Hell’s Belle

by Anders, Annabelle

  “That’s all,” Rhoda said confidently. “Leave the rest to me. We’ll land you a husband first. And then…” She paused, as though for dramatic effect. “Only then will I run away with Blakely. If he’s willing, that is.”

  Wonderful. Emily held one hand out. “Shake on it?”

  Rhoda’s warm slim fingers wrapped around hers. “Shake on it.”

  “Knock knock!” Sophia’s voice echoed into the room as she peeked around the door. “Oh, good. Both of you are here.” Emily squinted her eyes and barely made out that Sophia’s arms were loaded up with garments. Rich, luxurious colored fabrics draped nearly to the floor.

  “Perfect timing, Soph!” Rhoda swung around, leading Sophia to the bed where she dumped the gowns. “Where is Hettie?” Before Emily could answer, Rhoda had spun her around and begun working the hooks on the back of her gown.

  Emily lifted her arms and the serviceable gown she’d worn for the journey was swept unceremoniously over her head. “Really, Emily, what were you thinking?” Rhoda tossed it aside, clucking her tongue.

  “I think this one, Rhoda. The earthy red tones will set off the auburn highlights in her hair. And it’s not so bright as to overwhelm.” Sophia held it in front of her. “What do you think, Em?”

  More than a little frustrated at her predicament, Emily turned to Sophia for a little support. “I can’t really tell. I’ve yet to locate my other pair of spectacles. Would you look around for them, Soph?”

  “Just a minute, Em.” Taffeta swooped over Emily’s head and face. “Slide your arms in here. Oh, yes. This is lovely. Perfect, don’t you think?”

  Rhoda observed her from several different angles. “Oh, indeed. And if we do her hair up, like so…”

  The dress was removed, and a maid called in for a few alterations. Giving up on her spectacles for the moment, Emily plunked down in front of a mirror while what felt like twenty different hands fussed about her head.

  As soon as they left her alone, she’d locate her spectacles. But for now, she was at their mercy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Proposition

  Marcus tossed back a few fingers of whiskey and paced across the library. He’d arrived early for the pre-dinner gathering and thought he’d have a look around. Nothing better to do with himself.

  Damn and blast, but his father had gone too far this time.

  Unwilling to focus on the problems created for him by the duke, he stood before one of the shelves and began perusing the titles. Miss Goodnight’s extraordinary selection came to mind unwittingly.

  What was a spinster doing with a book about a woman’s pleasure? And what the hell was a mentula? Something he should have known, likely, but Latin had never been his subject. He’d been abysmal at most languages, for that matter. Give him math problems to work, or a scientific experiment, just don’t ask him about languages.

  Approaching footsteps signaled a pending interruption to his peace and quiet. Feminine footsteps. Yes. They slowed almost unnaturally and paused outside the door. And then it ever so tentatively creeped open.

  He should have guessed.

  Miss Goodnight peered in and squinted. The first thing he noticed about her was that she still wore the spectacles with only one lens. The second was an abundance of flesh on display in a gown fit for a courtesan.

  She almost looked… beautiful. He dismissed the thought nearly as quickly as it had materialized, for resting upon the bridge of her nose sat those broken spectacles. One eye gazed out, appearing normal, but the other looked huge. “Miss Goodnight. Are you lost?”

  His question caused her to jump. The poor woman must be blind as a bat.

  She turned her face in his direction and grimaced. “Is that you, Lord Blakely?”

  Good Lord! “Why, yes, it is. May I be of some assistance?” This woman ought not be allowed to leave her mother’s house without a keeper.

  “Actually.” She bit her bottom lip and approached him slowly. “I rather believe that I might be able to be of some assistance to you.”

  Marcus lifted his brows and anticipated whatever words she’d spew unselfconsciously tonight. She never failed to entertain him. Before she knocked over any priceless vases or lamps, he skirted to her side and led her to the settee. “Let’s do sit down, then, by all means.” At the sight of her hand, he recalled it earlier in the coach… practically cradling his—

  “I’ve been pondering your situation, my lord,” she interrupted his musing. “What with your father and such. Sorry to hear of your troubles, by the way.”

  Good God, she was priceless. He could hardly wait to hear her comments on the situation. And she’d mentioned that she might be able to help him! “Duly noted. And might I add that I appreciate your sentiments, Miss Goodnight. By all means, do go on.”

  She studied him suspiciously with one magnified eye but then went to fidgeting with her gloves. “Do you truly oppose marrying the woman he’s chosen for you? Are you quite set against her then?”

  “Dead set.” The thought of his father had a way of sweeping away his momentary good humor.

  “Well, then, I rather think you might wish to have a sort of—well, revenge—on him.” Marcus appreciated such a concept and wondered where she was going with this. She folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. “You might best extract this revenge by taking your contrary position one step further. By marrying, in fact, a most inappropriate lady. One mired in scandal and far beneath your status.”

  “Are you by any chance proposing yourself, Miss Goodnight?” She’d surpassed even herself this time. Many a woman had made attempts to land him, but none had ever gone so far as to ask him outright. “A charitable proposal indeed. I must confess, however, that I rather prefer to maintain my bachelor status.”

  Yet he felt a little sorry for the chit. Had he insulted her? Further angering his father was an intriguing notion. And she did possess one or two interesting… attributes. The mere idea, however, of Miss Goodnight as the future Duchess of Waters! He nearly laughed out loud.

  And that was when he reconsidered…

  “Oh!” She frowned and then flushed. “Not me, my lord!” She gazed down at her hands. She looked so damned earnest. “Miss Mossant.”

  Upon hearing the suggestion of marriage, Marcus’ first inclination had been adamant and dismissive. He, and nobody else but he, would decide who he’d marry.

  If ever.

  But when he envisioned his father’s response to Miss Goodnight, or as she’d corrected him, Miss Mossant, he had to admit the idea did not lack merit.

  Miss Mossant topped the list for notorious females this Season. By God, she’d be perfect. And, of course, she’d be willing, wouldn’t she? He eyed Miss Goodnight doubtfully.

  “She’s already agreed to the scheme,” Miss Goodnight said before he could ask. “She sent me, in fact, to speak with you.” At these words, the lady’s eyes shifted guiltily. Or perhaps he imagined it. Miss Mossant could only benefit from marriage to himself. She’d have a protector. Marriage to an earl would easily restore her reputation.

  “What type of a marriage would this be?” Miss Goodnight seemed to have all the answers. He might as well drag them out of her now.

  This tiny woman shrugged matter-of-factly at his question. “Whatever the two of you wish to make it. I imagine. You may or may night engage in marital activities. Knowing you…” Her voice trailed off momentarily. “Depending upon your desire for an heir, I imagine. But Rhoda needs protection. I’m sure you’ve heard of the rumors spreading through town right now.”

  Ah, yes, the rumors. At least he could be certain he wouldn’t be gaining a frigid wife. And yet he had no wish to be cuckolded. He supposed they could discuss these details at length later.

  “I will ask her myself, for you, if you’d like.” Miss Goodnight picked up the conversation where she’d left off. And then she pressed a finger against her forehead.

  “Are you ailing?”

  She could not be comfortable,
seeing clearly from only one eye.

  She blinked a few times. “I was unable to locate my second pair of spectacles.”

  Now that he looked at her, he realized her complexion had paled. He studied her thoughtfully. “Does it bother you, seeing through just the one lens?”

  She closed one eye and met his gaze through the other. “It’s tiring.”

  “Would it not be easier to set them aside for the evening?” At her frown, he assumed this was something she’d already considered.

  “Does nobody understand that I cannot see without the lenses?” The vehemence in her voice surprised him. “If I could see without them, why in the name of all things holy would I persist in wearing them?” He’d obviously hit on something of a sore spot.

  He continued staring at this seemingly straight-laced bluestocking. “I can take them into town tomorrow, if you’d like, and have them repaired.” The problem was by no means an insurmountable one. He reached out and slowly slid the broken pair off her face and then safely tucked them into his pocket.

  A small red mark had been rubbed raw upon the bridge of her nose. She nodded slowly, apparently out of options. She really was a pretty little thing at times. His gaze, of its own accord it went without saying, roved across her pert little nose before dropping to plump lips that reminded him of a rose about to blossom.

  And of course, the gown. A most un–Miss Goodnight-type of gown, if he said so himself.

  It revealed her slender, almost fragile-looking neck and a tempting set of shoulders. Being a man, he could not keep himself from noticing ample cleavage on display, plumped up and creamy white. He wouldn’t have guessed the girl possessed such assets.

  “My lord?” She pulled his attention back to her eyes. “I cannot see more than a foot in front of my face without my spectacles, but if I were to guess right now, I’d venture to say you were ogling me!”

  “Ogling you?” He laughed. But of course, he’d been doing precisely that. “Ogling Miss Emily Goodnight!” He interjected a note of affronted shock. “I’d never dare such a thing.” Except he smiled upon uttering the absurdity.

  Miss Goodnight grabbed the top of her bodice and tugged at it somewhat uncomfortably. “This is Sophia’s dress. She and Rhoda assured me it was quite respectable, but I don’t know…”

  She really was a gem. “I assure you, Miss Goodnight, the gown is fine. Now stop fussing with it. You’ll ruin the effect.”

  His words stilled her. The tip of her tongue peeked through those lips for just a moment, and then a row of white teeth replaced it as she bit her bottom lip. “I imagine that’s why I’m wearing it. As you are a single gentleman, may I ask you something?”

  “I await with bated breath.”

  “Do you think it possible for me to snag a husband? Dressed like this, I mean, and without my spectacles. Rhoda has suggested I set my cap for the vicar, Mr. White.”

  “Carlisle? Prescott’s cousin?”

  She watched him closely and nodded. “If I don’t marry soon, I’m to be sent to Wales. I have this aunt…”

  “Ah. A difficult one, I take it?” It wasn’t hard to imagine some dragon of a lady waiting in the wings to take Miss Goodnight on as her personal companion.

  “Well, yes.”

  Justin White, Marcus surmised practically, would match up with Miss Goodnight quite well. A solid sort. And yet not a pushover. “You realize he’s just inherited, don’t you? All sorts of gels will be setting their cap for him.”

  “Precisely why Rhoda insists I act quickly, while we’re here at Eden’s Court.”

  Marcus had been acquainted with Justin White for several years now, on and off. They’d initially met at Oxford. Aside from the casual encounter here and there, he didn’t know much about him, other than the obvious: Godly, quiet, reasonable, some relation to Prescott. Marcus believed it was through the dowager duchess.

  White, of course, hadn’t frequented any gaming hells nor had he attended parties hosted by the demimonde. Which would explain why they’d never strengthened their association. For all he knew, the man viewed Marcus as a sinner beyond redemption.

  He’d make the perfect husband for Miss Goodnight.

  But could she snare the newly titled earl?

  Looking at her in that moment, shocking the hell out of himself, he had no doubt that she could. She continued watching him out of those soulful brown eyes of hers. So close that he could see golden little flecks and thick long lashes.

  “I don’t suppose you think I can.” Miss Goodnight sighed loudly and dropped her eyes.

  Marcus shook himself mentally. “Not with that attitude.” His fingers itched in a way they hadn’t itched before with this little bluestocking. “You’ve acquired the dress, your hair is all done up and whatnot, but if you don’t think yourself good enough, you’ll never reel him in. Or anyone worthwhile for that matter.”

  She straightened her spine at his words. “Tell me how. Tell me how to act as though I’m good enough, because to be perfectly honest, I have no idea how to go about doing that.”

  Marcus chuckled at this, drawing a frown from her. “I’ve never had cause to doubt your imagination. Surely, you can imagine yourself good enough. And then simply act upon it.”

  Apparently, this gave her food for thought. “I believe what you say actually holds some merit.” Her gaze turned all soft and distant looking. “Yes, yes.”

  At that moment, a cluster of distant voices carried in from the foyer. Surprisingly, he’d not considered the inappropriate nature of their meeting. Because this was Miss Goodnight. Her unassuming nature had lowered his defenses against inadvertently crossing into dangerous territory—dangerous to a bachelor, that was. In as casual manner as possible, he rose and crossed to the window.

  “Ah, Marcus. I see you’ve discovered my scotch.” Prescott entered with the duchess. Behind them, Carlisle and another fellow strolled in. Must be Lieutenant Landon, Prescott’s comrade from his army days.

  Both men nodded in his direction and then their gazes turned toward the settee.

  Toward Miss Goodnight.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Fluttering Eyelashes

  Emily ought to be pleased with the results of her conversation with Lord Blakely and yet… she felt disappointed. Flat. Perhaps his taking away her spectacles had something to do with it. She’d not wanted to relinquish them, but her head ached something fierce from peering through just one. Given the opportunity to have them repaired, she couldn’t very well argue with him, could she?

  Anyone else and she would have refused such an offer. How was she to know they wouldn’t simply forget all about them? She trusted Lord Blakely with them, though. He might be a rogue and a scoundrel, but he would handle the matter most expeditiously.

  He seemed to comprehend what they meant to her.

  Surprising that.

  He’d certainly bolted away from her when the others arrived. He’d realized, obviously, the danger of being alone with her. She refused to dwell upon his horror at the notion of marrying her. She knew better than anyone her lack of appeal and yet… It had hardly been a flattering moment.

  Emily gazed toward the sounds of those entering the room. Blond and dark, definitely Sophia and her duke. And then two others… Perhaps Mr. White? His lordship now. She must remember. Many men would likely take offense at such a mistake.

  “Lord Carlisle,” Sophia said. “Lieutenant Landon. May I present you to my dearest of friends, Miss Emily Goodnight?”

  Three fuzzy but colorful blobs of people stood before her. Sophia, wearing a sparkling blue gown. Of course, she’d be looking utterly gorgeous. Lord Carlisle, considerably taller than Sophia, easily identifiable with his blond hair and soothing presence. And then another man, not as tall as Carlisle but stout. An energy emanated from this one. His features escaped her, of course, but she would easily remember him by the shocking orange color of his hair. How this man had kept alive while at war, she’d never guess. Surely, he’d stood out like a b
eacon?

  Both men bowed.

  “Miss Goodnight? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” This from the lieutenant.

  “So delighted to see you again.” This from the earl. He’d remembered the few occasions they’d met before. Most people usually did not remember being acquainted with her.

  From the corner of her eye, she sensed Lord Blakely’s watchful gaze. He’d told her she needed to act good enough. Act good enough? Good lord, how was she going to manage this?

  Good enough.

  She summoned an entirely different scenario for Lord Blakely’s response to what he thought had been her proposal. He’d bent his head forward, moving close enough that she saw sincerity and love glowing from his sable eyes. She’d inhaled the spicy scent of male; scotch, soap, and cigar. He’d touched her cheek with one hand. And then cradled it. His thumb caressed her lower lip and then he’d dipped his head…

  “Emily?” Sophia jarred her from her musing.

  Emily turned her head toward the shock of orange, and she did something she’d never done before.

  She fluttered her lashes.

  “My dear Lieutenant. I’m so honored to meet you. His grace has told us of your courage and bravery. England needs more soldiers like you, good sir.” She then turned toward Mr. White. “My lord! We are so lucky to have your company as well! I imagine all the misses in London are missing you already.”

  By heavens, she was flirting!

  Before she knew it, Lieutenant Orange Blob was seated beside her, regaling her and the earl with all manner of battle stories. Lord Carlisle, ever the soft-spoken gentleman, merely listened and nodded. But Emily soon discovered something new. She didn’t need to think very hard to encourage a man. She merely needed to keep her unfocused eyes upon their person and smile dotingly.

  Thank heavens this didn’t drag on for long or she’d struggle to keep awake. The mood in the library shifted completely with the arrival of Rhoda, her mother, and her two younger sisters, Hollyhock and Coleus. The younger girls fluttered and tittered, and the gentlemen retreated to the corner that held Prescott’s liquor cabinet. Emily smiled in Rhoda’s direction but could only think one thing. What made a person good enough? Did Rhoda feel good enough? Did Sophia and Cecily?