Hell of a Lady

by Anders, Annabelle

  Hell of a Lady

  Annabelle Anders

  Copyright © 2018 ANNABELLE ANDERS

  Kindle Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  About the Book

  1. Crabtree Ball

  2. A New Lord

  3. A Country House Party

  4. A Good Dunking

  5. A Hasty Escape

  6. Something’s Amiss

  7. Emily’s Plan

  8. Ever the Vicar

  9. Evening Entertainment

  10. I Did It

  11. New Arrivals

  12. Emily Takes Action

  13. Compromised

  14. Confession

  15. Coming Clean

  16. Change in Plans

  17. His Way

  18. One Small Obstacle…

  19. Thinking Outside the Box

  20. To Be Betrothed or Not To Be Betrothed

  21. In or Out

  22. Still Undecided

  23. Too Far This Time

  24. Girls Can Be Boys, Too

  25. What’s It Gonna Be?

  26. Time’s Running Out

  27. Not Again!

  28. Interrogation

  29. Earning It

  30. Wednesday Afternoon at the Park

  Excerpt from The Perfect Debutante

  Acknowledgements

  Read More by Annabelle Anders

  Dedication

  I dedicate this book to none others, than my readers. Without your encouragement and support I’m not sure I would have persisted so diligently. Ever so humbly, I thank you for reading.

  HELL OF A LADY

  By Annabelle Anders

  A Most Outrageous Wager

  1824, April 7th

  Betts placed below naming whom Miss R.M. will next bestow S. favors upon.

  Minimum. Bett 1000

  *Proof must be provided. Wager remains open until winner is confirmed.

  1000 on FN (Ld. K)

  -April 7th Ld. Mimms

  -April 8th 2000 Ld. FN (Ld. K)

  -April 8th RS (Ld. Q)

  1000 on DB (Ld. W)

  -April 8th Ld. Bn.

  1000 on … RY Ld T

  1000 on FN (Ld. K)

  -April 7th Ld. Mimms

  -April 8th 2000 Ld. FN (Ld. Ps)

  -April 8th RS (Ld. Q)

  1000 on DB (Ld. Wh)

  -April 8th Ld. Bn.

  And so forth… And so on…

  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 Rhododendron 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.

  Tonight, a masculine name was scribbled onto every single line.

  “Likely something to do with you garnering Lord St. John’s notice 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 requested sets with Emily, although with less enthusiasm.

  Rhoda had not gone out of her way to flirt or fawn. She hadn’t been nearly as friendly as she’d been in the past. So, why now? 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 prepared to partake in such vigorous exercise this evening. Nor had her life prepared her to be the belle of the ball.

  “Miss Mossant.”

  Rhoda peeked up to identify the owner of the polished boots that appeared before her. The voice sounded familiar, but she didn’t immediately recognize the rather fine-looking gentleman executing a stiff and formal bow.

  As she sat upright again, a flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. Rhoda usually didn’t forget a handsome face. Blond hair, blue eyes, perhaps nearing the age of thirty. 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 died last summer at Priory Point, easily one of the worst days of her life.

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

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

  Not much time presented itself for conversation as the next set was soon to begin. She’d promised this one to Flavion Nottingham, the Earl of Kensington, of all people. She could endure the vicar’s company until Kensington 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 trust you are doing well.” He cleared his throat. If he felt as uncomfortable as she, 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 as for the condition of her spiritual health?

  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 her soul would ever be well again. Not since that weekend Harold had fallen off the cliff. And less than a fortnight later, when a river of mud and rain had swept the steep narrow road near Priory Point into the sea, along with the Prescotts’ ducal carriage. St. John, his father, and uncle had all been riding inside.

  “I am well. And you, Mr. White?” She studied him from beneath her lashes. He’d been witness to Harold’s death that day, too. 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 Harold’s own brother.

  Mr. White’s 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.

  Hope was something she’d given up on. The greater a person’s hope, the more pain one experienced when disappointment set in. No springtime for her, just one long, endless winter.

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

  Her heart fluttered ever so weakly. This handsome, kind, wholesome man showing interest in her… Laughable, really. She smothered any pleasure she’d normally have enjoyed upon his request.

  Likely whatever had come over the rest of them affected him as well.

  “I’m afraid, sir, they have all been spoken for.” When his eyebrows rose in surprise, she held ou
t 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 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 am to be disappointed, then.” He spoke as though mocking himself but then sent her a sideways glance.

  “Hope does that.” She couldn’t hold back her opinion. “Eventually.”

  He held her stare solemnly. “I would not have taken you for such a cynic, Miss Mossant.”

  She turned to watch a few ladies promenading around the room. “Disappointment does that, you know. Too many letdowns tend to stifle one’s optimism.”

  He scratched his chin. Perhaps she confounded him. She certainly wasn’t engaging in typical ballroom conversation. She ought to be flirting. Complimenting him, widening her eyes, and feigning enthusiastic agreement with all his opinions.

  “I’ll wager you’re an optimist.” She’d redirect the conversation back to him. “A man of God. Your prayers are likely given top priority.” She stretched her lips into a smile.

  He did not smile back. Again, that sideways glance. Her heart jumped at the startling blue of his eyes.

  “I seriously doubt it works that way, Miss Mossant.”

  “It’s not an insult.” She’d be certain he hadn’t taken her comment that way. “Rather the opposite, really.” Those who were good deserved to have their prayers answered. He was obviously one of the good ones. At this thought, she remembered the desperation with which he’d climbed down the side of the cliff, hoping to save Harold.

  Hope had driven him. Even then.

  And he’d been disappointed. As they all had been.

  He cleared his throat. “I’d like to think God does not favor any one of us over others. Are we not all undeserving? Are we not all sinners?”

  “Some more than others.” She could not be in complete agreement with him. People discriminated. They passed judgment upon one another, upon themselves. And they were made in God’s image, were they not?

  She met his gaze steadily and shook her head.

  “You believe me naïve?” He raised his brows.

  “I believe your faith gives you confidence. And your goodness.” Neither of which she could lay claim to. “But I suppose that is why you wear the collar. A true calling.”

  Those blue eyes of his narrowed. “I hope someday you allow yourself to hope again. You are far too young to be so cynical.” His gaze, after searching her face, dropped to her bodice. “And too beautiful.”

  She shivered. Her lack of hope had nothing to do with her age or her looks. Rather to the circumstances life had handed her. She would not thank him for the compliment. “And you a vicar,” she scoffed, feeling defensive at his comment. She didn’t like feeling vulnerable, and he’d somehow caused her to feel just that. Why had he chosen to sit here? What did he want?

  He turned his gaze downward again, and, as though she’d voiced her thoughts, seemed to decide it was time he stated his purpose.

  “I do not wish to bring to mind unhappy memories, Miss Mossant.” He remained focused on the floor. “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.

  Again.

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

  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. “It was all so senseless,” she said through lips that felt frozen.

  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’d simply disappeared. He’d ceased to exist.

  His wife of less than a fortnight, 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 added into his silence. “I would do anything for her.” And she had. God save my soul.

  What else was there to say?

  “Miss Mossant, my set, I believe.” The words crashed into her thoughts almost violently.

  Dressed in a cream-colored jacket and an embroidered turquoise waistcoat, the Earl of Kensington could not be more dissimilar to the vicar. His breeches were practically molded to his thighs, and she thought that perhaps he wore padding beneath his stockings. The heels on his buckled shoes would ensure that he stood taller than her, despite her own above-average height.

  Rhoda had wanted to refuse him, but in doing so would have had to decline other offers as well. A lady could not deny such a request. Not if she wished to dance with any others that night.

  Rhoda twisted her mouth into a welcoming smile.

  Her friend Cecily wasn’t here. Regardless, she’d understand.

  The despicable earl had lied and tricked Cecily into marrying him, and then betrayed her in the worst possible manner. Rhoda knew he was not to be trusted. And yet, here he stood, all affability, affluence, and charm.

  Although Kensington had paid for his misdeeds, Rhoda could never forgive what he’d done to one of her best friends. Even tonight, he’d put Rhoda in an uncomfortable position. He should not have claimed a dance with her. He ought to have remained in the country with his new wife and baby.

  If she refused him, she’d be forced to sit all other dances out.

  Might as well get this over with.

  She turned to Mr. White and nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

  She rose hastily, uneasy with the emotions the vicar evoked.

  He remained sitting, unwilling, it seemed, to remove himself from the memory they had been reliving together. Scrutinizing her, he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

  Regret caught at her to leave their conversation unfinished. She brushed it away. The past must remain in the past. For all of their sakes.

  She dipped her chin, signaling the end of their conversation.

  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 unnerving encounter with Mr. White. She ought to be having the time of her life!

  “Your looks are even more dazzling tonight than ever.” Lord Kensington stood across from her. His compliment only reminded her of what he’d done to Cecily.

  “Thank you.” She’d appear sullen and prideful if she failed to respond. And others were watching them. Both the ladies and the gentlemen.

  The music commenced, and he reached across the gap to take her hand. Thank heavens they wore gloves. Her skin might have crawled if she’d had to endure the touch of his flesh.

  She wished he’d not singled her out this evening.

  Dancers all around her smiled and laughed as they executed the well-known steps. Several ladies’ gazes followed her partner covetously. Despite his despicable past, no one could deny Lord Kensington was a most handsome and charismatic gentleman.

  Initially, as they executed the steps of the dance, he kept his distance and did not attempt to hold her gaze for longer than was considered appropriate. The second time they came together, however, his hand lingered at her waist, and he brushed too close to her body for
comfort.

  “I cannot identify your scent, Miss Mossant.” He leaned his face into her neck. “Roses? But there is a hint of something else? Your own particular magic? Are you casting spells?”

  The words struck her as more of an accusation than anything else. She did her best to widen the gap between them. His flirtatiousness set her skin crawling. He persisted in closing the distance between them and leaving his hand on her longer than necessary.

  She hoped no one else noticed.

  A lady’s reputation was all she had.

  Except, he was an earl. Surely, he wouldn’t do anything to dishonor her in public. He’d mended his ways. Or so everyone said—and by everyone she meant the ton.

  A time or two, she spotted Mr. White watching them with a scowl. Obviously, he disapproved. Of her? Or of her dance partner?

  The question needled.

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

  Lord Kensington caught her gaze, and she stretched her lips into a smile. She’d always loved dancing, moving to the music, talking and flirting with those around her.

  Tonight, she merely endured it. She wished for nothing more than to return home, change into her night rail, and climb under her counterpane.

  The music slowed to a halt. One dance over, two left in the set.

  Lord Kensington tucked her arm into his, his face flushed and 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.

  When he went to set his hand at her back, she arched forward. She did not welcome his overly familiar touch.

  Lord Kensington’s scent clawed at her. At one point, a lifetime ago, she’d considered him desirable, indeed. Now he stirred only disgust in her. She knew him for who he was.

  But he was an earl, an influential one, and for that reason, he would never be turned away by society.