“That’s all?” Emily peered up from the paper.
A surge of warmth wrapped around Rhoda’s heart. She loved Emily as though she were her very own sister. She’d do whatever she could to prevent her from being shipped off to Wales.
Not that Wales would be so bad by itself, but that aunt of hers sounded beastly!
“That’s all.” Rhoda would handle the other details. “Leave the rest up to Sophia and me. We’ll land you a husband first. And then.” She stifled the disbelieving laughter that threatened to erupt. “Then I’ll run away with Blakely… if he’s willing.”
Skepticism clouded Emily’s eyes. “Shake on it?”
Rhoda wouldn’t have to break her word. Blakely would go to his grave a bachelor. “Shake on it.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ever the Vicar
After assuring herself Emily’s appearance would be striking enough to capture even the most discerning of males, Rhoda returned to the chamber she was to share with Coleus and donned one of her own gowns. Since Lucy was busy assisting their mother, the two girls attended one another.
At ten and six, Coleus yearned heartily to make her entry into society. She’d learned all the fashionable hairstyles and had been begging their mother to take her into Madam Chantal’s shop for a fitting.
“You really must marry, Rho,” Coley prodded as she twisted and curled Rhoda’s dark swath of hair into something supposedly stylish. “It won’t be fair, you know, if I’m required to sit out another year after this one. Isn’t there anybody you’d like to, well, you know?”
Rhoda met her sister’s gaze in the mirror with a scowl. She most certainly didn’t need to be beleaguered by an adolescent child right now. If Coleus had the slightest idea as to how Rhoda’s reputation hung in peril, this very moment… She couldn’t even think about it.
God help them all.
If Rhoda didn’t bring matters under control, neither of her sisters would be given the benefit of the doubt either. A fine layer of perspiration broke out on her forehead.
What could she do to subdue such rumors about herself? St. John deserved to be cursed. At that moment, she imagined him baking in the depths of hell… but then her breath caught.
Likely, she’d eventually join him there.
For the first time, she had to wonder if Blakely might perhaps be amenable to Emily’s outlandish idea, after all? She hadn’t much choice, really. The only measure she could take to save her reputation was, indeed, to marry.
But Blakely?
She determined she’d make every effort to examine this Lieutenant Langdon fellow.
Last year, before St. John’s accident, Rhoda had foolishly believed she’d all but settled her very own happily ever after. She’d believed she’d found the perfect gentleman, one whose soul melded with hers.
Now she could barely look herself in the mirror.
Coleus inserted one more pin and then stepped back. “Well, I’ve done my part. A work of art, if I say so myself.”
Without examining her reflection, Rhoda rose and located her favorite shawl. “I’m going to explore the gardens before dinner.” Lately, her lungs squeezed tighter than normal, making it almost difficult to breathe. Even within the confines of this beautiful manor, she felt stifled. Draping her shawl around her shoulders, she couldn’t meet her sister’s eyes.
If Rhoda couldn’t squash this scandal, all of them would be ruined.
She felt Coleus’s accusing stare acutely.
“You’re so different now,” her sister stated.
Rhoda knew she had changed. She wished she could return to her former self. “I’m sorry.” She barely managed to whisper the apology.
Coleus looked at her curiously and then shrugged and sat down at the vanity herself. “Just don’t get lost. Mama will have apoplexy if you don’t return on time for the evening meal.”
They’d be lucky if she were to disappear.
Rhoda hugged the soft wool around her shoulders and slipped out the door.
If anything could soothe Rhoda, it would be this garden. Especially now, in early spring. God, her mother, the lover of all horticulture, was going to be in raptures when she discovered it.
Rhoda wandered for a few minutes and upon seeing an old wooden bench, sat down, closed her eyes, and tried to calm herself.
A bet!
About me!
God damn you, St. John!
“I’ll leave you alone, if you’d prefer.”
Lord Carlisle.
She didn’t need to see him to identify his voice.
“No. Please stay.” She opened her eyes, surprisingly eager to have her solitude interrupted.
Something about this man inherently calmed her.
“Won’t you sit?” She made room for him beside her. It wasn’t a large bench, but space existed enough for two.
He lowered himself and the strength of his thighs immediately pressed against hers. Rhoda chastised herself for wanting to lean into him. The wager hadn’t been based upon vague rumors. They’d had St. John’s word! And he’d been telling nothing more than the truth.
She was a wanton!
And now she found herself all too aware of the man seated beside her, a man of God. Well, he had been, anyhow.
“Are you ever going to travel to your estate? Put the family out of their misery? Surely, by now, they’ve imagined all manner of ogres coming to banish them from their home?”
“I’ve written my cousins. They know they have no need to worry.” His voice condemned her in the kindest of ways, for assuming he’d be one to cause anyone undue wretchedness.
“Of course, ever the vicar.” She bit her lip at her unkind words. It wasn’t his fault she’d ended up in such a scrape. God help her, Carlisle likely was one of the last gentlemen left who’d treat her with any manner of respect.
He leaned forward, much as he had last week, at the ball, before any of this was known. His elbows rested on his knees, and he seemed to be contemplating his loosely clasped hands. He lacked his normal peaceful countenance though.
“You are reluctant, aren’t you?”
He shook his head. “You are right, I’ve delayed in taking on my new responsibilities. I should not have come here, to Eden’s Court. It’s time I looked into the circumstances of the estate.”
Nothing was as simple as it seemed. Lord Carlisle might just as well have inherited a burden as an asset. “Soon enough, we’ll all have to return to our troubles.” The words escaped her mouth of their own accord.
“I imagine you’ve heard about the wager, then.”
She could have groaned. His knowledge of the bet exposed her. If Carlisle, a former vicar, had heard about it, then who in heaven’s name had not? In a flash of hysteria, she considered she might just as well have gone parading down Bond Street in nothing but her chemise… or less…
It seemed everyone knew something she’d considered to be the most intimate moment of her life. But that they knew the other…
She would not cry.
“Don’t fancy yourself winning it.” Why was she striking out at Lord Carlisle? He’d never been anything but kind to her.
“Of course not.” And, of course, she had no choice but to believe him.
Rhoda barked out something between a laugh and a scoffing sound.
“That would explain Kensington’s behavior last week,” he pointed out softly.
Rhoda nodded. “And that of Miss Redfield’s, I’d venture to guess.” She could much easier think of this man as a vicar than an earl. He wasn’t nearly arrogant enough.
“May I ask you a question, Miss Mossant?” His voice held no demand, only polite inquisitiveness.
She considered a snippy retort but caught herself in time. Really, he’d done nothing to merit her ill will. “You may.”
She felt the air stir as he turned his head to stare at her. Rhoda shifted herself on the bench so that she could face him fully.
“What do you intend to do about it?”
/> Rhoda held herself stiffly. “Why would you think there was anything I could do?” Except for Emily’s plan. But she wouldn’t share that with him. She certainly didn’t relish being laughed at.
He did not attempt to answer her rhetorical question. Instead, he merely stared at her, looking somewhat perplexed.
She’d forgotten the purity of this man’s eyes. Blue like the clearest of days. When he focused so intently upon her, she could feel his gaze all the way to her toes.
“From the moment I met you, you have proven to be a woman of strength. Therefore, I simply assumed…” He tilted his head questioningly.
For a long moment, she couldn’t think. He seemed to see into her very soul. Had he done that with all of his parishioners or only those of the female variety?
And if he could see into her soul, surely, he’d not be talking to her now.
She swallowed hard. “Sometimes we lose our strength.”
She’d not meant to say it. Something about him drew her deepest thoughts. His quiet reassurance pulled the words from her.
“Do we lose it? Or do we relinquish it willingly?”
If she laughed at his intuition, at his astute judgment, then perhaps she wouldn’t feel so compelled to examine herself to discover the answer. That would explain her unkind comments earlier. She’d known, on a deeper level somehow, that she’d best defend herself against him. Against his kindness, his purity.
“Such foolishness.” She forced a harsh laugh out.
He continued staring at her, as though she’d not said a word. And then, “You can always find it again. Don’t let them win, Miss Mossant.”
At his words, Rhoda’s laughter froze. Her lips trembled. She wanted to tell him the truth but could not form the words. As heat burned behind her eyes, Rhoda finally turned away.
For a terrifying moment, she’d had to fight the urge to bury her face in his neck, to inhale his clean masculine scent, to absorb his goodness.
And he’d probably have let her. He might be an angel, but he was also a man. He’d be susceptible to feminine allure.
But adding water to dye didn’t purify the dye, it colored the water. She couldn’t do that to him. She couldn’t cast her sin on him.
Justin had assumed her secret was the obvious—her indiscretions with St. John. But sitting there, perceiving the torment behind her eyes, he wondered if it might be something else.
But what else could she be hiding?
He almost wished he’d never met her. Almost. If he’d never met her, he might sleep more peacefully. Dark eyes and sensual lips wouldn’t taunt him in his dreams. He’d not awaken holding himself, imagining creamy thighs spread beneath him.
Her very essence tempted him. He had a desire to protect her but more than that. He wanted to possess her, in all the ways a man ever could.
God help him, but he wanted to take her into his arms. He wanted to stop her lips from trembling by covering them with his own.
He’d found other women attractive; he hadn’t lived a chaste life, as many chose to believe. But his feelings for Miss Rhododendron Mossant nearly overwhelmed him. Since the day he’d met her.
And he didn’t understand exactly why.
She tore her gaze from his and stared across the garden. Such perfection, he thought as he studied her profile. And yet, her beauty was only part of it.
“I’m going to disappoint everyone,” she stated with far too much conviction.
He could not help himself. Lifting one hand, he turned her chin so that she had no choice but to meet his gaze again, thankful he’d left off his gloves this evening. The tips of his fingers registered skin as soft as a butterfly.
“Is there something else?” he had to ask. Her lashes fluttered as she seemingly blinked away tears but shook her head nonetheless. There was something else. “I want to help you, if you’ll allow me.”
She shot off the bench. “I… I…” Looking everywhere but at him, she could not hide her distress. “There’s no need. You cannot! Won’t you let me alone, please? You’re no longer a vicar, are you? It’s not necessary for you to seek out my confession.”
Justin simply watched her. Dear Lord but something tormented this woman. “I won’t seek it out.” His voice halted her. “But I’m here… if you change your mind.”
She shook her head again, hesitantly this time though, and then made her escape.
Justin’s gaze fixed on the path she’d taken long after she disappeared.
When he’d first met her, at Priory Point, just before Harold’s death, she’d been a vibrant, carefree woman. His attraction to her had been instantaneous. Watching Miss Mossant back then, he’d been forced to suppress the desire to request permission to court her. He’d not had any choice. St. John had been squiring her around town for over a month by then. A gentleman simply did not pay his addresses to his cousin’s… lady friend.
Justin had been plagued with irritation at his cousin, for he’d known that, as a marquess, St. John merely toyed with her. Luke’s intentions toward her had been dishonorable from the beginning.
If only he’d died without blathering of his conquest first. Miss Mossant and her family could have moved forward, grieving, of course, but all the better for their loss.
Less than a year had passed since the tragic accident that had claimed three lives, the former duke, the duke’s brother, and his heir, leaving Prescott to pick up the pieces. The duchess had suffered greatly—as had Sophia and Dev. At least they’d found solace in each other.
Justin rose from the bench and strode toward the house. With St. John gone, he’d have thought Miss Mossant might be somewhat approachable. He’d hoped to have the freedom at last to follow his urges. He’d have liked to take her driving, woo her… And despite his physical needs, he fully intended to act honorably.
With every attempt to gain her attention, she’d thwarted him.
In fact, she seemed more unattainable than ever.
CHAPTER NINE
Evening Entertainment
“Let’s play a parlor game!” The resplendent meal had passed uneventfully and after biding half an hour over their port, the gentlemen had finally deigned to rejoin the ladies.
Rhoda and Sophia had decided that Emily was going to need some pushing in order to land herself a husband. She only hoped all of this didn’t have the opposite effect. Sophia met her gaze from across the room with a spark of mischief behind her own.
“But not Charades,” Rhoda returned, playing her part. “Something new! Something fast!” Her mother and Hollyhock had retired for the evening, leaving Emily, Sophia, Rhoda, and Coleus downstairs with Prescott and three equally available bachelors.
Rhoda had been more than a little amazed to see that Emily had actually upheld her promise to leave off her spectacles. Although not a raving beauty, Emily looked sweet and inviting and… pretty tonight. And, when she smiled, as she was doing now—Rhoda swallowed hard—she did look beautiful. Of course, Rhoda had known all along how truly wonderfully gorgeous her bluestocking of a friend could be. She delighted in the fact that the gentlemen seated beside her seemed to see it as well.
Even if one of them did happen to be her earl—scratch that, not her earl—the Earl of Carlisle.
Emily deserved to marry somebody wholesome and good. She most definitely did not deserve the fate her mother promised if she failed to become betrothed.
But if Emily did somehow manage to land a husband then… Rhoda glanced toward Marcus Roberts, the Earl of Blakely. Such a smug, self-satisfied man. Yes, precisely what she herself deserved.
Rhoda wondered if Emily had spoken with him yet about the plan.
Just then, he caught her watching him and a slow, sinister-looking grin spread across his handsome face.
Pox on it, he knew!
Her cheeks warmed.
“I know of just the game.” Sophia had risen to her feet to stand beside her husband. The duke absolutely doted on her. She could ask him for a star, and he’d likely fin
d a way to bring it back to earth. “Cecily wrote me of a parlor game some ladies in her neighborhood played last winter. It’s called Beast of Burden.” She then went on to explain the rules and how it was played.
Carlisle looked skeptical, whereas the other gentlemen grinned stupidly.
“So, if I’m to understand correctly,” Lieutenant Langdon said, “the gentleman crawls around on the floor carrying the lady on his back so that other gentlemen might kiss her?” He gave a bark of laughter. “I’m game if the ladies are.”
Coleus grinned stupidly while Emily scowled outright. Rhoda ought to have insisted her sister retire.
Rhoda moved across the room, sat down beside Emily, and then squeezed her hand. “We’ll play, won’t we, Em?”
Emily squinted at some unknown object in the distance. A twinge of guilt pricked Rhoda at how lost her friend seemed without her spectacles. But a vulnerable side to her showed, soft and feminine. “I, er, suppose?” Emily answered uneasily.
Prescott’s scowl rivaled Emily’s. “I can’t abide my wife kissing anyone other than myself.”
Scrunching up her nose, Sophia placed her hand on the duke’s arm. “The kiss can be either on the cheek or the lips. Like brothers and sisters.”
Even so, Prescott’s arm pulled Sophia close to him. “As long as my objections are known.” The glint in his eye warned the other gentlemen present, however. Any fellow choosing to attempt more than a buss on the cheek with his wife would find himself in hot water.
“One more thing,” Rhoda added. “Everyone is blindfolded but the maiden and the beast.”
Sophia smiled secretly upon hearing this. It was not a part of the rules, but she and Rhoda had decided earlier that it could possibly make things more… interesting.
Sophia called for a maid to fetch scarfs for blindfolds while the gentlemen moved the furniture, placing eight chairs in a circle.
The scarves were handed out and everyone was instructed to sit gentleman-lady-gentleman-lady. Blakely grumbled, and Carlisle looked resigned. Always the peacemaker.
Hell of a Lady Page 8
