Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (11 page)

“Geoffrey!” she called, from the bottom step. He paused, and spun about so quickly he sent bits of water spraying. His mother gasped as water landed upon her cheek. She brushed it back as though he’d tossed a dead trout at her person.

He didn’t suspect Abigail Stone would be so shocked by the feel of water upon her skin. Quite the opposite, really. He imagined she’d embrace the cooling feel of it. All manner of wicked yearnings filled him, all of which involved Abigail Stone laid out upon satin sheets, her arms open, her…

“Did you hear what I said, Geoffrey?” His mother’s harsh question jerked him back to the moment.

“No.” He continued his climb.

“Geoffrey,” his mother cried. The soft thread of her slippers upon the marble steps confirmed her pursuit.

He hurried his steps.

“A kitchen maid heard from Lord Carmichael’s groom that you went swimming at Hyde Park and were touching that, that American woman. Whatever were you thinking? It is unfortunate enough I had to expect such scandals from your sister, but…you…?”

Geoffrey stopped so suddenly, his mother stumbled against him. He wanted to toss his head back and snarl at the mere mention of Lord Carmichael, that reprobate bastard. To think he’d ever considered for even an infinitesimal moment, wedding his sister Sophie to that fiend. He held a finger up. “First, I did not go for a swim. I fell into the lake.” A bloody lake he’d rushed into. That, however, was neither here nor there. “Second, that American woman is the cousin of the Duke of Somerset and some respect should be afforded the lady for the connection to that distinguished title.”

Considering any further discussion on the matter officially ended, Geoffrey continued his march. He reached the main hall when his mother called out to him.

“You do know what they say about American women. Nothing proper. They are a scandalous lot, Geoffrey. Why, even her name, Abigail. What decent Englishman and woman name their daughter after a lady’s maid?”

He fisted his hands, as a thin haze of rage descended over his vision. Geoffrey tamped down the immediate defense that sprung to his lips. To do so, however, would encourage Mother’s argument. And he’d long tired of discussing the matter with his mother.

Unfortunately, she seemed quite eager to continue the rather one-sided discourse. “You are the last male in line for the Redbrooke title. You mustn’t do something as…as foolhardy as to sully the title with American bloodlines. Why, her father is a footman.”

“Was a footman.”

Her eyes flew open with shocked outrage at his insolent response. “Are you making light of this situation?”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Her eyes narrowed as if trying to determine the veracity of his words.

“Mother, I’m wet. And cold.” He held a staying hand up when she made to speak. “I have no intention of wedding Miss Stone. I was retrieving something for the lady and I fell. There is nothing more to it than that. My interest lies with Lady Beatrice.”

Mother’s mouth formed a small moue of surprise. She blinked. “Truly? Because last evening the gossips reported your interest in that…Miss Stone, creature. I observed you myself, Geoffrey. You were staring.”

He gritted his teeth. “I do not stare.” Last evening he had. However, in the light of day he chose to blame such an uncharacteristic reaction on too much champagne. Only, he hadn’t had any spirits that morning, so how did one account for actions at Hyde Park? Geoffrey continued on toward his chambers.

His mother quickened her pace in a very un-viscountess-like manner to meet his long strides. “You are absolutely brilliant then! Why, of course Lady Beatrice, who is a perfect match for you, would be so very grateful that you should have helped her cousin retrieve…” Her brow furrowed. “What is it you helped the young woman retrieve?”

“A piece of lace,” he said, automatically, not thinking about how foolish his actions would appear until he’d spoken them aloud. Only, it hadn’t been any mere scrap of fabric but rather a token given by her family before she’d journeyed to London. Surely such an item merited him wading into the lake with all of Polite Society staring on?

They reached the door to Geoffrey’s chambers.

His mother wrinkled her nose. “Hmph. Regardless, it must have mattered to the young lady, and Lady Beatrice will surely know as much and be so grateful and…”

“Good day, Mother,” he muttered, and turned the handle. He closed the door on his mother’s indignant gasp, and locked it for good measure. The viscountess’ tenacity would have driven Boney to defeat faster than the whole of the British infantry and navy together.

He dropped his forehead against the wood panel of the door and banged it ever so slightly.

For a brief, too brief, moment on the walking path alongside the lake, Geoffrey had wanted to dip his head, and lay claim to her full lips, explore the hot, wet, cavern of her mouth.

Instead, he’d gone and leveled reprehensible accusations about her public behavior and demeanor. Geoffrey could name just two other times he’d truly hated himself; following his father’s death and Emma’s betrayal…and now, he could add his haughty treatment of Abigail to that list.

Geoffrey dragged a hand through his hair, his mother’s admonition blended with his own sense of responsibility. His interest in Abigail, though bothersome, could be explained by the obvious desirability of the winsome beauty. He valued respectability, but hell, he was still a flesh and blood man.

If he were to secure Lady Beatrice’s hand and affections, it would serve him well not to be linked in the scandal sheets to Miss Stone’s name…and it would also serve him to be free of scandal. The Duke of Somerset by the very nature of his title and status in Society could secure the most advantageous match…and, Geoffrey was already at a disadvantage with a mere viscounty.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Who the hell…” he took a deep breath, remembering himself. “Yes,” he called through the wood panel.

“My lord, I’ve arranged a bath and…”

Geoffrey unlocked the door and pulled it open. His valet Williamson stumbled forward. The young servant’s eyes widened at the sight of Geoffrey standing there in his ruined Hessians and soaked garments. He seemed to remember himself and motioned to the small army of servants bearing a tub and steaming buckets of water.

Geoffrey shrugged out of his soaked jacket and tossed it aside. Williamson caught it before it hit the velvet-like material of the burgundy Wilton carpet. His valet eyed the thoroughly ruined material as though he’d just been handed the body of his sole heir.

Moments later, the servants paraded out of the room until only Williamson remained. “Will you be remaining in, my lord or going out.”

“I’ll be visiting my clubs.”

“Very well, my lord.” Williamson rushed to select Geoffrey’s attire.

Geoffrey hurried through his ablutions and a short while later assessed himself in the bevel glass. Properly attired in a brown coat, striped linen waistcoat, and fawn trousers there could be no mistaking this man as the fool who’d toppled over in Hyde Park. He gave a pleased nod, and accepted the top hat with its curled brim from Williamson. A trip to White’s and several glasses of brandy were in order.

With that in mind he left, hurrying through his house before Mother could harangue him over his seeming interest in Miss Abigail Stone.

Williamson had clearly been so intuitive as to anticipate Geoffrey’s intentions, for when he made his way to the foyer, the butler Ralston handed Geoffrey his black cloak. “Your horse has been readied,” Ralston murmured, glancing pointedly around the foyer.

The viscountess must be near.

Geoffrey nodded and hurried out the door to the waiting groom, who extended the reins of Geoffrey’s mount, Decorum. He climbed astride and nudged the horse forward.

As he rode, he considered his recent meeting with Abigail Stone. For whatever reason, the young woman had slipped into the recesses of his mind and would not relinquish her hold. He supposed a good deal of his interest in the young woman stemmed largely from her exotic beauty, but with the clean spring air filling his lungs, he realized his fascination was a product of more than mere physical lust. Abigail possessed a bold spirit and unabashed candidness that he didn’t understand, and yet, oddly because he didn’t understand it, found himself intrigued by it. Since Father’s death, Geoffrey had taken great care to avoid passionate women such as Abigail.

Geoffrey guided Decorum down St. James Street, and drew on the reins, bringing his mount to a stop in front of the familiar white stone front of White’s. He dismounted, and handed the reins over to a waiting servant.

Intent on putting aside the memory of Abigail’s husky laugh and siren’s voice, he strode up the steps and entered his club.

“Redbrooke!” A booming voice called in greeting.

Geoffrey looked around, until his stare alighted upon Lord Alvanley in his place of honor at the bow window, alongside the Earl of Seaton.

Geoffrey raised his hand in greeting and wound his way through the club, nodding as he passed acquaintances, until he reached his table in the far back corner. He slid into the comfortable folds of his seat and motioned for a bottle of brandy.

A servant hurried over and placed the bottle and glass atop the table.

Geoffrey reached for it and proceeded to splash several fingerfuls into the glass. Raucous laughter caught his notice. He frowned around the rim of his drink, and took a long swallow. Several foppish young dandies stood around the infamous White’s betting book.

Lord Walsh, a reed-thin dandy in garish golden satin breeches, said something that made the three gentlemen around him howl with laughter.

“Bloody swains,” a deep voice drawled, jerking Geoffrey’s attention back from the indistinguishable words among the young dandies.

Geoffrey looked and frowned—Lord Sinclair.
Bloody fantastic
. He and Sinclair had moved in the same circles once upon a lifetime ago. Only, Sinclair still carried the reputation as something of a reckless rogue.

Sinclair had also secured one of Abigail’s waltzes last evening.

Geoffrey detested him even more.

“Might I join you, chap?” Sinclair didn’t wait for Geoffrey to confirm, but pulled out the chair across from Geoffrey and settled into the seat. “Mind if I help myself to a glass of brandy?” He glanced around and then held his hand up. A liveried servant came over with a glass, which he placed in front of Sinclair. The young man bowed and then took his leave.

Sinclair poured himself a glass and took a sip.

Geoffrey stared across the table at the other man. He and Lord Sinclair had attended Eton and Oxford in the same years, but beyond that, they tended to move in very different social circles.

Very different.

Which made Sinclair’s intrusion so very odd.

And unappreciated.

Sinclair cradled his glass in one hand and drummed the fingertips of his other along the edge of the table. The rhythmic tapping grated, and Geoffrey gritted his teeth until Sinclair suddenly stopped. He leaned over, placing his elbows upon the table. “Lady Beatrice, is it?”

Geoffrey blinked. “I beg your pardon?” It would certainly help if the other man spoke in complete sentences.

“Or is it the lovely, ever-intriguing Miss Abigail Stone who has snared your attention.”

Geoffrey’s mind went blank at the other man’s blunt questioning. He reached for his too-tight cravat, and then remembered himself. Clearing his throat, he clenched the edge of the table. “Of a sudden you are interested in my marital intentions?”

Sinclair’s eyes lit. “Ah, so you do have, how did you phrase it, marital intentions?” He arched a brow. “Hardly the romantic, are you, Redbrooke?”

Geoffrey silently cursed and downed the remaining contents of his glass. That hadn’t always been the case. Emma’s visage flashed behind his eyes. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another. “You’re worse than the bloody matrons at Almack’s.”

Sinclair grinned. “Who knew you had a sense of humor?”

Geoffrey sat back in his chair, and took another sip of brandy. He frowned. Geoffrey didn’t know why, or how to explain it, but this unfavorable opinion carried by Abigail and Lord Sinclair rankled. He had a sense of humor. That is, when something happened to be funny. Not crudely amusing. Or inappropriately amusing. But, well,
amusing
.

Another round of laughter rent the quiet conversations of White’s. Simultaneously Sinclair and Geoffrey stared off at the trio of dandies.

“You never answered my question, Redbrooke? Is it Lady Beatrice or Miss Stone you’ve set your marital cap at? If I was a wagering man,” he glanced toward the men clustered around the betting book. “And I am, a wagering man, I would venture it is Lady Beatrice you are poised to make your viscountess. Hmm, no word?” Sinclair said, leaning close. He took another sip of his brandy.

Geoffrey had sought out his clubs to rid himself of his mother’s barrage of questions. It would appear he’d merely traded one nuisance for another. “It’s none of your damned business, Sinclair.”

Sinclair arched a brow. “What if it is my business, Redbrooke? Or rather, what if I care to make it my business?”

Geoffrey’s frown deepened. He crossed his ankles and leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t see how my intentions should matter to you. That is, unless you have honorable intentions for…” His words trailed off. From around the rim of his glass, he studied Sinclair.

The earl took a long swallow of brandy.

Hell
. “You intend to court Lady Beatrice,” Geoffrey said. He remembered the fascinated manner in which Beatrice had studied Sinclair at Lord and Lady Essex’s ball. This would certainly complicate Geoffrey’s timeframe.

Sinclair choked on the contents of his glass. He waved off a passing servant and the expressions of concern. “Lady B...Beatrice?” he sputtered, on a hushed whisper solely for Geoffrey’s ears. “Lady Beatrice.” Another fit of choking ensued. When at last the fit had ceased, Sinclair gave his head a clearing shake. “I didn’t come to ascertain your interest in Lady Beatrice, but rather her cousin.”