A New Lord
Rhoda fumed as she strode toward the retiring room. The vicar’s condescending advice had shaken her out of the dazed shock left over from Kensington’s appalling behavior.
Mr. White ought not to deserve any of her wrath, really, as his arrival had given her the opportunity to escape. And then he’d led her to safety. But she rebelled inside that he’d taken it upon himself to imply that she had somehow been at fault.
Why was it always the woman’s fault when a man ran afoul? When Kensington had lied to, married, and then cheated on her dearest friend Cecily, Cecily had been the one shunned. She’d been shamed and blamed by thetonnot only for her low birth, but because she’d failed to hold her husband’s attention.
And when poor Sophia had been harassed by her stepbrother, no one had protected her either. It had beenherresponsibility to keep him at bay.Herresponsibility to make certain her bedchamber door remained locked at all times.
Rhoda huffed out an irritated breath. Kensington’s impertinent attentions had not been welcomed by her, had they? But of course not! Still, a niggling of doubt plagued her.
Had she done anything that might have given Lord Kensington reason to believe she’d be receptive to such advances? Had she, by not chastising his touch during the dance, inadvertently given him reason to suggest…?
But, no! That was ridiculous! She understood the difference between mutual attraction and unbridled lust. Kensington had acted solely upon his own impulses.
Apparently, he’d recovered from last year’s injury.
Rhoda’s hand shook as she repinned an errant curl. He’d suggested that her protests were some sort of playacting. His assumption had been wicked, vicious… perverted!
Her dress was wrinkled where he’d gathered it into his fist. She moistened her hands and tried smoothing the creases away. She wished she could wash away the remembrance of his touch. Her stomach lurched sickeningly at the thought of his hand on her leg, reaching under her gown…
She’d been so stupid! She should know by now that men were not to be trusted!
She ought to have learned from St. John!
She stifled a groan. Surely, he’d loved her, hadn’t he? Surely, he’d had every intention of meeting with her father?
But he had not. He’d recklessly delayed. And then died—leaving her alone to deal with what she’d done—whatthey’ddone.
She could never forget what had transpired between them, how it had felt to be with him, skin to skin; how it had felt to give herself to him. At least no one had known. She’d told no one that she had given in to him. Not Sophia, not Cecily, not even Emily, who’d known something was off.
She’d been incredibly lucky he’d not left her with child. She dared not contemplate the condition of her circumstances if a pregnancy had resulted. And even so, she’d cried the morning her menses arrived.
Women were fools.
Satisfied with her reflection in the looking glass, if not the reflection of her soul, Rhoda deemed herself presentable enough to return to the ballroom.
She needed to locate her mother and then make up an excuse for having lost Lord Kensington’s escort. The expectation would be that she’d sit with him. He’d reserved the supper dance with her, after all.
But Rhoda would not dine with him now if he were the last man alive. She never should have agreed to the dance.
Maybe she could plead a megrim. She felt even less like dancing now than she had earlier in the evening. But she’d promised all those sets.
To all those gentlemen.
“I wondered where you’d gone off to.” Emily appeared at her side. Practical, outspoken Emily. “Are you trying to ruin your reputation intentionally? I was looking for you, but Lord Kensington told your mother you’d abandoned him after the dance. Said he thought you’d gone off with some other man.” Emily frowned and adjusted her spectacles. “Horrid of him to request a dance with you!”
Admittedly, Rhoda had always been something of a flirt, but in the past, it had always been harmless. Fun.
She was not having fun tonight.
“I needed to go to the retiring room. I am not feeling quite the thing this evening. Too much dancing perhaps?”
In the past, she might have told Emily everything. She might have told her about St. John.
And Dudley Scofield.
With a shiver, Rhoda pushed the memory of Sophia’s stepbrother to the darkest crevice of her mind.
