Hell of a Lady

by Anders, Annabelle

  “I wish to reassure you that I intend to restore your daughter’s reputation completely.” He didn’t go into any further detail, but he sounded so confident that Rhoda almost believed it. “You have no need to worry for your other daughters’ opportunities, but I’d request, please, that you remain at Eden’s Court for at least four more days. By that time, I’ll have settled matters in London and can meet you there.”

  Her mother nodded eagerly. “Of course, my lord.” And it was as simple as that.

  “I will be leaving for Pebble’s Gate shortly, in order to obtain your husband’s consent, of course. And as long as he has no objections, I’ll then go to London to order the banns read and deal with these other matters.”

  Rhoda met her mother’s gaze knowingly. Both knew how little her father cared to involve himself in his daughters’ affairs. Rhoda raised her brows and her mother shrugged.

  “I’m certain that will prove to be an… interesting visit,” her mother responded.

  Lord Carlisle apparently hadn’t noticed their exchange. For he’d already risen and seemed anxious to end their meeting. “Please, feel free to begin any planning necessary and of course, have the expenses billed to me.”

  Rhoda rose, as did her mother, Sophia, Cecily, Mr. Nottingham, and Prescott.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you, Justin?” Prescott had offered earlier, Rhoda knew, but he’d declined.

  “I need to do this alone, Dev.” And then she glimpsed a part of him she’d not seen before. Vulnerability. And uncertainty. But also, a steely glint of resolve. Something about this caused a frisson of fear to crawl through her. She suddenly wanted to insist he take the duke along, or to take her with him but knew he’d not appreciate this.

  Rhoda hugged herself and shivered. She wished he’d taken her in his arms after his proposal. She wanted to touch him, to seal her commitment with more than just words. “Will you take luncheon with us, before you leave?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  But he was already shaking his head. “I don’t want to waste any more daylight.” He would be riding alone.

  Something in her tone must have alerted Sophia to Rhoda’s need. “Mrs. Mossant, Cecily. I have some new fashion magazines in the drawing room. There’s no harm in leaving these two alone for a few minutes before Lord Carlisle takes his leave, is there?” This, she said to the duke.

  He smiled dotingly at his wife. “I don’t believe so.” And then he ushered both Rhoda’s mother and Sophia out the door. Cecily and her husband followed. “I’ll meet you in the stables in half an hour.” Mr. Nottingham spoke over his shoulder. And then he closed the door quietly behind him.

  Rhoda had the feeling Lord Carlisle would have avoided being alone with her again. But she’d made herself a promise. She stepped forward tentatively and then took his hands in hers.

  She closed her eyes and searched for the right words. “I believe I’m coming to know you a little…” She squeezed his hands even though his own remained lax. “And so, I’m not going to thank you for this. You wouldn’t do it unless you wanted to.” He’d told her mother he’d had feelings for her since last summer. “Don’t do anything rash for me in London. And if you do, please, have a care.”

  His larger fingers finally curled around hers gently. She couldn’t help it. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against his chest. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”

  He released her hands and his arms came around her. Rhoda refused to cry. She refused to allow him to leave believing she wasn’t strong enough to handle what lay ahead. But she felt his lips on her head. And then his hands were on her neck, her chin, lifting her lips to meet his.

  Last night, she’d initiated their kiss, and he’d held a part of himself back. This kiss today.

  This kiss was all him.

  His mouth claimed hers, his tongue sliding through the seam of her lips, inciting her heart to race. With a tilt of his head, still holding her face, he delved even deeper. Rhoda clutched at his wrists. A roaring filled her ears, flashes of light burned in her brain and she came alive. “Justin.” With a heavy ache settling between her legs and in her breasts, she wanted to beg him to stay. But before she could do any of this, he released her and took a step back.

  “I’ll see you in four days’ time.” The intensity of his gaze shook her. And then he smiled. It wasn’t much, just the tiniest tug at the corner of his lips. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he said almost teasingly. “No more plans. No more schemes. No more switching of perfumes or cheating at games. In fact, no parlor games. I absolutely forbid you to play any parlor games while I’m gone. And stay put. Don’t even think of coming to London any earlier.”

  She nearly wept at his words. “You silly man,” she said instead. She would either burst into tears or hysterical laughter. “Take care of my vicar.”

  He nodded. Looking as though he might sweep her up again, he hesitated. She couldn’t stand it if he did. God, please take care of him. He stood tall; he was fit, firm, and agile. She remembered the risks he’d taken last summer attempting to save Lord Harold. He’d climbed down the cliff as far as possible. He’d done so when St. John, Lord Harold’s own brother, would not.

  This man had an abundance of courage.

  But he was only a man. As had been Lord Harold. As had been St. John.

  The moment passed, and he nodded again. “No games,” he ordered again.

  And then he was gone.

  Rhoda dropped to the sofa and covered her face. Breathe. He’ll return. He isn’t St. John.

  Good Lord, he was only going to visit her father, for heaven’s sake.

  And then onward to London. How did he intend to put an end to the wager? Was it even possible? She remembered the desperation she’d seen on Flavion’s face when he’d attacked her. At the time, she’d thought he’d been overcome with wanting her. But now, upon hearing the staggering amount the winnings had grown to… So utterly ridiculous! Was there a man alive who would allow the opportunity to win such a windfall slip away so easily?

  She touched her lips.

  Lord Carlisle. Justin White.

  Her betrothed.

  He’d ordered her to stay put. He’d asked her to do something no one had ever done before. He expected her to leave matters up to him.

  She shook her head in disbelief. He’d told her to wait. She was expected to do naught but look through fashion magazines, decide upon flowers and a menu. Where would they hold the wedding breakfast? Ought they to have a pre-wedding ball? She steeled herself to avoid trying to think of ways to put an end to the bet.

  She needed to leave it up to him.

  To a man.

  Gah! These four days might prove to be the longest of her life.

  Justin didn’t know very much about Rhoda’s father. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever crossing paths with the man in London or elsewhere. As he rode toward Bristol, the thought struck him that if the man had joined his wife and daughter in London to begin with, then perhaps this wager wouldn’t have gotten so out of hand.

  A man ought to protect and defend his daughter. As Justin rode along, he pondered how little he knew about these devilish debutantes. One glaringly obvious fact, however, was that their fathers needed to further invest themselves in their daughters’ affairs.

  No wonder they found it necessary to arrange their own and the lives of those around them. No one had ever done much to guide them in their own.

  This thought brought to mind his own mother. Her own father had failed her, and then she’d lost her husband shortly after. She’d done what was necessary in order to survive.

  A woman couldn’t sail the seas in search of treasure. She couldn’t invest, buy land, or learn a trade. Oh, yes, she could teach, or she could be a companion, but that left her at the mercy of others.

  A woman had her family and friends, her wits, and her body. And even then, she didn’t have complete ownership of herself.

  He remember
ed clearly the day he’d discovered how his mother provided food and shelter for the two of them. He’d been at school. Two rowdy, raucous boys had demanded Justin hand over his lunch. When Justin refused, they’d taunted him. They’d told him both their fathers had likely paid for it. They’d made crude remarks about his mother.

  Justin had fought back, violently overcome by the need to defend her honor. And he’d paid dearly. He hadn’t been a weakling. He’d done his fair share of chores around their house, but without brothers, or a father, or any man really to test his metal on, he’d failed to learn even the most basic techniques of fighting.

  He had not returned to the schoolroom that afternoon. With an injured foot and two black eyes, he’d practically crawled home.

  And then taken another blow, not a physical one this time, but something even worse. Upon entering, he could still remember the shame he’d felt when he’d crept into his mother’s room and discovered Kent Crane’s father with his dear sweet mum.

  On top of his dear sweet mum. Grateful his presence had gone unnoticed, he’d backed out of the room in mortification.

  Justin hated that memory.

  He’d wanted to lash out again but had been physically powerless to do so. He’d been powerless in all of it.

  He’d wanted to scream at his mother and protect her at the same time, but he’d not been too young to notice the extra chickens in their yard later that night. He’d felt sick at heart, angry, trapped, and frustrated, but he’d also seen his mother for what she was.

  A survivor.

  He’d not liked it. He’d not been happy about it. But he’d understood.

  Riding along the highway alone left him with far too much time to think.

  Just a few weeks ago, he’d felt a similar sensation when he’d watched Rhoda fight off the blighter, the Earl of Kensington.

  And then again, when she’d told him she was marrying Blakely.

  He’d not liked it. He’d hated it, in fact. But he’d understood.

  And although his vocation had taught him otherwise, that women needed to rely upon the men in their lives, Justin had respected his mother. He’d even respected Miss Mossant.

  Rhoda.

  His fiancée.

  Because somehow, God had decided to give him the desire of his heart. Not the way he’d imagined it, and not without nearly insurmountable challenges, but he was being given a chance.

  He’d promised her mother he’d deal with the wager. Put it to rest. But damned if he knew how to go about doing so. Perhaps her father would step up and assist him. Perhaps declaring his intent to wed her would dissolve it. These men valued honor on some level. He hoped their honor was worth seventy-five thousand pounds or so…

  Justin stretched and rubbed the back of his neck.

  He’d been on the road for two long days. After staying the night in a local inn, he’d cleaned up this morning to meet with Mr. Mossant. When he’d asked for directions, the innkeeper had given him an odd glance. Everyone knew where Pebble’s Gate was. Less than half an hour from town.

  Except, surely, there must be some mistake? He’d expected a small country estate, under no misconceptions that Rhododendron was any sort of heiress.

  But the home ahead looked to be something of a mansion. A large iron gate displaying the name of the estate proved he was in the right place. Justin gazed about in awe as he traveled the length of the drive. The mansion didn’t sit in a yard; it had been built in nothing less than a park.

  A groom exited the large front doors in the distance, but just as quickly disappeared upon catching sight of an approaching guest.

  Why had he expected that Rhoda’s family lacked funds? But yes, he’d heard mention of a small dowry. The grounds, although vast, were in disrepair, and as he neared the home, he could see it was in need of maintenance. Justin dismounted and loosely tethered his horse to a railing.

  With a tug at his cravat, he knocked loudly once, twice… after the third time, finally heard movement from within. A tall, haggard-looking butler opened the door and stared down a rather crooked nose at him suspiciously. “Do you have your invitation, sir?”

  Justin noted that the servant’s scarlet uniform was stained darker in places, and the shirt he wore beneath it appeared yellowed.

  He answered with a shake of his head. “I have no invitation. I am here to meet with Mr. Mossant.” At the butler’s narrowed eyes, Justin added, “I have important business with him, sir.”

  The servant’s brows rose. “Your name?”

  Out of habit, Justin nearly answered Mr. White, but caught himself. “The Earl of Carlisle.”

  The servant eyed him suspiciously. “And business, you say?”

  Justin nodded. “Indeed.”

  The butler sighed tiredly before answering, “Follow me, my lord.” He led Justin to what once must have been an elegant drawing room. “Wait here.”

  Justin tried to imagine his fiancé and her sisters living here. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. This place hardly felt like a home. It seemed… off.

  Although the property seemed to be eroding, it also appeared to encompass a vast amount of land. Surely, her father could have done better for them?

  Justin didn’t sit while he waited. He’d sat too much in the last few days and nervous energy coursed through him. Instead, he paced back and forth across the room. Inadvertently, he noticed the wear on the furnishings and the tapestries as well as a few noticeably empty spaces on the wall where artwork had once hung. Although perhaps cash poor, the family possessed assets.

  Or they had, rather.

  “The master will see you, my lord.” Holding the door, the butler indicated Justin follow.

  Justin had never been suspicious, and despite his lifelong vocation, he’d eschewed making judgments, but the only word he could summon at the ambiance of the house was evil. Pure and simple evil.

  Perhaps he’d spent too much time alone with his horse.

  They climbed one side of a U-shaped staircase and then strode along a carpeted corridor. Several paintings hung along the walls, but where pedestals stood, statues were noticeably absent.

  When Justin neared a set of large double doors, a sweet acrid scent assaulted his nostrils.

  His gut clenched when he stepped inside. Six or seven gentlemen lay about the room and nearly a dozen ladies draped themselves around them.

  Except they were not ladies, with their nipples pushed up and out of their corsets, and a few skirts lifted to expose their nether regions; they were obviously prostitutes. His gaze passed over entangled limbs, gaping mouths, and listless eyes as he searched for the man he’d come to speak with.

  “My butler says you’ve come to speak business with me.” A sardonic voice drew Justin’s attention to the settee near the hearth. The jaundiced looking fellow most certainly was Rhoda’s father. Same hair coloring. Same eyes. He lounged sideways, a plump woman beside him, her eyes closed, head tilted back, and legs spread. Mr. Mossant casually combed his fingers through the curly hair she displayed.

  Justin made a quick bow. “Mr. Mossant.” He returned to his full height but declined to offer his hand. A cloud of smoke hung in the air. “I’d like to speak to you about your daughter, Miss Mossant.”

  “Rhododendron?” Mr. Mossant furrowed his brows. “I thought you came to look at the art. You’re not here to purchase from my collection?” The man’s English was perfect but for a slight French accent.

  Justin cleared his throat. He’d heard of these sorts of parties but never witnessed one in person. Upon the rustling of clothing, Justin turned and inadvertently witnessed one of the ladies straddling the gentleman behind him.

  “Yes. The eldest Miss Mossant. I’m here to ask for her hand,” he clarified. His heart raced. He clenched his fists.

  Had the Mossant women known what he’d find here? Had Mr. Mossant exposed his daughters to such despicable behavior? Bile churned in his gut.

  Until that moment, he’d not realized the respect due
to Rhoda’s mother. She’d removed her girls from their father’s influence.

  Justin suppressed the urge to pummel his future in-law into a speck of dust.

  “Bah!” Mr. Mossant lifted the woman’s leg off of him and slapped her dimpled bottom. She slid to the floor as he pushed himself off the settee. “I’ve made it clear from the beginning. Her dowry is two thousand pounds. Not a farthing more. All you nabobs come looking to take what’s mine. Well, take the girl, but don’t get ideas about anything else.”

  The man swayed as he rose to his full height. At that moment, he remembered the enigmatic glance he’d seen pass between Rhoda and her mother. Yes, they’d known. They’d known what he would find.

  Justin ran a hand through his hair and then thrummed his fingertips against the top of his thighs. This man was Rhoda’s father.

  This disgusting piece of vermin was Rhoda’s father.

  Justin reached inside his coat and extracted the contracts he’d obtained from his solicitors while passing through London. With steady hands, he opened them up on a nearby table. “I’ll have your permission in writing then.”

  Mr. Mossant stumbled across the room, located a pair of spectacles, and amazingly enough began reading through the legal document. “Blah, blah blah.” His fingers skimmed the lines. “Very well, so she told you of the two thousand pounds.” He looked at him sideways. “Fucking hell. You bastard. You’re doing it to win the wager, aren’t you?” He reached for a pen, dipped it in ink, and then drew a line through the dowry amount. “You won’t be needing this once you’ve collected. Wiley bloke to come up with the idea. Taking a risk, though, aren’t you, leaving her in London while you come all this way to speak to me? Knowing that someone’s likely to beat you to the winnings in the time it’s taken you to come after a mere two thousand pounds.”

  Red clouded Justin’s vision.

  “You know of the wager? You know what’s being said about your own flesh and blood, your daughter, and yet you remain here doing nothing to defend her honor?” This villain didn’t deserve to have daughters.