In need of a wife.
Brushing shoulders with the ton.
And pretending to be something he was not—good.
“Rawlings?” There was no mistaking the voice.
“Lady Fenton, how do you do this fine evening?” Bowing over her hand, he kissed the air above her fingers and managed a smile. She blanched and her eyes raked him up and down until he began shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Why did he feel nak*d beneath her scrutiny?
“Oh my.” She fanned herself, blushing profusely. “Forgive me, my lord, it seems I’ve forgotten how striking you can be.”
“Yes, well, debauchery does have a way of blackening one’s countenance, wouldn’t you say?”
She lifted her eyebrow and tittered. “Ah, I would say. I would most definitely say.” What madness was this? The woman was married. It wasn’t as if he had changed so much about himself, save his clothes and style of hair. Clearing his throat, he excused himself and sought out where Sebastian was holding court with Renwick and Belverd.
Phillip felt like a dandy standing next to the rest of them and had to fight to keep his feet firmly planted, lest he lose his nerve and run back to his home in search of black and white clothing. Sebastian had sworn repeatedly that with Phillip’s frame, he would be able to get away with colors other than black. But in order not to push him past his limitations, they had chosen a gray dinner jacket with a midnight blue waistcoat. Even Phillip had appreciated the effect…until Lady Fenton scanned him like a tasty morsel. All he could think as she assailed him with her eyes was that he mustn’t look at her bosom. For she would assume he was thinking about her bosom, and that would be devastating. A rush of memories came flowing back just as Sebastian said his name.
“Yes?”
“I said, 'Are you having a good time?' I noticed your chat with Lady Fenton. I do hope she has been welcoming.”
“Yes, well, my hearing is as intact as is my honor.” He winked at Nicholas, who rolled his eyes.
While the men continued to chat, Phillip listened and joked…and eventually relaxed. They were friends, after all, and in a twisted way it felt as though he was finally being welcomed home. Slowly, the atmosphere changed into that of old friends until it stopped abruptly. Phillip looked at Sebastian in confusion, but Sebastian’s eyes were trained on the door.
Phillip’s gaze followed Sebastian’s line of sight, coming to rest on a vision in blue. Abigail had arrived, but for the life of him, Phillip could not figure out why it would displease the Angel Duke so, or why the sudden appearance of Abigail would cause such a disturbance for Sebastian.
Her gaze darted in all directions until they rested on Phillip. She smiled weakly. He half expected her to twirl in a circle like she had done when she was a little girl. Instead she nodded her head and turned to the women on her right.
Not that Philip hadn’t already known it, but Abigail was very much a grown woman. And the gown she was wearing only added to the already frustrated feelings of lust pounding through him. That girl needed more than a chaperone. “Someone should lock her in her room.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Sebastian said darkly.
“My apologies. I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.” Phillip inwardly cursed.
Sebastian closed his eyes and pinched his nose. “Please, do not apologize on my account. We had a bit of a fight early this afternoon. Emma has been out of sorts ever since, and I’ve had a blasted hard time not paddling Abigail’s bottom for making my wife so miserable.”
Did that mean Sebastian was taking volunteers?
Phillip shook his head. First, to get that inappropriate thought of his head, and second, to shake the image of Abigail from his consciousness. All golden hair, staggering green eyes, and petite voluptuous curves. Not to mention rosy red lips and pale white skin. With his nostrils flaring, he managed to speak only one word. “Champagne?”
“Yes, of course.” Sebastian motioned for the servant.
Phillip relished the feeling of the dry substance as it poured down his throat. But the aching did not subside. What was that verse in the Bible? If your eyes cause you to sin, better you cut your eyes out than go on sinning? A little extreme, but in this case…it would be the only way.
No, his mind argued. Her image is imprinted into your existence—it is in your soul. If you could not see, you could smell, you could hear, you could breathe the same air. And she would still haunt you, until the day you die.
Phillip looked down at his empty glass.
“Dinner is served,” a deep voice announced.
Men began escorting women side by side to the dining room. Feeling somewhat left out, Phillip awkwardly stayed behind. But when Lady Fenton’s eye fell to him, he panicked and desperately searched for a living, breathing female he could pull. It just so happened that the only female left in the room, save Lady Fenton, was Abigail.
Mumbling an oath, he approached her. “May I escort you?”
Abigail’s face lit up like sunshine, and he immediately regretted his decision. He was supposed to be discouraging her. He didn’t deserve to be looked at in that manner—as if he single-handedly created the earth in six days. Roughly, he grabbed her hand and placed it on his, then without a word, he led her down the lit hallway.
Was it his imagination or did the house have more dimly lit corridors than he remembered? And just how many darkened corners were they passing? His brain told him to move forward. His body, however, had very different entertainments in mind. Suddenly thankful that they were last, he walked a little faster. How in the devil was he supposed to help protect young Abigail when he hardly had enough energy to protect her from himself?
****
It had worked! Abigail smiled triumphantly until her gaze fell on Sebastian, and then Emma. She tensed under Rawlings’ arm and hung her head. The moment of elation was not worth the scalding glare she received from Sebastian, nor the hurt she read in her sister’s eyes.
She was not stupid. Abigail knew she had hurt her sister’s feelings, and since Emma was nearing her confinement, she was becoming more and more emotional. She couldn’t help but feel as if the darkened mood was all her fault, Abigail did not even notice that Rawlings had taken a seat next to her.
It wasn’t common for Abigail to feel gloomy. Needless to say it took her by surprise considering it was not something she was used to. She ate her soup in silence, glancing every few minutes at Emma, hoping to gain her attention. Sebastian caught her staring and shook his head as if to warn her to leave well enough alone.
As she fought the lump in her throat, she wanted nothing more than to rip the blasted dress off and throw it in the fire, but that would cause even more scandal. So she choked down the dry food and listened to the light conversation, praying the dinner would soon be over.
When dinner finally ended, she pushed her chair out and retired with the rest of the ladies to the blue room, sherry in hand.
“I just cannot believe they would invite him,” the Dowager Duchess of Barlowe said. “And I am sorry to say this, I really am, but does he truly believe a good shave will fog everyone’s memories of the drunken escapades of his past?”
Lady Fenton closed her eyes. “I agree, your grace, but isn’t he a delight to look upon? Several times I caught myself glancing at his figure. I find that I get hot thinking about it.”
“That, my dear friend, is age talking, not Lord Rawlings.” The dowager smiled. “It is necessary that we continue to ignore the man until he gets the idea that he is not accepted into society. Not now, not ever.”
Abigail cleared her throat. “I am sorry, your grace, but I don’t agree with your assessment of his character. After all, who are we to pass judgment? Have we not all made mistakes in our lives?”
“Spoken like a true innocent.” The dowager smiled sadly. “It seems that Lord Rawlings has a champion in you, my girl.”
Abigail furrowed her eyebrows, because it wasn’t that she was his champion, it was that he deserved a chance just as much as anyone. “I may be young, but it is that innocent outlook on life that tells my heart to give everyone an opportunity, regardless of their past. Do you not agree that a person’s past can either define or change their future? If then, we project someone’s past into his or her future, we are not practicing forgiveness, nor goodness, but condemnation.”
“Bravo, my dear,” The dowager couldn’t look more pleased, yet wasn’t she just the one saying horrid things about Rawlings?
Rosalind, who had been quiet during the entire exchange, winked at Abigail. Feeling slightly better, Abigail relaxed, until her sister entered the room. Her eyes looked sad, making Abigail feel even worse.
“Abigail, that dress becomes you. Who made it?” Lady Fenton asked.
Quickly, Abigail looked to Emma, who refused to return her stare.
“It’s from Madame Valerie’s, Lady Fenton. If you’ll just excuse me then.”
Abigail bolted from her seat and ran to the outside balcony, choking back tears the entire way. Only when she reached the cool night air, was she able to finally give into gut-wrenching sobs that had threatened her during the previous conversation. She was being emotional, and she knew it. But Abigail could not bear her sister’s sadness or the guilt eating at her. And the fact that every young woman in attendance seemed to look to the dowager for guidance made it worse. How dare she say such things about Rawlings. She hardly knew him.
Her corset was tight enough to hamper her breathing. Frantic, she pulled at the front, but it was no use. Her hand shook as she reached around to the back and met someone’s warm hand.
“Allow me,” a voice said.
Oh no.
A man’s hands tenderly pulled at the back of her dress, and then somehow this angel in disguise managed to loosen the dress’s hold on her body just enough to ease her breathing and prevent hyperventilation.
“Th-a-ank you,” she mumbled, completely ashamed, hurt, and scandalized. What was this stranger doing outside?
“Abby?” She knew that voice. “Talk to me—tell me what has you so upset. You do remember you used to tell me everything. I remember a time when you could not wait to fall out of trees in hopes that I would catch you. Or fall and scrape your knee so I could blow a kiss and make the pain go away.”
Words that dripped of poetry and sweet memories. Abigail involuntarily shuddered and turned to face Rawlings. “I cannot.”
“You cannot or you will not? Which is it, Abby?”
“You shouldn’t call me Abby,” she mumbled. “Thank you for…for what you did.” Why wouldn’t her voice stop shaking?
Rawlings grinned, his white teeth glowing against his dark features. “Yes, well, I think I’ve earned the honor of calling you Abby, since I’ve known you the longest. I also believe that since I’m to protect you from rakes like myself, I can call you anything I like.”
Abigail relented. She was too tired to fight. “You’re right.”
Rawlings laughed. “Do my ears deceive me? Shall I call in witnesses? Devil take it, Abby. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you utter such beautiful words.”