If matters progressed as she hoped, she would see Rawlings at the First Annual Tempest Ball tonight. It was one of the last great events before everyone went into hibernation for the winter. Only one month remained of the London Season. One month for Abigail to convince Lord Rawlings to marry her.
Her infatuation had begun when she was but seven years of age. Always wild and carefree on their country estate, she had climbed a tree and fallen flat on her bottom. As tears poured down her face and she screamed for her papa, Rawlings happened by. He was on his way to visit his betrothed, Abigail’s sister Emma.
Abigail had always been jealous of Emma. She was their parents’ favorite daughter. They doted on her endlessly. Abigail was ignored, for their first-born was to be the savior of them all. She was going to marry the great heir to the Rawlings’ fortune. An estimated four estates and two London homes as well as the title of countess would be in her grasp.
So Abigail wasn’t at all shocked to see Rawlings stop by during the dreadful afternoon of her fall. He and Emma often met by the river and skipped rocks. As childhood friends, they were as comfortable around one another as brother and sister. Another thing Abigail envied, for she was never invited to join in on the fun.
“You’re too young,” Emma would say, while Rawlings would smirk and pat her head like a small child. Finally, she’d stopped asking and began spying, wondering what her sister Emma had that she did not.
“Are you all right?” Rawlings asked, jumping off his horse. “Is anything broken, Abby?”
“No-o-o.” Abigail tried to be strong, but her voice shook as she answered his question.
His crystal blue eyes full of concern gazed back at her. “Abby…” he’d scolded. “You have scratches across your hands. Whatever am I going to do with you? Were you climbing the tree again?”
She could only nod, held captive as she was by his proximity.
“Can you walk?”
She wasn’t a good liar, so she nodded and managed to get to her feet, though she desperately wanted to feign a broken bone so he would carry her. Rawlings’ body loomed over hers. He was young and thin, but handsome and reckless at the same time. “I’ll help you onto Devil here and walk you back to the house. Is that agreeable?”
Abigail licked her lips and looked down, breaking eye contact. He was so handsome. “All right,” she said in a tiny voice. Strong arms lifted her onto the horse. Rawlings turned and smiled. “Trust me on this, little Abby. One day men will fall all over themselves just to help you on your feet. Mark my words. You’ll be the catch of the Season, once you’re out of pigtails.”
Self-consciously, she reached for her hair. It was in pigtail braids down her back. Foolishly, she thought he might think her pretty, but she was so young, why would he look at her as anything but a child?
From that day forward she’d promised herself Rawlings would notice her, that one day he would be hers. But hope was soon lost when Emma was ruined and Rawlings began leading a life of debauchery and gambling. Like any young man in this day and age, he felt the world somehow owed him something, and he set off to prove to his parents and everyone else that he could do whatever he pleased and never mind the consequences. She had heard the rumors since her arrival in London and knew them to be somewhat true if her father had anything to say about the matter. It was apparent that he was still upset over the broken contract between Emma and Rawlings. She doubted that he still had the same ridiculous notions now that he was an adult.
But a plan began forming when the papers started writing about his financial distress. Granted, it was possible the rumor mill was nothing but that. Rumors. But she had it on good authority, hearing from her good friend Rosalind Hartwell, that Rawlings was in debt to his ears. Needing a savior, a debutante—an heiress.
Lucky for Abigail, she boasted one of the largest dowries of all the debutantes this Season. Emma had refused any money from her parents. Not that she needed any, considering she married one of the richest men of the ton. Tempest had enough money to feed and clothe several families over and still have money for himself.
The problem, Abigail thought as she reached the door to her room, was how to get Rawlings to see her as a woman instead of a girl in pigtails.
She smirked to herself and pushed the door open. He shouldn’t have any trouble with that after today. She made sure of it. As kisses went, it wasn’t the most delightful thing she had ever experienced. It felt awkward and rushed, but she hadn’t any experience in the matter, so she steeled herself and tried as hard as she could to pretend to know what she was doing.
Rawlings hadn’t responded, but he seemed a bit too shocked to say anything. And, saints alive, what was he doing out in the rain anyway? He’d catch his death that way. But her very best friend Rosalind had stopped for a visit to relay the message that he was sitting on that very bench staring at the sky. Noting it was easy to see his state of distress as she had passed by with her father in their curricle. And Rosalind was under strict instructions to help Abigail in any way possible. For she knew, as most true friends did, that it was of the utmost importance that Abigail secure a love match above all costs. So without thinking of the consequences, she ran out as fast as she could to try and catch him.
More than likely he thought her some silly chit out to ruin herself, when she was actually his savior. He just didn’t realize it yet.
Chapter Two
Not that this author finds rakes to be horribly dangerous. Take the besotted Earl of Renwick, for example. Though this author is old enough to remember him in his wilder days, it seems marriage has been kind to that devilishly handsome man. A word of wisdom, dear debutantes, rakes make the best husbands, all rakes except the Earl of Rawlings.
—Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers
Phillip let loose a long and loud string of curses as he burst through the front doors of his townhome.
“I say, are you foxed?” James Gregory Harris, Marquess of Whitmore asked.
Phillip cursed under his breath and began wringing out his jacket on the marble floors before handing it to one of his remaining servants. “Do you mind explaining to me how you are on such good terms with my servants, Whitmore?”
“Easy. I paid them. Seems money has been a little tight around here, eh?”
Phillip was in no mood to defend himself or fight with his only remaining friend. What he needed was a blasted drink, but cuts within his household and staff had to be made, which all but snuffed out his habit of brandy and port. “Is there a purpose for your intrusion, Whitmore, or are you merely here to vex me?”
“Although vexing sounds enticing, I was merely here to tell you the good news. I’m to be married.”
Phillip was silent. All he could hear was the drip of water hitting the marble floor and his own ragged breathing. Was everyone marrying now? First Nicholas, then Sebastian, and now Whitmore? Apparently something was in the whiskey, which also explained why Phillip hadn’t shared in any of their luck, since he had no spirits of any kind.
“Married?” he repeated more to himself than to anyone else.
Whitmore smirked. The undeserving churl had all the luck. “Why, yes. Since my inheritance just last month, it appears I have also acquired a fiancée. Imagine the good fortune, it seems to pile up around me, does it not?”
“Apparently it does.” Phillip shook his head and motioned for Whitmore to follow him into his sparse study. “You know, not all of us are as fortunate as you, to have a brother die and leave us to inherit the title of marquess.”
“Deuced good luck, don’t you think?” Whitmore winked. “I hear she’s a beautiful little chit. Pure and untouched. I can’t say I’m displeased in this matter. I have yet to set eyes on her, but I imagine my parents would not have settled for anything less than perfection. Pity I’ll have to let go of Daisy for a while, as well as my newest conquest.”
“Ah, the mistresses. How does the sweet Daisy fare?” Phillip was glad for the change of subject. Marriage left a bitter taste in his mouth and seemed to be haunting him every waking moment.
“Beautiful as usual, though she despises the fact I’ll be seeing less of her now that I’m to act the part with my new fiancée. But once the marriage is sealed, I’ll be setting up Daisy in her own house.”
“Fortunate lady no doubt.” Phillip snorted, and for a moment wondered about the other mistress Whitmore was always so secretive about. Rumor had it he was keeping company with a widowed countess, but Phillip doubted Whitmore actually had it in him to seduce a seasoned woman of the ton. The older ones always had so many rules. And if he knew anything of Whitmore, it was that he despised rules.
Whitmore appeared perplexed. “You mean Daisy is the lucky one?”
Phillip looked at his friend. “Both women who have so…happily landed in your clutches.” His sarcasm failed to meet the mark, for Whitmore simply smiled like a besotted fool and took a seat in the study.
Dressed as a complete dandy, what Whitmore lacked in style, he gained in debauchery. It seemed his only goal in life was to accumulate wealth and bed as many women as possible—a feat he was accomplishing admirably, if the gossip was true. Yet, he was Phillip’s friend, his only friend since the falling out with Tempest and Renwick. They had all been friends at Eton until a tragic accident with the duke’s late parents left them forever separated.
Renwick and Phillip had both continued down the path of destruction, until Renwick was rescued by a beauty from the country. Tempest, on the other hand, had chosen the path of impeccable reputation, though in the end had to be saved from his own self-righteousness. And through a series of odd events, the three of them had managed to rebuild some of the broken bridges that had been destroyed during their earlier, more careless, years.
Whitmore smiled, revealing straight white teeth and a cool air of smugness. “I am certain she’ll be besotted with me. Don’t you agree?”
How to answer. “She will be most definitely pleased.” That is if she can get past the idea of you having three mistresses at once as well as a fancy for brandy morning and night. “More than pleased, I’m sure.” Curse his rotten luck that he had nothing to be thankful for other than a warm meal. Not even the promise of a lady filling his bed, considering he was too low on coin to pay her.
“So when shall I meet her?” Phillip drawled, trying to move along the conversation, so he could change out of his wet clothes and rid himself of Whitmore, who was making himself comfortable on the divan.
Whitmore tapped his gold crested cane on the floor before answering. “At the Tempest ball tonight. I say, have you secured an invitation? Your reputation with Tempest has been anything but savory these past few years.”
Phillip opened his mouth to fire back a snide remark, when his butler Winifred strode in and announced, “The Duke of Tempest, my lord.”
Tempest swept by Winifred and haughtily examined Whitmore from head to toe before turning toward Phillip. “Rawlings, I have come to formally invite you to our celebration tonight.”