by Kim Bowman
“Ah yes, forgot about her. My apologies.” He paced in front of the large marble fireplace in their London residence.
She had returned from Hyde Park a few minutes before her father came barging in on her tea time demanding to know what she was doing out walking alone. That was the moment Abigail had calculated and waited for. Blinking back tears, she began to tell him of her horrid attack. Naturally, it was somewhat difficult for her to recall details of an assault that had not taken place, but she had been memorizing her story for weeks. And had been planning this ever since her sister’s marriage to the Duke of Tempest.
“Was he a gentleman? Do you at least remember that much, lovey?” Wrinkles lined her father’s face. At fifty-six, he was a balding man who stood at least a head shorter than most men of his acquaintance. He sat next to the fireplace, his chest heaving from the exertion of carrying around the weight he had gained over the years since Emma’s indiscretion.
But Abigail felt no guilt at her father’s anger or at her deception. Long ago she had learned the cost of loving something too much. It would and could be very easily ripped away from you within seconds, altering your world until all that remains are broken pieces. Her father was one of those men, a man who was fully capable of forcing her to do his bidding regardless of whom he hurt or what it cost her. Emma had faced the wrath of her father, and Abigail had no plans to be the next of his victims. Which is why, at a young age, she learned that the best way to manage men—especially men like her father—was to deceive.
So she explained, in vague detail the characteristics of her assailant. “His hair was dark.”
“Dark,” her father repeated.
“But not too dark, Father.”
“Not too dark.” He nodded his head. “Continue.”
“And his face—it was handsome.”
“Handsome?” He squinted at her with disdain in his eyes. Obviously appalled as he scowled and waited for her explanation.
“Oh, but so very wicked, Father. A wicked handsome face it was.”
Her father stared into the crackling fireplace. “And his clothing, m’dear? Was he attired like a gentleman of leisure, or a street urchin trying to make sport with you?”
Abigail glanced away from her father’s brooding stare, fighting against the urge to laugh. Lord Rawlings was nothing like a street urchin. The man would be outraged to hear of the comparison.
Smiling, she turned back toward her father. “Street urchin. Definitely a street urchin.”
“Well then, I guess that settles it.” Reaching out to grab a snifter of brandy, her father nodded at the door, his way of discharging her. He had the information he needed, and she was now of no use to him. The coldness of her father’s heart had seemed to crack since her sister’s marriage, but it was in these moments, when he dismissed her as easily as he dismissed his servants, that feelings of bitterness would swell in her chest, screaming with outrage.
“I trust you’ll be discreet?” She paused at the doorway awaiting his response.
“I’ll make inquiries, but your reputation will stay intact, lovey, have no doubt about that. The last thing our family needs is another scandal to keep secret.”
Abigail did not respond. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and walked briskly out of the study, leaving her father and his heavy cloud of bitterness behind.
If matters progressed as she hoped, she would see Rawlings at the First Annual Tempest Ball tonight. It was one of the last great events before everyone went into hibernation for the winter. Only one month remained of the London Season. One month for Abigail to convince Lord Rawlings to marry her.
Her infatuation had begun when she was but seven years of age. Always wild and carefree on their country estate, she had climbed a tree and fallen flat on her bottom. As tears poured down her face and she screamed for her papa, Rawlings happened by. He was on his way to visit his betrothed, Abigail’s sister Emma.
Abigail had always been jealous of Emma. She was their parents’ favorite daughter. They doted on her endlessly. Abigail was ignored, for their first-born was to be the savior of them all. She was going to marry the great heir to the Rawlings’ fortune. An estimated four estates and two London homes as well as the title of countess would be in her grasp.
So Abigail wasn’t at all shocked to see Rawlings stop by during the dreadful afternoon of her fall. He and Emma often met by the river and skipped rocks. As childhood friends, they were as comfortable around one another as brother and sister. Another thing Abigail envied, for she was never invited to join in on the fun.
“You’re too young,” Emma would say, while Rawlings would smirk and pat her head like a small child. Finally, she’d stopped asking and began spying, wondering what her sister Emma had that she did not.
“Are you all right?” Rawlings asked, jumping off his horse. “Is anything broken, Abby?”
“No-o-o.” Abigail tried to be strong, but her voice shook as she answered his question.
His crystal blue eyes full of concern gazed back at her. “Abby…” he’d scolded. “You have scratches across your hands. Whatever am I going to do with you? Were you climbing the tree again?”
She could only nod, held captive as she was by his proximity.
“Can you walk?”
She wasn’t a good liar, so she nodded and managed to get to her feet, though she desperately wanted to feign a broken bone so he would carry her. Rawlings’ body loomed over hers. He was young and thin, but handsome and reckless at the same time. “I’ll help you onto Devil here and walk you back to the house. Is that agreeable?”
Abigail licked her lips and looked down, breaking eye contact. He was so handsome. “All right,” she said in a tiny voice. Strong arms lifted her onto the horse. Rawlings turned and smiled. “Trust me on this, little Abby. One day men will fall all over themselves just to help you on your feet. Mark my words. You’ll be the catch of the Season, once you’re out of pigtails.”
Self-consciously, she reached for her hair. It was in pigtail braids down her back. Foolishly, she thought he might think her pretty, but she was so young, why would he look at her as anything but a child?
From that day forward she’d promised herself Rawlings would notice her, that one day he would be hers. But hope was soon lost when Emma was ruined and Rawlings began leading a life of debauchery and gambling. Like any young man in this day and age, he felt the world somehow owed him something, and he set off to prove to his parents and everyone else that he could do whatever he pleased and never mind the consequences. She had heard the rumors since her arrival in London and knew them to be somewhat true if her father had anything to say about the matter. It was apparent that he was still upset over the broken contract between Emma and Rawlings. She doubted that he still had the same ridiculous notions now that he was an adult.
But a plan began forming when the papers started writing about his financial distress. Granted, it was possible the rumor mill was nothing but that. Rumors. But she had it on good authority, hearing from her good friend Rosalind Hartwell, that Rawlings was in debt to his ears. Needing a savior, a debutante—an heiress.
Lucky for Abigail, she boasted one of the largest dowries of all the debutantes this Season. Emma had refused any money from her parents. Not that she needed any, considering she married one of the richest men of the ton. Tempest had enough money to feed and clothe several families over and still have money for himself.
The problem, Abigail thought as she reached the door to her room, was how to get Rawlings to see her as a woman instead of a girl in pigtails.
She smirked to herself and pushed the door open. He shouldn’t have any trouble with that after today. She made sure of it. As kisses went, it wasn’t the most delightful thing she had ever experienced. It felt awkward and rushed, but she hadn’t any experience in the matter, so she steeled herself and tried as hard as she could to pretend to know what she was doing.
Rawlings hadn’t responded, but he seemed a bit too shocked
to say anything. And, saints alive, what was he doing out in the rain anyway? He’d catch his death that way. But her very best friend Rosalind had stopped for a visit to relay the message that he was sitting on that very bench staring at the sky. Noting it was easy to see his state of distress as she had passed by with her father in their curricle. And Rosalind was under strict instructions to help Abigail in any way possible. For she knew, as most true friends did, that it was of the utmost importance that Abigail secure a love match above all costs. So without thinking of the consequences, she ran out as fast as she could to try and catch him.
More than likely he thought her some silly chit out to ruin herself, when she was actually his savior. He just didn’t realize it yet.
Astraea Press
Pure. Fiction.
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Table of Contents
A Lot Like a Lady
Other Astraea Press Titles by the Authors
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
AUTHORS’ NOTE
RESOURCES
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
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