Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (21 page)

The duke and Beatrice studied her in silence.

Abigail choked, and dropped the bread in her hands. She reached for the glass of water and took a tentative sip, and then another.

“I understand Lord Redbrooke brought flowers,” her uncle said at last.

Abigail set her glass down and folded her hands upon her lip, hiding them from sight. “He did,” she said. She returned her gaze to her nearly untouched plate.

Beatrice giggled.

Abigail’s gaze flew up.

Her cousin picked up a delicate tea cup and took a sip. “Never tell me you’d encourage Lord Redbrooke’s suit?”

“Beatrice,” her father chided. He folded his paper and set it down on the empty place beside him.

Beatrice ignored his unspoken admonition. “If he makes you happy, Abby, then there is nothing more I would want than for you to accept his suit.”

For one, too brief moment, her cousin’s blessing seemed the only boundary that prevented Abigail from grasping onto to the dream of Geoffrey as a serious suitor. Then, reality came crashing, careening down upon her. She reached for her bread, and chewed it; but it turned to dust inside her mouth.

“Lord Redbrooke is an honorable gentleman,” her uncle said, his tone quiet.

She nodded woodenly. How could an honorable gentleman ever take to wife such a dishonorable woman? She picked up her fork and shoved the baked egg around her plate.

“Abigail?” The duke’s sternly worded question, her name, brought her head up.

“He would make you an excellent match.”

Abigail’s gaze flitted off to the footmen stationed over by the sideboard. This place, she looked over to Beatrice, and with her innocent cousin here, was not the place in which to discuss an unlikely match between Abigail and Geoffrey.

The butler appeared and Abigail was saved from responding. “Lord Redbrooke to see Miss Stone. I’ve taken the liberty of showing the gentleman to the Chintz Parlor.”

Abigail’s fork clattered noisily upon her china flatware. “Forgive me,” she said hastily.

Beatrice’s smile grew. “Go, Abby,” she said gently.

Abigail rose so quickly her legs knocked the back of the chair, and it scraped noisily along the wood flooring. She began to pace beside the dining room table.

Geoffrey had called yesterday and stated his intentions to court her. At the time, she’d been besieged by a heady sense of joy. It had clouded her logic and the calm rationality she’d sworn to maintain after Alexander’s betrayal. For an all too brief moment she’d allowed herself to operate under the illusion of ‘what-ifs’: what if her lack of virtue didn’t matter to Geoffrey? What if word of her scandalous past never crossed the ocean? What if…what if…what if…?

Now, in the light of a new day, she could not deny the insurmountable boundaries that made a match between them—impossible.

“Abigail,” her uncle said quietly.

She jumped, and spun to face him.

“I believe Lord Redbrooke to be a fair man. He…” His gaze shifted momentarily to Beatrice, and then back to Abigail. “He is not one of clouded judgment. I’m certain of it.”

Abigail’s throat worked up and down.

“Go, Abby,” her cousin urged.

Abigail swallowed past the swell of emotion and managed a nod. “If you’ll excuse me?” She dipped a curtsy and hurried from the breakfast room.

As she made the long march to the Chintz Parlor she rehearsed everything she would say to Geoffrey. He was as her uncle said, a man of integrity and honor. As such, he deserved to know the truth…and he deserved to hear it from her. With each step, her resolve to confess the all, strengthened…

Abigail paused outside the parlor and smoothed her hands over the front of her day dress. She straightened her back and, taking a deep breath, entered the room.

Geoffrey stood with his back to her, one hand upon the fireplace mantle, his gaze fixed on the empty grate. Her eyes slid closed. He stood there six feet of towering masculine perfection, his muscle-hewn frame carved in a stone, giving him a look of the ancient Gods whose stories filled the skies. The breath left her on a whispery sigh. “Geoffrey.”

He spun around. His gaze, hotter than a physical touch, moved over her face. “Abigail.”

That was it. Abigail. Her name, and yet from that one utterance he conveyed masculine approval, possessiveness, desire.

God help her.

She’d imagined crossing the ocean and leaving behind her family the greatest trial she’d ever endured.

Looking at Geoffrey, wanting him as she did, she now knew there could be no greater trial than the one she now confronted.

He bowed. “Forgive me.”

Her eyes slid away from him. This is the kind of proper man he was. He begged pardon for failing to bow. She shook her head. “Geoffrey, I…”

He stalked across the room. “I’ve brought this.”

Abigail blinked down at the scrap of parchment he held out, and hesitated a moment. She took it in her fingers.

Ices at Gunter’s.

A walk in Hyde Park.

Several waltzes.

A trip to the theatre…

Abigail glanced from the list, up at Geoffrey. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eying her expectantly.

She smoothed her fingers along the thick, ivory velum. “Uh…”

“It is a list,” Geoffrey interrupted.

Abigail looked down blankly at the parchment again. “Yes. Yes it is.”

Geoffrey held out his hand.

Wordlessly, she turned it over and contemplated him. A small frown tilted the corners of his lips downward as he examined the meticulously written scrawl.

Geoffrey cleared his throat. “I created this list of proper events and activities for a gentleman courting a suitable young lady.”

Her mouth went dry. There it was again—a
suitable
young lady.

He continued, seeming oblivious to her inner turmoil. “We’ve walked in Hyde Park. Granted it was before I’d settled on you as a match.”

A desperate laugh bubbled up in her throat. Oh, Geoffrey. Sweet, wonderful Geoffrey. How carefully he plotted out every aspect of his life. Her nervous amusement died as she wondered how much of his devotion to order stemmed from the pain of Emma Marsh’s betrayal. “It is…very romantic.”

He held the paper up and closed it in his fist; the crackle of the wrinkled parchment filled the space like a dry log of wood being tossed into a fiery hearth. “You’re right. It seems I’m rubbish at this.” He took a step away from her.

Abigail rushed over to him, realizing he’d interpreted her words as mocking. “Oh, no. You aren’t rubbish at all.”
You’re good, and kind, and valiant.

A half grin formed on his lips. “I’d written this list before you. I had every detail for the rest of my life carefully plotted and planned, Abby.”

That sounded remarkably like the proper man she’d first come to know with his somber frown, and his seeming difficulty in managing a smile. Such a man would do something as practical as create a list to help secure a match in a most expeditious manner.

Geoffrey claimed her hand. “Will you accompany me?”

She studied their interlocked fingers.
Anywhere
. “Where?” she murmured. “I’ve not been to Gunter’s. Lord Sinclair mentioned it and it sounds divine.”

Geoffrey growled and lowered his head so his brow nearly rested upon hers. “I don’t want to hear you mention Lord Sinclair’s name.”

At the possessive note in that strongly uttered demand, warmth fanned out and filled Abigail. “To Hyde Park?”

Geoffrey flicked her nose with the tip of his finger, and grinned. “We’ve already been to Hyde Park. Twice.”

“Well, you must cross that off the list, then,” she said with a smile.

He took her by the hand and led her to the terrace doors. “Come,” he murmured, and pushed the doors open, he led her outside.

Abigail’s skin burned from the feel of his hand, strong, and hard in her own delicate palm.

“I was an absolute wretch to you, Abby.”

She blinked and looked up at him. A cloud shifted above the sun and cast half of his angular face in shadows. Then the cloud passed, and bathed him in sunlight. “When?” she blurted.

A wry half-grin turned the right corner of his lips. “I rather think on a number of occasions.” He settled his hand upon her waist, and pulled her close.

Abigail’s breath caught in her chest, and she tipped her chin up.
He is going to kiss me, here amidst the fragrant blooms and sun-filled sky, and, I am shameful and improper because I want that so very desperately
.

“The evening I first danced with you,” he continued, seeming unaware of the heady effect his presence had upon her.

She blinked back the thick haze of desire.

“I was a boorish lout. I was rude and condescending, and arrogant. Until you, Abby, I hadn’t realized what life had turned me into. You’ve reminded me how to laugh.”

Unable to bear the heated intensity radiating from his eyes, Abigail dropped her gaze to the immaculate lines of his white cravat.
Tell him.
She could not allow him to harbor these false views about the kind of woman she was.

She wet her lips.

He guided her hand upon his shoulder.

“What…?”

“I’m dancing with you. Again. I want to start anew with you, Abby.”

And then he proceeded to waltz her through the clusters of roses and crocuses up from the ground. He hummed a discordant tune.

Her body stiffened. “Oh, Geoffrey, I’m truly a dreadful dancer.” She stepped upon his foot, her graceless body seemed desperate to confirm the truth of her words. “I’m forever falling all over myself.”

He dropped his brow to hers, and tightened his hold about her. “Well, then. It seems I must be there to catch you should you fall.”

Amidst the sun-filled garden, with the chirping coy and Geoffrey’s humming as their symphony, Abigail fell in love.

Abigail had given her girlish heart to the handsome Alexander Powers. But there, in the duke’s parlor, Abigail fell in love with a woman’s heart.

Panic warred with joy, two very competing emotions within her breast. She could not love him. It was not to be countenanced. After Alexander’s betrayal she’d thought herself incapable of ever again trusting the fickle emotion called love. But God help her—she loved Geoffrey.

Tell him the truth. Tell him everything, you selfish, cowardly creature.

Later.

For now, Abigail intended to steal this final, beautiful moment before the truth killed all the warmth in Geoffrey’s eyes.

A gentleman should take care to avoid public displays of emotion.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~19~

From his spot behind the white, marble pillar, Geoffrey surveyed Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s ballroom. He peered over the rim of his champagne glass, in search of Abigail.

An ominous rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and an icy chill stole through him. Since the tragic night of his father’s death, rain and thunder transported him back to the moment he’d come upon his father’s broken body, eyes opened, staring lifelessly up at the storm-ravaged sky.

“I believe it is going to rain.”

Geoffrey froze, and turned to greet his sister, Sophie. She smiled up at him, her arm looped through her husband’s.

Waxham inclined his head in greeting.

“My that is a dark look,” she said. A clap of thunder punctuated her words.

“Sophie, Waxham,” Geoffrey greeted.

Waxham gave a slight bow.

“You scoundrel,” Sophie whispered. She crossed her arms over her middle. “You had me so thoroughly convinced of your intentions for one lady, and then I must find out from the scandal sheets that you’ve in fact been courting another?”

Geoffrey took another sip of champagne. “It appears you’ve done an even poorer job in reigning in my sister’s cheekiness,” he said to his brother-in-law.

“I wouldn’t even begin to dare try,” Waxham drawled and waved over a passing servant. He accepted a glass of champagne and returned his attention to Geoffrey. “My efforts would prove futile, especially after you’ve indulged her hoydenish behavior through the years.”

Sophie swatted her husband on the arm. “Oh, do behave. The both of you.” She arched a brow. “And do not think to shift the topic, dear brother. Are the reports correct? Am I to acquire a sister-in-law?” Enthusiasm underlined her conspiratorial whisper.

Geoffrey choked around the mouthful of champagne.

His sister’s eyes lit up like a child’s who’d tasted her first ice at Gunter’s. “I am! You needn’t deny it. Your reaction quite confirmed your intentions.”

He frowned, glancing around to determine whether anyone happened to overhear Sophie’s pronouncement. Lords and ladies throughout the room eyed him with a rabid curiosity that made him grit his teeth. If it weren’t for the desire to see Abigail, he’d have taken leave of the evening’s festivities a long while ago. “Do you have no control over your wife?” he said from the corner of his mouth.

His brother-in-law snorted. “If you must ask such a question, it would seem you know your sister a good deal less than I’d originally believed.”

Sophie went on as though they hadn’t spoken. “I can hardly imagine that my very proper, very dull brother has gone and won the affections of an American woman.” At Sophie’s pronouncement, a bolt of lightning lit the ballroom.

Geoffrey’s body jerked. The jagged light lit up the sky and spilled through the floor-length windows and into the room.

Sophie blinked. “Never tell me you’re afraid of a little lightening, brother?” He was spared from answering as she returned to the matter that had driven her over to his private corner of the ballroom. “By mother’s clear displeasure I take it that the rumors are in fact correct.”

Geoffrey’s gaze sought and found his mother. She stood conversing with their gaunt, heavily wrinkled hostess, Lady Ainsworth. A black scowl marred his mother’s face. She held herself with such a stiff rigidity it was a wonder the wind that whipped against the windows didn’t topple her right there.

“The rumors are correct.” His tone sounded weary to his own ears. He’d not have expected the sharp stab of guilt would sting this much. His mother had barely uttered a word to him since he’d very clearly stated his intentions to wed Abigail.