The Redemption of Lord Rawlings(18)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

Surely the dowager was foxed. Abigail carefully inspected the woman’s gait as she left Rawlings’ side. A graceful fluid stride carried her back to the side of the room.

“Impossible,” Abigail said aloud.

“Indeed,” a husky voice said from beside her. Turning, she came face to face with the most bronze-looking man she had ever seen. While his features were unapologetically English, his face spoke of long exposure to the elements.

He smiled, revealing blinding white teeth against his tan skin. He towered over her, and she could only stare. Never had she seen a more intimidating man in her life. However, somehow he put her at ease. Behind his enormous build was tenderness.

“My apologies, my lady. I do not wish to thrust society into more gossip. We have not yet been introduced, so I will take my leave. Enjoy the evening’s events, Miss Gates.”

Then he was gone. How did a giant disappear in a throng? Abigail’s head snapped back to Rawlings, who was now overwhelmed by crowds of people. So that’s all it takes? One respectable woman patting him on the shoulder, and immediately he’s in the bosom of Society again.

A paralyzing fear clutched her as she watched several debutantes giggle and make their way towards Rawlings. Her Rawlings.

Oh, no!

Panic racked her brain. Every time she made a play for him he was as skittish as a church mouse. She couldn’t lose him; she wouldn’t lose him. Why had the idea of living without him and giving up been so easy to swallow earlier that day?

Because she knew she was lying to herself, and because his possessive kiss spoke otherwise. But time, it seemed, was not on her side.

Abigail considered his reactions. He only made mistakes when he was angry, when he was—jealous.

A thoughtful smile creased her lips. She bit her lip and went in search of Whitmore. Perhaps it would be easier than she thought?

It didn’t take long to locate Whitmore, for he could always be found around women of low moral fiber with nothing left to lose. Wonder of all wonders, he was standing in a group of loud women who seemed just as foxed as Whitmore himself.

“My lord.” She curtsied and tried her best to manage a seductive smile.

His demeanor changed immediately. “Why, Miss Gates, it is such a pleasure. I do believe we should finish our conversation in the gardens, wouldn’t you agree?”

Abigail swallowed the bile in her throat. “Lovely.”

Whitmore gently grabbed at her arm, then froze. A look of absolute fear washed over his features. “I-I, um.”

“Whatever is the matter, my lord?” Abigail teased.

“I saw him. My bro—”

“Your what?” she coaxed, for he had stopped midsentence.

“Impossible. I’ve merely had too much to drink. I need…” Sweat beaded on his forehead. “My apologies, Miss Gates. I’ve suddenly taken ill.” He spun on his heels and stumbled out of the room. Abigail was left staring after him in amazement. What the devil? Had the world flipped on its ear that night?

Her plan was over before it even began. She exhaled a frustrated huff of air and decided to get some weak and bitter lemonade—anything to keep her thoughts of Rawlings and her jealousy at bay.

“Blast!” Her dress was caught on something. Not wanting to gain any unwanted attention, she tugged at it, all the while fanning herself profusely as to ward off anyone who may think she needed assistance. She glanced down and noticed that the edge of her dress had wrapped itself on the table leg. How, it had managed to do that, she would never know. Muffling a curse, she nonchalantly pulled lightly as to not draw attention.

“Cursed thing!” She pulled harder, fanned harder, and felt all together exhausted, but the dress would not budge. Abigail glanced around and bent quickly to yank her skirts free, leaving her posterior high in the air as she pulled and pulled until it finally wrenched free, sending her toppling over.

She swore again, as the man who had previously bored her beyond recovery, helped her to her feet and began brushing at her skirts.

“No, I’m unharmed there is no need to—”

His frantic preening drew more attention than necessary. Soon enough there were ten men moving in all around her to save her from some sort of catastrophe or ruination.

“Oh blast it! Let me die right here, right now,” she prayed, closing her eyes in mortification. She hoped somehow she would make it out of the crowd unscathed.

****

Never had Phillip been so angry. His pulse raced, muscles strained beneath the cool composure that was his smile as he gazed across the room at Abigail.

Again. She had done it again. And this time was the last time he would be used. It was his job to protect her from the men who cared nothing save for her fortune and the way she batted her eyelashes. Or perhaps it was the gleaming sun-kissed hair, which seemed to cause everyone in her vicinity to begin salivating like ravenous wolves.

The crush parted before him as he strode across the room to where she stood, batting those infuriating eyelashes and blushing at the fawning lot surrounding her.

“Gentlemen.” He offered a curt nod to the mob of the eager pups swarming Abigail. Knowing his presence caused them unease, he decided to show the aspiring rakes how to properly seduce a girl. “Abigail,” he said.

A resounding gasp followed, for he was using her Christian name in public. Ignoring the disapproval, he lifted her gloved hand to his lips and kissed it, lingering above her fingers as if he was having second thoughts about releasing her hand. “And might I say your dress is breathtaking this evening? Though I must admit I am shocked to see so many men fluttering about as I do now. You promised me a dance, but may I beg a favor?”

Angrily, she pulled her hand away and rubbed it, as if to dissolve the memory of his lips against her hand.

“Yes, my lord?” Wide green eyes shot daggers at him. “What is your desire?”

Chuckling, he leaned forward. It seemed everyone around them waited with bated breath. “You. Always you.” Nearly choking on the last words, because they signaled such truth in his own heart. He pulled her away from the horde, leaving them with mouths gaping after them.

“That wasn’t at all proper.” Abigail fumed by his side. “And it wasn’t my fault. They were merely helping me. You see, I had a sort of accident with my dress and—” She stumbled and was unable to finish the sentence.

Rawlings scowled at her carelessness and managed to keep a tight hand around her waist to steady her. He smiled as they passed the other guests on the way to the outside doors.

“You wouldn’t.” She gasped and tried to pull away.

“I would, and I am.”

Nearly growling with frustration, he led her outside and down the rocky path through the darker parts of Vauxhall Gardens. When they reached a safe distance from the crowd, he released her.

“How dare you!” Abigail lunged for him, but he was too angry, too irritated, and too bloody tired of pushing her away. How dare she bend over in such a fashion and feign shock when men came bustling around her. This was no brothel. And she…was his!

The instant her body made contact with his, he grasped her wrists and pinned her against the nearest tree, rendering her immobile. He was anything but gentle as he leaned toward her face.

“How dare I?” he mocked. “Abigail, have you any idea the torment you’ve inflicted on me?” At the haughty lift of her chin, he laughed. “Of course you do. You’ve known all along, haven’t you? But Abby, oh dear, Abby.” He bent toward her, smelling the rosewater on her skin, ready to lick the curve of her neck, to grab at her corset and demand it release her body of its confinement. “You cannot play with fire and come away unscathed.”

“You will release me.” Her voice shook and her nostrils flared. She looked like a goddess in the moonlight. A siren—the same siren he had been pushing away from his aching dreams every night.

“I will not.” His lips came crushing down on hers with such force that, for a moment, he was afraid he would bruise them. Her delicate hands pushed frantically against his chest until finally she relented and with a moan wrapped her arms around his neck and invited him closer.

He took advantage of every possible angle. The way the tree allowed him to embrace her without falling. The curve of her hip beneath his hand, and finally the taste of her tongue as it fought against his. Champagne and sweetness threatened to drown him in ecstasy. But he refused to stop. To stop would mean to go against what he’d been fighting for too long.

And Phillip Crawford, Eighth Earl of Rawlings, was tired of fighting. In the back of his mind, reason told him he should release her. Surely they would be caught. After all, several people had seen them leaving, he was sure of it.

But even though society now accepted him—even though he made a promise to Sebastian and to himself never to touch her—he couldn’t seem to keep his body from pressing frantically against hers with a mind of its own. Then he made the choice he knew would change things forever.

Pulling back, he daringly gazed into her eyes and realized she was as lost as he. What were once pools of innocence now stared back at him with unbridled passion, wide and eager for their moment to continue.

She parted her swollen lips as if to speak. His mind raced with anticipation. Yes, he would taste her again, open her up, and consume her. Her hands tangled into his hair, mussing it beyond repair. Moaning, he pushed against her and with frantic fingers, pulled at the bodice of her gown, revealing absolute feminine perfection. It ignited him toward his goal, and he trailed kisses down her throat while simultaneously lifting her skirts.

When his hands reached her stockings, he thought he would die. Through a fog of lust, he vaguely recalled she was an innocent, undeserving of being accosted in a garden, but his brain rejected the notion immediately. Phillip was so aroused he was in pain, but he continued to slide his hands further up her legs until, with a curse, he froze.

Footsteps neared them. Trying to quiet his breathing, he shook his head at Abigail and pushed her further into the shadows, covering her with his body. As his lust cooled, his conscience rained accusations on him, telling him how catastrophic this compromising situation could be for both of them.

“Rawlings, I know you’re in there, and you do know patience isn’t one of my virtues. Hello, Abigail. I trust he’s shown you why ladies whisper about his….certain skills.” Sebastian’s voice sounded bored, which, in all honesty, frightened Phillip more than if he would have charged in screaming with pistols firing.

Phillip glanced at Abigail. Her eyes were wide with fear. Cursing, he ran a hand through his hair, considering of his options.

“Do hurry up, Phillip, really.”

Racking his brain for some sort of bone to throw the man, Phillip answered, “It isn’t what you think. Abigail is at the ball. Have you lost her then?”

“Yes, she seems quite hidden. I wonder why that is?” Sebastian mocked even louder than before.

“She isn’t here.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Says the man who’s hiding in the shadow of a tree.”

“I’m merely enjoying the evening air…and shade.”