Hell’s Belle

by Anders, Annabelle

  She would ensure Marcus that she would be fine on her own. He could leave her to her own devices.

  The more time they spent together, the greater a disappointment she faced when he left.

  Except she couldn’t keep herself from hoping for more. She wanted it all.

  How had she convinced herself that all she wanted out of a marriage would be security and the freedom to do as she pleased? That all she needed a husband for was to keep her from being sent to live with her dreadful aunt?

  What a fool she’d been.

  Still was.

  She wanted what Cecily and Sophia had. She wanted her husband to look at her like she mattered to him more than anyone else in the world. She wanted to make a family with Marcus.

  For a moment, she allowed herself to dream of what an incredible father he would be.

  Of course, their children would be intelligent, if breeding won out. Marcus was keenly intelligent, as was she. The things she could teach such children.

  She rolled onto her side before remembering her arm was injured and yelped when pain shot up her arm.

  “Blasted feathering Gubberducker…” She’d given up on the swear words she knew today and began making them up all on her own.

  Such a day.

  “Emily?”

  She’d not heard him enter, caught up in her own frustrations. His low voice sent a chill along her spine. She wished she could see him. He stood by the door. A magnificent six-foot blob with dark hair dressed in ruggedly handsome colors.

  “Is he taken care of?” She pinned her gaze on the blur that made up his fine-looking face and piercing eyes.

  “Quimbly?” The blob of his face nodded. “My father?” Less confidence in his voice now. “We can only wait and see.”

  Ignoring the pain in her wrist, she propped herself up to face him. His hands moved at his neck. He’d be removing his cravat.

  Tingles swept through her at the knowledge that she’d have yet another night with him.

  “I’m so sorry.” She didn’t know what to say about the mess that was his family. And then the thought struck her that they were her family now, too!

  Marcus paused. He seemed to be staring at her for a moment and then took a few steps closer. “I don’t suppose you have another pair.”

  And then he was there, touching her face. And she really could see his eyes now. Not piercing though, but tender. She shook her head.

  “Is it giving you a headache? Not seeing?” His thumb traced the sensitive skin near the outer edge of her eye.

  Again, she shook her head.

  He was giving her that look again.

  That loving look.

  “Was she that much better than me?” She’d not meant to ask. She’d wanted to forget about the incident at the inn.

  Marcus tilted his head to one side, confusion plainly written on his face. “Who, love?”

  That word again!

  Emily tore her gaze away from him and played with the fabric of her night rail. “Meggie.”

  “No one is better than you, Emily.” His voice sounded gravelly, choked with emotion almost. “Meggie was an illusion. She became a reason to hate my father. A reason to avoid my responsibilities.”

  Emily lifted her gaze, afraid of what she might see. Afraid of what she might not see. Dare she hope?

  “I know I’m good enough.” She smiled tremulously. “And I’ll do fine on my own… eventually. After you leave.”

  “You’ve always been good enough.” His hands steadied her face so that she had no choice but to look into his eyes. “I never knew. All those times I sought you out. For entertainment, I told myself.” Derision flickered on his mouth. “You were there. Touching something inside of me. Reaching for me.

  “If you only knew the relief I felt to wake up in that carriage heading for Gretna Green with you rather than Miss Mossant. It was as though I could breathe again. Knowing I’d be tied to you forever. Married to you. And nobody else.”

  What was he saying? Emily reached up to cradle his cheek and jaw in her good hand. “You don’t hate that I’m not beautiful and refined? I thought for certain you’d regret it as time passed. That you still might.”

  “God, Emily. Never say you aren’t beautiful, and I thank God that you are not refined! I’d die of boredom. You know me. I need someone special.” He pulled away and ran one hand through his hair. “I’m making a hash of this, aren’t I?”

  “I love you, Marcus.” There. She’d said it. “I know I’m not supposed to—”

  His lips cut her apology off most effectively.

  Marcus broke away before kissing her again. “I love you.” His lips devoured her chin, her neck. “I love everything about you.” He bit down on her earlobe. “Nobody could be more perfect.” His lips found her eyes now. His hands began roving along her sides, beneath her breasts, her hips. “So blasted perfect, Emily.”

  “Maybe good enough, then?” Emily tilted her head back as Marcus lifted the hem of her gown.

  “Not good enough.” He placed a finger over her mouth. “Perfect. So blasted perfect.”

  “You love me.” She whispered the words in awe as Marcus pulled the gown over her head. “So, we’re really going to be married people?” She had to ask. She did not want to mistake what he was saying to her.

  Her hips bolted upward when Marcus buried his face there and then growled. “I love you.” His breath burned hot, his lips swirled along her seam. “Better than married people, love.” And his hands. Good lord, what was he doing with his hands?

  She squealed a little and gasped. “Marcus!”

  “I’m right here, love.”

  And then she panted. Oh, that.

  Amazing!

  “Don’t stop!” she ordered when he slowed his motions. Her fingers grasped the springy softness of his hair in an attempt to hold him in place. “Don’t stop!”

  Panting. Gasping.

  It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see her surroundings right then. White bursts of light exploded behind her eyes as ripples of near painful pleasure swept through her.

  He loved her!

  He loves me!

  “Oh, Marcus!” Her head rolled back, and she allowed the little death to sweep through her body.

  He loves me!

  “Are you alive?” Marcus crawled back up the bed to lower his weight on her pale curves and fragile limbs.

  She groaned.

  “Your vocabulary knows no bounds.” He couldn’t keep his lips off of her. Something about the taste of her. Clean. Salty. Sweet.

  Woman.

  Stroking the wet heat between her legs, Marcus unfastened his falls. “Emily.” He placed his lips on hers, knowing she would taste herself in his mouth.

  She tried to wrap both hands around his neck, but he grasped her injured arm and pinned it above her head.

  “Keep this up here,” he ordered. “I won’t have you injuring it further.”

  “I can only touch you with one hand?” Oh, lord, but he ought to have known better than to tell her what to do.

  That one hand slid down his chest, his abdomen, and wrapped snuggly around—“Holy… God in—ah…” Her touch stole his breath. His balls tightened, and he held himself still to keep from embarrassing himself.

  “Nice vocabulary,” Emily muttered against his lips.

  “Wench,” he mumbled back and nuzzled her breasts.

  “Rake.” She’d used her own liquid heat to lubricate her hand on him.

  “Bluestocking.” Marcus could only allow this to go on a few more seconds. So close. She was bringing him so very close.

  “Earl.”

  “Countess.”

  “Devil.”

  “Wanton.” He removed her hand and clutched it to his heart.

  “Husband.”

  Marcus sank himself inside of her. Marriage wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

  – The End –

  Dear Reader, I hope you loved watching Marcus and Emily’s love bloss
om. If you enjoyed this story, please consider leaving a quick review on your favorite book retailer and also sharing this story with your friends who might also like a scheming minx, an apathetic rake, and a happily ever after.

  If you’re ready for more yourself, please keep reading for a special preview of Hell of a Lady, Book 4 in my Devilish Debutantes series.

  HELL OF A LADY

  (Devilish Debutantes, Book 4)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Crabtree Ball

  “I don’t understand it, Emily. It’s not as though I’m any different this year. I’m the same person I’ve always been. Heaven knows my dowry’s as small as it ever was.” Normally Rhoda wasn’t one to question good fortune but the past year had turned her into something of a skeptic.

  For upon her wrist, attached to the string her mother had tied earlier, Miss Rhoda Mossant possessed a full dance card for the first time in all of her ten and nine years. Not once since coming out two years ago had she ever had more than a third accounted for.

  And tonight.

  Well, tonight, a masculine name was scribbled onto every single line.

  “Likely something to do with St. John’s affections last year. If a marquess finds you interesting…” Her friend and fellow wallflower, Emily, scrunched her nose and twisted her lips into a wry grimace.

  The gentlemen of the ton, usually oblivious to her presence, had pounced upon Rhoda the moment she set foot in the ballroom, vying to place their names upon her card. Once they’d procured a set, a few even bestowed their attentions upon Emily, although with less enthusiasm.

  But why? The question niggled at her as she bent down to adjust her slipper.

  The supper dance was next to commence, and her feet already ached. She hadn’t been prepared to partake in such vigorous exercise this evening. She certainly hadn’t prepared to be the belle of the ball.

  “Miss Mossant.”

  Rhoda peeked up from the polished boots that appeared before her, but didn’t immediately recognize the vaguely familiar gentleman executing an awkward bow.

  As she sat upright again, a flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. Rhoda usually didn’t forget a handsome face. Well, she hadn’t before… Blond hair, blue eyes, ah yes!

  “Mr. White.” Mr. Justin White, the vicar. She stopped herself from gasping. She’d not met with him since the day Lord Harold had died last summer, easily one of the worst days of her life.

  Second only to the day she’d been informed of St. John’s passing. She shivered as she pushed the though aside.

  “Please, sit down.” She indicated the chair Emily had vacated to… Rhoda glanced around the room. Where had she gone?

  She hadn’t much time as the next set was soon to begin. She’d promised this one to Lord Kensington, of all people. She could endure the vicar’s company until the Earl came to claim her. Mr. White was a vicar, after all. One could not simply ignore a vicar.

  He smiled grimly and lowered himself to the seat. “I hope you are doing well.” He cleared his throat. If he felt as awkward as she did then why had he approached her?

  Likely, he felt the need to inquire as to her spiritual health. The collar he wore set him quite apart from the other more ornately dressed gentlemen.

  And was she doing well in the spiritual sense?

  She would have laughed, but if she were to begin laughing, it might turn to hysteria. And quite possibly, she’d be unable to stop.

  She wasn’t sure she could be “well” again. Ever since that weekend. It had been the last time she’d seen St. John and Lord Harold alive.

  And the other one.

  “I am well. And you, Mr. White?” She slanted him a sideways glance. He’d been witness to Harold’s death, as well. The men were all cousins, from what she remembered. Mr. White had nearly jumped into the sea to rescue poor Harold. He’d remained hopeful longer than anyone else. Even longer than his own brother.

  His persistence might have had something to do with his faith.

  “It has been a trying winter,” the vicar answered. “But with springtime, always comes hope.” He spoke sincerely. No mockery in his words whatsoever.

  “Is it presumptuous of me to hope that I might claim a set with you?”

  Good heavens! He wanted to dance with her too?

  “I’m afraid, sir, they have all been spoken for.” When his eyebrows rose in surprise, she held out her wrist. She could hardly believe it herself. “I’m not fibbing, Mr. White! I wouldn’t lie to a vicar!”

  He shook his head, not bothering to examine the card. Instead, he stared down at his own hands, clasped together at the space between his knees. His blond hair, longer than was fashionable, fell forward, hiding his profile from her gaze.

  “I do not wish to bring to mind unhappy memories, Miss Mossant, but I never had the chance to tell you how much I admired your composure, and compassion on that dreadful day. I do not know that your friend could have endured it without your strength and comfort. I’ve often wanted to tell you this, and when I realized you were here tonight…” His throat worked as he swallowed what else he might say.

  His words surprised her.

  She barely remembered the accident itself, often dwelling instead, upon everything that happened… afterwards.

  Their assembled group had been sitting atop the cliff, drinking wine and sharing a lovely picnic. Rhoda had been upset with St. John’s attention to another lady. Today, she could not even recall the woman’s name. Her presence, however, had mattered greatly at the time.

  Lord Harold had been in a good-humored mood as he joked about falling into the sea, and St. John had goaded him, it seemed.

  And then it was not a joke anymore.

  Lord Harold had lost his balance and tumbled over the edge of the cliff. He’d been standing there, laughing one moment, and the next he simply disappeared. He’d ceased to exist.

  Sophia had lurched forward, as though she would jump into the crashing waves below to save him.

  Yes, Rhoda had caught her friend, held her back as Sophia sobbed and cried out her husband’s name.

  “She is my friend.” Rhoda answered truthfully. “I would do anything for her.” And she had. God save my soul.

  “Miss Mossant, my set, I believe.” Dressed in a cream-colored jacket and an embroidered turquoise waistcoat, the Earl of Kensington could not be more dissimilar than the vicar. His breeches were practically molded to his thighs and she thought that perhaps his stockinged calves were padded. The heels on his buckled shoes would ensure that he stood taller than her, in spite of her own above-average height.

  Rhoda had thought to refuse him, but in doing so would have had to decline other offers as well. Cecily wasn’t here. Regardless, she’d understand. A lady could not refuse such a request. Not if she wished to dance with any others that night.

  Rhoda twisted her mouth into a welcoming smile.

  He’d lied and tricked Cecily. Rhoda knew he was not to be trusted. And yet, here he stood, all affability, affluence, and charm.

  He’d paid for his misdeeds. Perhaps he deserved a second chance. In spite of what he’d done to her friend…

  She turned to Mr. White and nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.” She rose, eager to escape the memories this man evoked.

  And then, placing one hand on Lord Kensington’s arm, she allowed herself to be whisked onto the dance floor for the lively set. Taking her position, she determined to forget the unfortunate encounter. She ought to be having the time of her life tonight!

  Dancers all around her smiled and laughed as they executed the well-known steps. Despite his despicable past, Lord Kensington was a handsome and charming gentleman.

  Initially, as they executed the steps of the dance, he was discreet in his appreciation of her. But then… a lingering touch here. An inappropriately close brush of his body.

  Toward the end of the dance, he stood closer than was necessary and allowed his hands to remain upon her person longer than she found comfortable. She hop
ed no one else noticed.

  A lady’s reputation was all she had.

  A time or two, she caught Mr. White watching her with something akin to disapproval.

  Which bothered her.

  She barely knew the man. She hoped to never speak with him again, as a matter of fact. They shared something tragic together, and each time she saw him, the terrible emotions of that day would resurface. Such a phenomenon did not lend itself to friendship.

  Rhoda stretched her lips into a smile. The music slowed to a halt and Lord Kensington tucked her arm into his.

  His face was slightly flushed and his eyes bright. “My dear Miss Mossant, it’s ever so hot in here. Shall we forgo the remainder of the set and take some air?” Without allowing her to answer, his hold upon her elbow tightened and he led her toward the terrace.

  Flavion Nottingham’s scent was heady. At one point, she’d considered him desirable, indeed, but now she felt nothing. She knew him for who he was, as did the rest of the ton.

  But he was an Earl, and as they had always done in the past, they embraced him.

  She had nothing to fear. The man was no longer, in truth, a man… No need to flutter her eyelashes at him, encourage his preening boastfulness. Even though that was what gentlemen wanted. They wanted to feel their superiority acutely. It was at least half of what made a man feel worthy.

  There was no need to be wary of the Earl. Her mother and sisters had attended the ball with her. Ought she to locate one of them? After his rather unfortunate… accident, Kensington was harmless.

  Besides, well known to all, he had a wife and child at home.

  Rhoda allowed herself to be led into the darkness outside.

  With an invisible moon tonight, stars twinkled dimly in a mostly black sky and 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?

  Somehow she doubted it. She should have located her mother. “I’m fine, nonetheless, my lord. I wish to return inside now.” She slowed her pace and resisted him at last.