To Hell and Back: A Devilish Debutantes Novella

by Anders, Annabelle

  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.

  Despite the scandalous duel that had grievously injured his… male parts.

  “How is Daphne, er, Lady Kensington?” She’d remind him of the lady he’d ended up married to.

  No need to flutter her eyelashes at him or encourage his preening boastfulness. Even though that was what gentlemen wanted. They wanted to feel their superiority. It was at least half of what made a man feel worthy.

  “My countess is well,” he answered tersely.

  “And your baby daughter?”

  He grimaced but did not answer, unusually intent, it seemed, on steering her away from the ballroom guests.

  She had no need to be wary of the earl. She reminded herself that she had nothing to fear. Flavion Nottingham was no longer, in truth, a man. So, why was she suddenly feeling so uncomfortable?

  Her mother had attended the ball and would be seated with the other matrons. Would Rhoda be overreacting if she demanded that he take her back inside?

  But, no, Kensington was harmless.

  He guided them away from the terrace and down a dark path. In the distance, she caught sight of a tall fountain surrounded by lanterns. Was it an angel or a devil? An odd work of art for such a pretty setting. Water shot up from the wings, and mist hovered around the stone creature.

  She shivered to think an angel could appear satanic, as well as the opposite.

  People were like that, too.

  With an invisible moon, stars twinkled dimly in a mostly black sky, making for a very dark night. Furthermore, 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?

  She doubted it. His too-familiar touch sent a shiver of fear creeping along her spine. “I’m fine. Nonetheless, my lord, I wish to return inside now.” She must return to her mother. She slowed her pace and resisted him at last. She ought not to have come outside alone like this.

  He chuckled but held fast to her, his grip becoming almost painful. “Ah, so, you wish to pretend reluctance, Miss Mossant? Does that make you feel more like a lady?” His words confused her, but his tone set her heart racing in fear.

  Without warning, he spun her in his arms and dragged them both off the path, behind one of the tall hedges.

  And then hard, cold lips landed on hers.

  Stunned, Rhoda pushed against his chest and twisted her head. The taste of whiskey and cigars evoked a wave of nausea.

  “Don’t play games with me.” He was stronger than he looked. One arm held her in place, and the other hitched her skirt higher. “I have too much to gain.”

  How had this happened? In the matter of a few seconds, she’d gone from casually strolling through the Countess of Crabtree’s garden to fighting off a vicious attack! She kicked out at him, but as her slippers encountered his boots, realized the futility of such a strategy.

  “Stop it, my lord!” she tried imploring him. Perhaps she had been too passive, allowing him to touch her as he had throughout the dance. Had he thought she wanted him to do this? “My lord, stop! Please! I don’t want—” His mouth smothered her pleas.

  Real panic set in. The earl’s hand was now clutching at her bare leg. “Ah, yes, you like a little fight, eh?” He ground their teeth together. Rhoda didn’t know if the blood she tasted was his or her own.

  Why would he do this? Surely, he couldn’t expect any gratification? At that moment, it didn’t matter that he lacked the necessary equipment. His hands roved over her arms, and he sought to touch her intimately. Rhoda squirmed and pushed at him, crying, angry and terrified at the same time.

  ***

  Justin had resented Kensington for the set he’d reserved with Miss Mossant. He’d seen the look in Kensington’s eyes even before the dance began—a lasciviousness that belied any good intentions.

  Perhaps Justin identified it so easily because of his own improper inclinations toward her.

  Watching the dancers turn and step to the cheerfully paced music, Justin admitted that he’d been attracted to her the first time they’d met but then been disappointed upon hearing St. John’s boasts. He hadn’t wanted to allow his cousin’s words to dictate his opinion, but was human, after all.

  His gaze searched the dancers making turns about the parquet floor and inexorably settled on the chestnut-haired beauty again. Miss Mossant did not appear excessively flirtatious, but she didn’t shun Kensington’s advances either. After the first dance of the set ended, the bounder led her off the floor and toward the doors that opened to the terrace. As they disappeared, she put up no argument.

  Justin gazed into his glass. He was not mistaken, she considered him naïve. He’d heard it in her voice.

  But if she knew his thoughts, she would not think him so benevolent. Even now, his imagination ignored his conscience.

  If she’d go walking alone in the dark with him… He shook his head, dismissing his untoward thoughts.

  When the second dance of the set commenced, a few matrons were tittering and pointing at him with interest. God, he hoped news of his recent inheritance hadn’t been made public yet. He’d prefer to bide a few more days in anonymity.

  Damn. They looked to be heading his way… with purposeful intent.

  Before he could be cornered, he placed his wine on a sideboard and then slipped through the French doors. The air outside the ballroom met him in a refreshing gust. Perhaps he could make his departure with the hostess being none the wiser.

  The door closed behind him and he didn’t look back to see if the matrons would be so bold as to follow.

  His collar scratched uncomfortably. It hadn’t done that before. He’d always felt more than comfortable wearing it. Guilt, likely.

  Jamming his hands into his pockets, he turned onto a poorly lit pathway. What the devil? Rustling sounds stirred from behind a barrier of foliage. Likely, he had nearly stumbled upon a tryst.

  “Does that make you feel more like a lady?” snarled a gruff-sounding voice from the dark area off the path.

  Justin crept closer. If this wasn’t a consensual encounter, he’d feel compelled to intervene. Not that he was a confrontational man. As a vicar, he’d learned to stifle violent impulses that came over him. He preferred using words to settle most disputes.

  He’
d also learned, however, that without a willingness to use his fists, talking could be futile.

  In an ideal world, neither would be necessary. Hopefully, his suspicions would be proven wrong and he could return inside to finish his wine.

  More rustling, and then all of his senses came alert. “Stop it, my lord! My lord, stop! Please! I don’t want—”

  Miss Mossant’s voice. Apparently, she’d issued an invitation she wasn’t willing to entertain in full. But she sounded distraught, frantic. Justin lengthened his stride until he came even with the couple. He could barely make out two shadowy figures.

  Dash it all, she appeared to be resisting the earl. Yes, the situation had turned ugly indeed.

  Although he’d heard rumors of the earl’s infamous history, he’d never been introduced. According to most of the ton, Kensington had been something of a rake before his emasculating injury. Obviously, the extent of it had been exaggerated. Otherwise, the man would lack the motivation that seemed to have overcome him with Miss Mossant.

  What would members of the ton think if they knew the extent of debauchery practiced by some of their beloved so-called gentlemen?

  The scene before him did not appear consensual.

  Justin tensed. “The lady has asked you to stop, Kensington. I suggest you honor her request.”

  Kensington stilled for a moment upon hearing Justin’s words. “Walk away, Vicar. You know nothing of these matters.”

  Hell and damnation. Justin took one step forward, but before he could grab hold of the bounder’s collar, Miss Mossant lifted her knee and landed it with surprising accuracy. The earl stumbled back and then bent over forward, gasping.

  Although Kensington deserved it and would receive no pity nor assistance from Justin, his own dangling parts retreated considerably at the thought of experiencing a similar blow.

  It seemed he’d not have to bruise his knuckles after all.

  Miss Mossant met his gaze, a combination of fear and anger burning in eyes that looked almost black. Her lower lip trembled, and she hugged her arms in front of herself protectively.

  With a moan, Kensington dropped to the ground and curled himself into a ball.