“Friend?”
Emma was inspecting the gloves in her hand. “Hm? Oh. Yes, our friend. Lord Rawlings. It appears he must marry within the next few months. In his current state, it would take more than just a well-placed dashing smile to make him appeal to the ladies. Mrs. Peabody’s slander has been brutal to the poor man. Not that he didn’t at one time deserve her scorn. I do believe she’s some rejected lover of sorts. Or maybe she’s nursed a secret tendre for him. Either way, I’ve offered to help him clean up his reputation, and we must get to Bond Street before the dinner party tonight.”
Abigail’s mind began tirelessly working with the new information. He was looking for a wife? Why didn’t the scoundrel look at her? Had she not made her intentions known? It was now imperative that she talk to her father, and if he said no, she might just cry real tears. What if the people of the ton saw the man she already knew Rawlings to be? What if Emma did such a good job that he would never notice her again? Part of her had to swallow the indignation that he had ignored her so scornfully, but still. There was always hope. And after she made a visit to Madame Valerie’s Dress Shop his eyes would be opened. Surely a man of his tastes would fall head over heels.
She turned her attention back to Emma. “What dinner party is this?”
“Oh, Renwick has decided to throw a small get-together. It seems all Renwick’s children are off visiting Lady Fenton’s country estate for the last few months of Lady Renwick’s confinement. The poor dear is probably going mad already. The ball was her very last event before being locked in the house. I do believe Renwick will stop at nothing to keep that girl happy, and he does know how much she enjoys spending time with friends.”
“Who will be attending?” Abigail’s brain was thirsty for information.
“Oh, ‘tis just a small gathering, nothing extravagant. I believe Rawlings has been invited, Belverd, your dear friend Lady Rosalind, and us.”
“Splendid.” Abigail kissed her on the cheek again and bade her farewell.
“Do be careful, Abigail!” Emma called.
Abigail waved and ran down the hallway at a reckless pace, not even pausing as she rushed down the stairwell, straight into Lord Rawlings’ arms.
His curse vibrated off the walls.
Strong hands came up to brace her shoulders. “Running from your sins, Miss Gates?”
So, it was back to Miss Gates—not Abby or even Abigail, but Miss Gates. Goodness she felt ancient and immature all at once. “I was merely…stretching my legs.”
“Tsk, tsk. Ladies do not mention legs or ankles, or heaven forbid, any sort of appendage in the presence of a man. But I suspect you wouldn’t know that, considering the type of behavior I’ve seen you exhibit in the past few days. First kissing a man out in the open, dancing with devil-may-care abandon, and now running around like a hoyden in the schoolroom. I’m shocked, Miss Gates.”
“Shocked?” She lifted her chin giving him full view of her flushed face. “And what, pray tell, has shocked the great Lord Rawlings this afternoon?”
“Did I say shocked? Hmm…maybe not so shocked as I am amused. You haven’t changed a wit since I last saw you, Miss Gates. Still as foolhardy as ever. I say, the only thing missing are those pigtails, and I’d be looking at the same girl I left so many years ago.”
****
Even as the words came out of his mouth, he was cursing at himself. Her face paled, shoulders slumped, and that ever-present spark of mischief all but dissipated before his very eyes. And then, suddenly, she straightened her shoulders and sent him a heated glare he felt all the way to his toes.
“Thank you, Lord Rawlings, for reminding me.”
“Reminding you?” he scoffed, though he was acutely aware of how uncomfortable her cold stare made him.
“Why yes. Reminding me of our vast difference in age. You see, I always find it refreshing to talk with older gentlemen, as it gives me practice for men of my own age. They are so very aggressive. I find that when I talk with men of a certain age, I am put immediately at ease with my choice to take you up on your advice.”
“My advice?”
“To search out someone suitable of my own age. Naturally, not someone older, more seasoned, and consequently boring—without the least bit of understanding of what a lady with my careless nature, sans pigtails, truly desires or needs to be happy. Good day, my lord!”
And with that, the impetuous little chit marched off as if she had just been elected queen.
“Rawlings?” Sebastian’s voice called to him through the indignant haze of passion he felt. “Rawlings, do close your mouth. What are you staring at?”
“The…” He awkwardly cleared his throat and helplessly glanced down at his boots. “The floors. Say, have you had them redone?”
Sebastian looked at him through squinted eyes and then leaned closer to his face.
“What are you about, Sebastian?”
“I can never remember. Are the pupils larger when foxed or smaller?”
“Foxed? I am not foxed!”
“You’re staring at my blasted floors as if they arouse you. I’d say you’re foxed. At least I hope so, or we have bigger problems than your impending need to marry.”
“Ready?” Emma glided into the room.
An uncomfortable silence followed. Phillip flicked away Sebastian’s hand as it gently touched his shoulder, apparently trying to calm him. “Right then, shall we?” he said, glaring at the duke.
Emma looked between the two men and clapped. “Oh, this will be so much fun! Now, Phillip—”
“Since when do you address me by my first name?”
“Since you were in short pants, now move. We have a lot of ground to cover and only a few hours to do so before the dinner party. Mark my words, Phillip. You’re going to be the catch of the Season if I have anything to do with it.”
Sebastian gave Phillip a sympathetic look.
“Oh, and, Sebastian, you are coming as well.”
“Am I?” He shot daggers at Phillip. “But, dear, I would be in the way. I would…” He stopped talking the moment he noted the icy glare from his wife. “Right then, let me just get my hat.”
Chapter Seven
Dear readers, beware. As I was walking through Bond Street toward the church where I dutifully pray every day, a sudden feeling came over me—similar to that when in the presence of sinners. It appears a wolf in sheep's clothing is lurking around London. One of the devil's own was masquerading as an angel of light as he helped a young child into his parents’ carriage. Eating an ice and parading with the Angel Duke and Duchess, one would have never believed the good Samaritan was indeed Lord Rawlings. A reformed rake? This author is not convinced. Mothers, keep a watchful eye over your young ones, and debutantes, ignore the devil’s good deeds. It is obvious that something is afoot!
—Mrs. Peabody’s Society Papers.
The jaunt to Bond Street proved just as uncomfortable as Phillip suspected it would be. With Emma talking about ways to change others’ outlook about his reputation and Sebastian offering advice on charities, it was no surprise that by the time they reached their first stop, the only thing Phillip wanted was a drink and something to shoot.
But his reputation was in need of repair.
So instead of getting foxed he settled for ices, hoping that the sweetness would somehow rub off on his dark mood and overall shoddy frame of mind, that Emma could magically bring him up to snuff within the course of a few months. Were people that easy to sway? Was it possible that it would only take a change of outward appearances, and he would have the ton eating out of the palm of his hand?
“Ah, the boot makers.” Sebastian opened the door.
“And why do I need new boots?” Phillip asked, entering into his own personal vision of hell—usually he preferred an entirely different sort of amusement for his lazy afternoons. The smell of leather and shoe polish burned his nose as he made his way to the front.
Emma pushed ahead of both men and stopped when the shopkeeper looked up. “Spare no expense.”
Phillip opened his mouth to speak just as Sebastian nudged him in the ribs and shook his head. “Allow her this one boon, Phillip. She wants to help, and you know we’re good for it. You’ll make it up to us one day.” And with that Sebastian winked and joined his wife in the picking out of new boots for Phillip.
Guilt did not sit well with him as he thought about the stolen kiss with Abigail. Nobody could find out. After all Emma and Sebastian were doing for him, the last thing he needed was to somehow disappoint them by ruining the younger Gates sister. The unfortunate part was that the one time in his life he wanted to make something honest of himself was also the same time he had to keep a lie in order to maintain that same appearance.
Ironic.
The rest of the afternoon passed along the same way as it started. New boots, a new hair cut, a shave, cravats, pantaloons, breeches, jackets, hats, and to his absolute vexation, gloves. Why, he had asked, did he need new gloves? His were in perfect shape, albeit worn. Sebastian had then given one of the longest lectures of Phillip’s life about the necessity of new gloves that were smooth, without stain or wear, and how many a woman will judge a man solely based on his gloves.
Phillip called him out.
So Sebastian felt the need to then address several patrons within the glove shop. Which wasn’t at all fair if you asked Phillip. After all, who was going to disagree with a duke?
****
Emma continued to discuss the night’s festivities as Phillip and Sebastian loaded the last of the packages into the carriage. “I believe we are finished.”
Never had Phillip heard a more beautiful phrase. “Thank God—I could not handle another shop. In fact, here and now I’ve decided I shall never shop again.”
“Agreed. Men should not be subject to such things. What we need is a good hunt and a fight at Jackson’s,” Sebastian said.
Emma glared. “Complain all you want, but when I’m right, and you boys are wrong, you’ll be falling all over yourselves to apologize.”
“Rawlings?” A shrill feminine voice pierced the otherwise pleasant late afternoon air.
Turning, he came face to face with his stepmother. Tall and slender, but with the emotion of a cold fish, it was no surprise to see her shopping. She spent money as if it never ran out.
“Ah, mother.” He gave her a curt nod and turned toward the carriage. Leaving was his only option. After all, she despised him just as much as every other woman in London.
“Your graces.” He heard her say.
Emma spoke. “Lovely to see you, my lady, but we must be going.”
“Of course, I am sorry to intrude. I see now that you must have been shopping, my dear. Heaven knows my son has no money of his own after he gambled it away. Isn’t that right, my dear?”
Phillip clenched his teeth, fighting with every ounce of his will to be the respectable man he knew he was raised to be. But it was deuced hard when one’s stepmother made such brash remarks.
“Gambled. Such a dirty word coming from such a refined lady, wouldn’t you agree, Mother?” Phillip’s voice came out in short clipped tones as he continued to keep his back to his deceased father’s wife.