the condition of her circumstances if a pregnancy had resulted. And even so, she’d cried the morning her menses arrived.

  Women were fools.

  Satisfied with her reflection in the looking glass, if not the reflection of her soul, Rhoda deemed herself presentable enough to return to the ballroom.

  She needed to locate her mother and then make up an excuse for having lost Lord Kensington’s escort. The expectation would be that she’d sit with him. He’d reserved the supper dance with her, after all.

  But Rhoda would not dine with him now if he were the last man alive. She never should have agreed to the dance.

  Maybe she could plead a megrim. She felt even less like dancing now than she had earlier in the evening. But she’d promised all those sets.

  To all those gentlemen.

  “I wondered where you’d gone off to.” Emily appeared at her side. Practical, outspoken Emily. “Are you trying to ruin your reputation intentionally? I was looking for you, but Lord Kensington told your mother you’d abandoned him after the dance. Said he thought you’d gone off with some other man.” Emily frowned and adjusted her spectacles. “Horrid of him to request a dance with you!”

  Admittedly, Rhoda had always been something of a flirt, but in the past, it had always been harmless. Fun.

  She was not having fun tonight.

  “I needed to go to the retiring room. I am not feeling quite the thing this evening. Too much dancing perhaps?”

  In the past, she might have told Emily everything. She might have told her about St. John.

  And Dudley Scofield.

  With a shiver, Rhoda pushed the memory of Sophia’s stepbrother to the darkest crevice of her mind.

  She, Emily, Sophia, and Cecily had shared everything. They’d been bosom friends and dedicated confidantes.

  Before the horrific events that occurred at Priory Point last year, Rhoda likely would have told Emily right off what Kensington had attempted in the garden tonight.

  But too much had transpired since then. All of these incidents had changed Rhoda into a stranger, someone she, herself, didn’t recognize. That flirtatious, carefree girl she’d once been had disappeared.