“One should not curse in front of a lady.”
Phillip laughed. “I’ll be sure to hold my tongue when I’m in the presence of one.”
“Oh, la!” Rosalind feigned irritation, but he knew the woman was stronger than flint. “Out of curiosity, who may I ask has put that delightful mask of jealousy on your face?”
“Jealousy?” When would this dance end? “I’m wearing nothing of the sort.”
“Right. And I am overwhelmed with joy at being matched up with him.” She nodded her head in the direction of Whitmore, who was presently groping at his latest mistress.
Both Rawlings and Rosalind shuddered and shared a laugh.
“He isn’t as bad as he seems.”
Rosalind scoffed, “Are you his defender then? And you’re wrong, he’s much worse than he seems. But, do not worry a fig for me. I will do just fine.” Phillip stared into her steely blue eyes and believed her every word. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“The weather,” Phillip lied.
“And I thought you were more intelligent than to lie. If you won’t tell me I’ll just have to ask Abigail.”
The sound of her name gave him away, for his hand tensed, only slightly, on Lady Rosalind’s body. She bit her lip in triumph.
“That was not playing fair, my lady.”
The dance ended, but before the pairs parted, Lady Rosalind leaned in and whispered, “Women rarely play fair, my lord.”
The next hour was spent with a series of wide-eyed debutantes who not only seemed curious as to why the devil was at Almack's, but how he had gained an invitation. Phillip himself had been curious about the same thing, until Lady Jersey and the Dowager Duchess of Tempest both smiled and winked in his direction. It seemed the patronesses loved gossip as much as anyone else, and Phillip was ripe for the picking. Everyone appeared to be curious about him, as if he was some new species just discovered. He half-expected someone to start drawing his portrait with as many glances he received.
It was due in large part to his appearance. Being clean shaven and dressed in finery, as well as not breathing fire on grandmothers and the blind, must have done his reputation some good. But, in all of Almack’s, there still was no woman who gained his attention.
Well, it was not completely true, but the one woman who managed to gain his favor also had the attention of every other male—even some of the married ones. And although he wouldn’t mind dancing with the girl, it was his job to protect her, so he watched as closely as he could.
Phillip’s control was splendidly in check right up until Whitmore approached Abby and held out his hand for a dance. She seemed to stiffen and then looked next to her at Lady Rosalind, who appeared ready to attack. But Whitmore tugged at Abigail. Nearly tripping, she followed him to the floor.
Phillip watched helplessly as Whitmore’s hands moved seductively down her spine toward her backside. Quickly, Phillip scanned the room for Sebastian. He found him deep in discussion with Renwick on the far side of the room. With the crush, it would be impossible to reach him. Knowing he had to take things into his own hands, he continued to move through the crowds until Abby would be able to make eye contact with him.
“Look at me, just look at me,” he whispered out loud.
Her alarmed gaze locked with his. She shook her head once, conveying a message. And then the minx laughed as Whitmore stormed off.
She made her way toward a disturbed Phillip. “Was it my imagination, or did Whitmore just storm off in the middle of a dance? How did you get him to leave you?”
Shrugging, Abigail took his outstretched arm. “I merely told him I had heard it announced that his brother had returned from India.”
“Inspired.” Phillip laughed. “Can you imagine what Whitmore would do? He’s been blasted cocky since the announcement of his brother’s death. Didn’t even mourn the man, just relished the idea of inheriting the title and Lady Rosalind.”
“Yes, I saw her dancing with you. She is such a dear friend.”
Phillip smiled. “Yes, I am aware.”
“What has you grinning so much, Rawlings?”
“Pay me no heed. It has been a strange night. Are you thirsty, my dear?”
Abby squinted her eyes, possibly trying to decide if Rawlings was indeed going mad. This was the most he had smiled in years. “Yes, some watered down lemonade would be nice.” She grimaced but was obviously hot. The room was crammed to its gills with people.
“Ah, no champagne?” he challenged.
Whispering, she leaned in. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Probably not, but you should tell me regardless,” he admitted.
“I’ve never had champagne.”
“Never had—”
“Shhh! Rawlings, everyone will hear you!”
“Doubtful. This crush is worse than expected. Well, we shall remedy the situation immediately. Follow me.”
Like two small children sneaking off, they tiptoed around the corner, passing several serving trays with champagne flutes. Phillip discreetly grabbed two and motioned for her to be quiet. It wasn’t the first time he had stolen champagne and probably wouldn’t be the last. His reputation did come from somewhere, after all.
Abigail was giggling as she grasped his hand tightly. Phillip managed to keep his excitement at bay. Her fingers, so delicate and small, seemed somehow right as they fit into his hand. His fingers tingled, and he cursed himself for allowing such an innocent gesture to completely undo him.
He pulled her out the back of the assembly hall into a small room, which appeared to be the cozy space meant for coats. Handing her the flutes, he took a moment to check their surroundings and looked into her eyes. In hindsight, it was a terrible mistake on his part. Green pools of excitement sparkled back at him, hitting him straight in the gut and aiming for his heart.
“To your first drink of champagne.”
Abigail smiled shyly. “And to my first experience sneaking off at a ball with a known rake. I do hope it went unnoticed. I should hate to be named in that dreadful Mrs. Peabody column like some people I associate with.”
“Touché.” He laughed. Unable to keep himself from grinning ear to ear, Phillip watched her with amusement. Who knew that an innocent toast would bring a young lady so much joy? Or maybe it was the excitement of sneaking off at Almack’s. Regardless, he couldn’t tear his gaze away.
She tilted her head back to drink the last of the contents in her glass, giving him a glorious view of her neck and throat. He wanted to reach out, to touch her smooth skin, to kiss that vulnerable neck. Was it possible that this girl was more seductive when she wasn’t attempting to seduce him or ruin herself?
His hands trembled as he downed the contents of his glass.
“The bubbles tickle my tongue.”
Phillip began choking. Abigail hit him on the back. “Are you ill, my lord?”
“Fine.” He coughed. “Just fine.” Taking into account her compromising position, his restraint was extraordinary. “I believe that’s enough champagne for now. Don’t want to bring you back to Sebastian completely foxed.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted.
“For…drinking champagne?” Phillip took the empty glass from her shaking hands. “Abby, what the devil do you have to be sorry for?”
“I didn’t mean to kiss you. I mean, I meant to kiss you, both times. I was just trying…oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m sorry, Rawlings, truly. Will you ever forgive me for being so wanton? For trying to deceive you? I truly couldn’t stand for it, if you thought me selfish and immoral, even though I know I have been of late.”
Phillip selfishly desired to order her to be wanton, but only in his presence. He also desired nothing more than to kick himself for making her feel so ashamed after their kiss. Yes, he had been angry, but not as much at her as at himself for behaving so badly.
He reached out, grabbing the blasted piece of hair that seemed to constantly go against the grain. To be spitefully where it was not allowed to be. Very much like Abigail. Perfectly imperfect. Irritating and invigorating. “You have nothing to apologize for, save the fact that you should never throw yourself at men like me.”
“I don’t. I mean, I will not, and I haven’t done any such thing.” Abigail’s lip trembled. Why did the action give the appearance that she was upset?
“Come here.” Phillip pulled her into his chest and felt her relax. Inhaling the scent of her hair was not one of his wiser moments, but he couldn’t seem to help himself as her scent enveloped him. Heavens, she was desirable. She pushed away slightly and brushed a kiss across his cheek.
“Thank you, Rawlings. I promise to be on my best behavior and make you proud.”
If it were possible for a person’s heart to break in two, Phillip’s would have. The earnest look and fiery determination ignited his passion. It was one thing for her to feel rejected and angry with him. But quite another for the girl to aim to make him proud. Him. Of all people. And as usual, when a moment of clarity hits, one of stupidity surely has to follow.
So Phillip Crawford, Eighth Earl of Rawlings, did one of the stupidest things he’d ever done in his life.
He kissed her.
Her innocent lips, soft billowy pillows of pure feminine beauty, were immobile, but it didn’t matter, because Phillip was doing the teaching, the caressing, and the only thing he’d been yearning to do for days.
The kiss was soft, not urgent, more of a question than the answer. When he released her, he looked into her green eyes and was dumbfounded when he saw them well with tears.
“I have to—” Abigail turned and ran away, leaving him aroused, confounded, and feeling a trifle guilty that he had quite possibly ruined whatever shaky ground they had previously built.
Chapter Eleven
My dear readers, it is official. The world has gone absolutely mad. Take for example what this author discovered last night. That the dishonorable Lord Rawlings is to help chaperone one of the Season's most glorious debutantes. Dear readers, is this not the same as handing an innocent lamb to a wolf? This author is counting down the days until that particular betrothal is announced. There is absolutely no possibility that the despicable Lord Rawlings can keep his hands to himself. I’d like to see him try.
—Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers
Abigail was not aware of the direction she was running, only that she needed to escape Rawlings at all costs. Was it her punishment that the very day she decided against him he should kiss her? Why did it hurt so? Knowing that the kiss was more out of pity than anything is what troubled her most. It spoke of brotherly affection, of love without any sort of passion. His tenderness spoke volumes. He was a rake. Rakes did not kiss women in that way. It was, in her mind, a pity kiss. And it infuriated her and sickened her heart.
Music became louder as she neared the great hall. Allowing herself in, she managed to find Emma and appear more together than she felt.
Minutes later, Rawlings entered, his countenance dark. But she was done with him. Finished. She looked at the pairs dancing and decided she would find someone else to love. Even if it nearly killed her to do so.