Hell of a Lady

by Anders, Annabelle

He clenched his fists and took a deep breath. “I wish to court you.” He was not a person to play games. He would be up front about his intentions.

  “No!” she nearly shouted as she sprang out of her chair. “No! No… You mustn’t say that.” Her eyes had grown wide, and a flush tinged her cheeks now.

  He didn’t appreciate the sting of rejection he felt at her adamant response. Damn his eyes, but this woman tied him up in knots. “Are you repulsed by me, then? Is that it?” He knew she was not.

  Her eyes remained wide as she shook her head adamantly. “You don’t understand. You don’t know anything!” She held his jacket out for him to take.

  But he knew she had some other secret. She loathed herself right now. And by God, he wanted to fix all of it and bring her into his bed. Into his life.

  She attempted to turn away, but he caught her arm. “I’ll escort you to your chamber.” He’d not have her wandering the halls alone at this time of night. She ought to be safe here, but…

  He opened the door and followed her inside.

  “I’m to marry Blakely.” The words hit him from out of the darkness.

  Had he heard correctly? “Blakely?”

  Lord Blakely had shown her no favor since they’d arrived. He’d seemed inordinately distracted, as a matter of fact. Was she now lying to him? Was this an attempt on her part to repel his attention?

  She held her head high, answering his question with a barely imperceptible nod.

  Needing to retreat, to rethink his course of actions, Justin escorted her upstairs, deep in thought. He avoided watching the line of her back as she walked in front of him. He would not allow his gaze to linger on the sensual curve of her spine and derriere.

  “This is my chamber, here.” She halted. She probably regretted telling him the truth about St. John.

  “I’ve not heard anything about an engagement.” Disappointment warred with anger at himself for not moving more quickly. “Has there been an announcement yet?”

  She fiddled with the door handle and bit her lip. After all of thirty seconds, she finally said, “It’s complicated.”

  She opened the door and slipped inside.

  Well, then.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  New Arrivals

  Rhoda wished she could simply enjoy the company of her closest friends. She wished she could tell them everything. Be carefree as she’d been in the past.

  Just be herself.

  Sophia had canceled the picnic she’d planned the following day upon the arrival of Cecily and her husband, Mr. Stephen Nottingham, a day early. Surprisingly enough, Cecily’s father had accompanied them as well. Apparently, he and Mr. Nottingham were merging their two companies, creating an importing and exporting business that would only be rivaled by the East India Company itself. Cecily apologized, not that he’d come along, but that he intended to iron out many of the details with Mr. Nottingham while here.

  “Think nothing of it.” Sophia waved off the apology as the good friends settled into her favorite drawing room. The last time the four of them had come together had been for Sophia and Prescott’s wedding. And although they’d all come for the ceremony, the gathering had been brief. Nothing had been the same since Cecily married.

  “Flavion is in London. Did you know that?” Cecily didn’t waste time with platitudes, instead making her announcement before Sophia could finish pouring hot water into the cups for tea.

  Rhoda stiffened. Yes, she was aware the earl had returned to London.

  “Can you believe you were actually married to the lout for nearly six months?” Emily tucked her feet beneath her and shook her head. “Thank heavens things turned out the way they did.”

  “I was lucky, indeed,” Cecily agreed, a mysterious smile flitting over her mouth. “And I’ll freely admit that I far prefer his cousin.”

  “You do seem happy now,” Sophia asked. “And we didn’t even need to kill him.”

  At these words, a concerned frown replaced Cecily’s smile. “He’s up to his old tricks again, though.”

  “Flavion?” Sophia confirmed.

  “Yes.”

  Emily became engrossed in her sewing while Sophia handed out plates for scones. The atmosphere had turned decidedly… uncomfortable.

  Cecily turned a sympathetic gaze toward Rhoda. “You are aware of the wager by now, aren’t you?”

  Emily glanced up with a grimace, and Sophia took her seat gingerly.

  Rhoda’s stomach lurched. Even the mention of it… “I am.”

  “Mr. Nottingham and I stayed over in London a few days before coming here. I was lucky enough to get an earful from Mrs. Worthington at the Winters’ Gala Saturday night.

  “Of course, she had nothing flattering to say.” Rhoda sipped her tea and took a deep breath as she contemplated the mean-spirited gossip spreading amongst the ton in London right now.

  About her.

  Rhoda caught a meaningful glance exchanged between Sophia and Cecily. “Don’t hide the details from me.” As much as all of this hurt, she’d rather know the truth than remain in the dark.

  “Since you’ve left town, so many gentlemen have entered the bet that the stakes have risen considerably.” Cecily picked up an embroidery circle and stabbed the needle into the cloth quite viciously. “The would-be winner, if, and of course, I say ‘if’ because I know there never will be one, but if there were to be one, he stands to win over fifty thousand pounds.” She completed her stitch and then added, “And the amount continues to rise.”

  Rhoda’s jaw dropped.

  “If I could bet, I’d put all my money on Rhoda,” Emily said.

  “Well, of course,” Sophia agreed. “But what does Flavion have to do with any of this?”

  “Rumor is that the bastard has healed.”

  “Healed?” Did she mean…?

  “Yes, he’s regained the ability to—”

  “His mentula works again?” Emily sat up straight and frowned. “Of all the rotten luck.”

  Mentula? What in the world? But then understanding struck and Rhoda raised her brows. Oh…

  “My sentiments exactly. But that’s not the worst of it.” Cecily sounded apologetic. “He’s bragging to everyone that he came close to winning the wager at the Crabtrees’ ball. Of course, he is lying.”

  “Of course,” Rhoda echoed through suddenly dry lips.

  Cecily studied her a moment. “Since Stephen’s put a steward in charge of the Kensington funds, Flavion’s spending has been limited. He’s determined to lay claim to the winnings.”

  “And we all know the lengths he’ll go to for money,” Emily interjected.

  Yes, yes, they all did.

  “How could he substantiate something like that, to prove he’d won? Wouldn’t he need some sort of incontrovertible evidence? What would prevent any one of them laying claim to the winnings with a lie?” Emily asked, ever the logical one.

  But Rhoda knew. “He must provide a witness.” She shivered at the memory of that evening.

  “Yes,” Cecily confirmed.

  Rhoda had been such a fool that night, thinking she looked prettier for some reason. Or had been more charming than usual. She’d imagined herself somebody special. Why else would so many gentlemen reserve a set with her?

  Of course, someone must have been in the garden watching that night. If Lord Carlisle hadn’t come along when he did… Yes, she’d managed to disarm Flavion, but what if his witness had made himself known? She’d never have been capable of fighting off two of them.

  “I’m so glad we got you out of London.” Sophia looked terrified for her.

  “I thought this house party was for Emily.” Rhoda glanced around the room. She hated that her friends must all pity her right now. At the same time, she didn’t know what she’d do without them. “But, of course…”

  “She’ll be completely safe, soon enough.” Emily met Rhoda’s gaze, and Rhoda nodded. “Blakely’s going to marry her. The two of them have plans to run away to Gretna Green. Sh
e’ll be protected then. And since Blakely’s blacklisted, they’ll not have much reason to even be in London.

  “What?” The word exploded in unison from both Cecily and Sophia’s mouths.

  “You and Blakely are engaged?” Cecily’s brows rose almost to her hairline.

  “And you didn’t tell me? When did this happen?” Sophia looked hurt.

  “Emily brokered the entire thing.” Rhoda didn’t feel engaged. “It happened rather suddenly.”

  “Just last night,” Emily concurred. “He’s going to marry her to get back at his father.”

  Rhoda’s hands felt cold and clammy again. Would she ever come to terms with the notion that her bridegroom’s sole purpose for marrying her was revenge?

  The remainder of her life would be based on hatred. And fear.

  The room fell silent.

  “When?” Sophia asked the pertinent question.

  “Blakely’s flexible but Rhoda insists she won’t leave until I am betrothed.” Emily wrinkled her nose, making her spectacles bounce a little. She obviously didn’t appreciate Rhoda’s stipulation.

  “Have the two of you gone completely mad?” Cecily no longer made any pretense of embroidering, setting her circle on the table beside her. “Emily isn’t even close to being betrothed!” And then, questioning her own statement, she turned her gaze upon Emily. “Are you?”

  But Cecily didn’t understand how cruel Emily’s aunt could be! Nothing would be worse for her friend than to be sent away to that woman!

  “I’m determined she should marry Lord Carlisle,” Rhoda interjected before Emily could respond.

  “What about Lieutenant Langdon?” Sophia looked doubtful.

  Emily scrunched up her nose again, but before she could answer, Rhoda responded, “Carlisle is perfect for her.”

  Cecily narrowed her eyes and turned to Emily. “Do you want to marry Lord Carlisle?” Before Rhoda could speak, Cecily held up a halting hand. “And hush, Rhoda, I’m asking Emily.”

  Hush? Of course, Rhoda would allow Emily to answer for herself.

  Emily set her tea aside and then shrugged. “He seems tolerable enough.”

  At this, Cecily threw up her hands in repugnance, and Sophia burst from her chair.

  “Tolerable?” Cecily’s tone carried disgust.

  “If she doesn’t marry, she’ll be sent to Wales. Her aunt requires a companion, and her mother is hell-bent upon Emily filling the role,” Sophia replied.

  “So, you see?” Rhoda glared at Cecily, daring her to hush her once again. “Emily’s situation is nearly as urgent as mine.”

  “I’m not so certain of that.” Cecily shook her head. “Marriage is forever. She could always leave off her aunt. It’s far more difficult to leave off a husband.”

  “Except you did,” Emily said.

  Rhoda nearly chimed in that Sophia had as well, except that would be rather insensitive, in light of the circumstances. Although Rhoda would always be of the mindset that Sophia had been in love with Devlin at the time she married Harold.

  “Only by the grace of God,” Cecily insisted.

  “And Flavion’s treachery,” Sophia added.

  “What I’m trying to get all three of you to consider is that Emily ought to find her future husband more than simply tolerable.”

  Emily sighed loudly. “We cannot all marry for love, Cecily. Rhoda isn’t, and I hardly expect to. But Lord Carlisle is a good sort of man and quite handsome to boot. Good heavens, and he’s an earl now! I’d have been satisfied with him even if he were still a vicar.”

  Cecily moaned and shook her head. “You’ve all gone mad. Surely, you don’t support this tomfoolery, do you, Soph?”

  “It isn’t really up to us, Cece. Lord Carlisle was quite attentive to Emily at dinner last night. And he truly is one of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever met.” Sophia blushed. “Aside from Dev, of course.”

  “And very good looking,” Rhoda added.

  Cecily eyed her suspiciously. “Indeed…”

  Justin nodded, pleased when his ball dropped into the pocket on the opposite end of the table. Taking a sip of fine scotch, he contemplated the remaining configuration. Prescott leaned against the back of one of the settees, holding his own cue, while Blakely, Lieutenant Langdon, Mr. Stephen Nottingham, and his father-in-law, Mr. Thomas Findlay, lounged on the other side of the room.

  The gentlemen had been abandoned for the afternoon while the ladies locked themselves away in one of the drawing rooms together. They’d considered going riding, but ominous weather lingered on the horizon and none of them fancied getting drenched.

  Apparently, Blakely and Nottingham knew one another from their various travels.

  “You realize my cousin has returned to London.” Nottingham strolled across the room to address Prescott.

  Dev nodded, still studying the table. “He showed up at White’s before we left.”

  Justin missed his shot and stepped back. Nottingham, the Earl of Kensington. He’d not forget the name of the man who’d attempted to force himself upon Miss Mossant barely one week ago.

  Oh, hell. How had he not connected the names before now? “He is a relation of yours?” Justin asked the gentleman who’d only just arrived today.

  “My cousin,” Mr. Nottingham replied. Looking at him now, Justin was surprised he’d not made the connection immediately. There existed an almost uncanny likeness between the two men—physically, anyhow. Both were fair-haired and blue-eyed. Except this gentleman wasn’t a dandy like his titled cousin. His eyes possessed an intelligence the earl lacked. And his build and complexion reflected years of physical labor.

  “Did you speak with him?” Dev asked Nottingham.

  Mr. Nottingham ran one hand through his hair. “I did. Dammit, but I wish he’d remained in the country with Daphne.”

  “Daphne?” Justin hadn’t listened to gossip enough to stay abreast of all this.

  Nottingham glanced his way. “His wife.”

  Devlin sank his shot and then gave the subject his full attention. The other gentlemen had struck up a game of cards and paid little heed. Dev spoke softly though. “He’s intent upon making matters difficult for Miss Mossant.”

  Nottingham nodded. “That doesn’t surprise me. When we had drinks, Flave said he blamed Miss Mossant for most of what he went through last year.”

  “How would that be her fault?” Justin would have clarification on such a statement.

  “He thinks she informed the chit’s father… the one who sliced through one of his bollocks with his sword. Ridiculous, of course. Everyone knew what he was up to. He’s always brought these calamities upon himself.” Such relations certainly couldn’t be an enviable situation for Stephen Nottingham.

  Devlin then went on to relay an almost unbelievable sequence of events involving Mr. and Mrs. Nottingham and his cousin, Kensington.

  Miss Mossant, Mrs. Nottingham, the duchess, and Miss Goodnight all had good reason to mistrust the earl. Justin was surprised Miss Mossant had consented to partner Kensington for that one dance.

  “So, is it true then, that the incident rendered him… impotent?” The bastard hadn’t appeared to be when he’d come across them.

  “Initially.” Mr. Nottingham grimaced. “But apparently, his virility has been restored. More compelling, however, is his lack of funds. He’s torn through his allowance and although I’ve increased it and set up advances for him, he cannot, to save his life, stay out of debt.” Stephen Nottingham pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since returning most of Cecily’s dowry to Findlay, I’ve poured a considerable amount of my own funds into the estates. I simply cannot continue doing so.”

  “So, Kensington sees his only hope to fill his pockets is the wager. What are the estimated winnings up to now?”

  “Sixty-two thousand pounds the last I checked.”

  Dev let out a low whistle. “That amount is unreal. I’ll need to inform Sophia.”

  Mr. Nottingham nodded. “It’s a deuced fortune. A fort
une Flave sees as the answer to all his woes. I don’t trust him. He disappointed me last year. I have a feeling he figures he has nothing to lose.”

  Dev nodded.

  Justin glanced across the room. Shouldn’t Blakely be included in this conversation? If he was to become her protector? Were Prescott and the duchess aware of Miss Mossant’s engagement? Hell, was Blakely? He certainly didn’t act like it.

  For all of one second, he considered revealing what Kensington had attempted at the Crabtree Ball. But he did not. Miss Mossant already seemed shaken by the rumors and the wager. Nothing in her life was private anymore. She’d certainly not appreciate him exposing the events of that evening.

  “Join us for a hand!” Lieutenant Langdon beckoned from across the room. “You gents are far too serious for a house party. Put down the cues and place your bets.”

  Justin grimaced. Not his cup of tea.

  Watching the first hand being dealt, anger roiled beneath his calm. Anger at Kensington, at St. John, and surprisingly, at Miss Mossant herself.

  Was she lying to him about Lord Blakely? Did she so adamantly oppose his suit that she’d make up a fake betrothal?

  A manservant entered to have a word with Prescott. The duke nodded and folded his hand. “It seems little Harriette is in need of her mother. I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt the ladies.”

  Justin wished to contemplate his next move. His conscience already berated him for ignoring his inheritance. But he could not drop this business with Miss Mossant.

  Damned if he knew why.

  She was not his concern. He ought to abandon her protection to her fiancé. At that moment, Blakely punched his fist in the air and then gathered his winnings from the table.

  The man certainly didn’t appear to have any worries.

  Justin couldn’t bring himself to depart for Carlisle house just yet.

  He excused himself and stepped out the door.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Emily Takes Action

  As the house party guests exited the manor for an afternoon walk in the rain, Rhoda was beginning to wish she could run away from herself. She’d argued with Cecily this afternoon, bullied dearest Emily, and last night, she’d snapped at Lord Carlisle, when all he’d ever done was show her kindness.