Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (3 page)

His sister snorted. And he knew he’d failed.

“It appears as though you’re searching for someone.” His sister looked to her husband. “Doesn’t it, Christopher?”

“It…”

Geoffrey turned a frown on his brother-in-law.

Waxham offered a sympathetic grin, holding his palms up sheepishly.

Sophie’s timely appearance however reminded him of his purpose that evening, and it wasn’t to act like a foolish swain over a mysterious American lady. Geoffrey inclined his head. “I’d like you to perform a certain introduction for me.”

Sophie opened and closed her mouth several times. “Introduction? To a young lady?” Disbelief underscored her question.

“Is that so very hard to believe?” Geoffrey rescued a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing servant, who eyed him with a wariness that said the servants had already discussed the Viscount Redbrooke’s remarkable lack of grace.

Sophie and Waxham exchanged a look.

Geoffrey frowned over the rim of his glass. When he’d been a young boy, his father, the former viscount, had schooled Geoffrey in his roles and responsibilities as a noble. The line would continue with him. His jaw set. He was determined of it. Geoffrey would never be absolved of his guilty actions on that night nearly five years past, but continuing on the male line would be a final act of penance for those sins.

Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “You are not at all yourself this evening, Geoffrey.” She made to press the back of her hand against his forehead but he shifted out of her reach.

Geoffrey closed his eyes a moment and prayed for patience. “I don’t know what you mean.” He knew exactly what she meant; he didn’t
feel
much like himself this evening.

Sophie waved her hand. “There was that whole incident with your knocking over Lord Hughes’s servant.”

For an instance, Geoffrey felt a kindred connection to Sophie, who’d battled such gossip over the years. His sister had wrought much havoc upon Geoffrey’s household and in public, only it hadn’t occurred to him, until now, that the attention may have been unwarranted. “I did not knock over Lord Hughes’s servant.” He looked to Waxham one more time, in an unspoken male plea for support.

“Ah, yes. I believe it was a young lady your brother knocked over,” Waxham offered.

A growl escaped Geoffrey. It had been the young lady’s blasted hem he’d stepped upon.

His sister’s eyes went wide in her face. “Did you just growl, Geoffrey? How very,” she wrinkled her nose. “Primitive of you.”

He’d had enough of Sophie’s needling. “Will you or will you not perform the necessary introductions?” Geoffrey bit out.

“Oh, dear,” Sophie muttered to her husband. “I do not like that look.”

“And I don’t care for your public discussion on a matter of delicacy,” Geoffrey bit out on a hushed whisper.

Waxham said something close to Sophie’s ear.

Sophie sighed. “Very well.” She turned her focus to Geoffrey. “I shall help. And I shan’t ask any questions.” She made that final statement with a scowl for her husband.

Perhaps Geoffrey had unfairly judged the other man after all. Any man who could elicit Sophie’s cooperation deserved some modicum of respect.

Sophie folded her arms across her chest. “Introductions, however, will require you to impart the identity of the lady who had caught your attention earlier.”

Geoffrey couldn’t very well admit that the woman who had ensnared his notice was not in fact the woman he’d selected as his future viscountess.

He did a cursory search of the crowd and caught sight of Lady Beatrice Dennington. The only female born to the Duke of Somerset, she stood alongside her brother the Marquess of Westfield, heir to the dukedom, known by Society as something of a rogue. Westfield was not unlike the man Geoffrey once had been…the man he’d resolved to never be again.

Sophie tilted her head. “Geoffrey?”

“Lady Beatrice Dennington,” Geoffrey said quietly.

Sophie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’d like you to introduce me to Lady Beatrice.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Hmph.”

Pause.

“Aren’t you going to ask why I said, ‘Hmph’?” she said after a moment.

“No.”

Sophie shook her head. “You are utterly exasperating. You weren’t always this stodgy, rude fellow. Mother said at one time you were quite the rogue.” He shot her a black look, quelling the rest of her words. She sighed. “Very well. I shall perform the necessary introductions.”

Whether I approve or not.
Geoffrey would have placed a significant wager, if he was still the wagering type of gentleman, that his sister muttered those words under her breath…or some other variant.

“Come along,” Sophie encouraged and set out, forcing Geoffrey to hasten his step like he was one of the Queen’s terriers.

“You do know she is enjoying this immensely,” his brother-in-law said, with far too much humor in his pronouncement.

Geoffrey spoke through clenched teeth. “Yes, yes she is.” His sister Sophie had courted scandal since she’d made her come out. For all his efforts and pleading, she’d not changed at all in her more than two London Seasons. He imagined his relying on her assistance caused her a good deal of amusement.

The trio weaved in between lords and ladies. Sophie, however, moved through the throng with purpose better suited to a woman following the drum. She didn’t bother to occasionally pause for politeness sake, but continued onward until they reached Lady Beatrice Dennington, who stood amidst a cluster of young swains—swains who would only serve to complicate Geoffrey’s intentions.

He favored the group of gentlemen with a black glare that sent them scurrying.

Sophie shot him a sideways glance, and shifted her attention to Lady Beatrice. A wide smile filled his sister’s plump cheeks. “Hello, Lady Beatrice,” Sophie greeted.

Lady Beatrice returned Sophie’s smile and dipped a curtsy. “Hello, my lady.”

Sophie waved her hand. “Please, no need for such formality. Allow me to introduce you to my brother, the Viscount Redbrooke.”

Lady Beatrice looked at Geoffrey, before directing her demure gaze to the floor. “My lord.” He strained to hear her faintly spoken words.

He battled down disappointment at the young lady’s meekness; his response made little sense. Such reserved politeness befitted the young lady who would be his viscountess. Such a woman wouldn’t be capable of deceit and trickery. Nor would such a woman need to trap an unsuspecting, gentleman into marriage.

His father would have approved of this match.

That should be enough. It had to be.

Waxham discreetly nudged Geoffrey.

Geoffrey offered a hasty bow, and claimed Lady Beatrice’s hand. “My lady, it is a pleasure.”

She sank into an elegant curtsy.

The orchestra concluded a lively country reel. A smattering of applause filled the crowded hall. If memory served him, a waltz was the next set. A waltz and a quadrille. A waltz and a quadrille. That was his intended plan for an unspoken declaration of his courtship.

“Lady Beatrice, will you to do me the honor of partnering me in the next set?”

The young lady blushed. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

With the exception of the earlier stir Geoffrey had caused involving a teasing, American temptress, everything appeared to be going exactly as he’d planned.

A gentleman must remain free of scandal. Always.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~3~

With the tip of her slipper, Abigail tapped a steady beat upon the Italian marble floor.

There were four mythical centaurs. She chewed her lip. Or were there five? Of course, it would really depend on whether one included the centaurs and centaurides as one.

After the scandal she’d created at Mr. and Mrs. Van Buren’s ball, Abigail had developed the oddest nervous tendency of cataloguing mythical Greek figures. It served as a welcome distraction from the gossips.

Asbolus. Chariclo. Chiron. And Nessus. Yes. Yes
. “There are four.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Abigail started, realizing she’d been counting aloud, and looked over at the plump young lady who occupied the seat next to her. The woman shoved her wire-rimmed spectacles back upon her nose and studied Abigail like she’d sprouted a second head.

“Forgive me.” Abigail opened her mouth to engage the brown-haired, brown-eyed lady in conversation, but the woman directed her attention elsewhere.

Abigail sighed. After her fall from respectable society, she’d learned rather quickly that aloof condescension was not reserved for a single continent. Since her uncle had introduced her to London’s Polite Society, Abigail had braved soirees and dinner parties and visits to the theatre, amongst lords and ladies who peered down their long noses at her—the curl of their lips indicating that, without even knowing her, they’d found her wanting, simply because of her birthright.

“Where did you take yourself off to?”

Abigail jumped at the sudden appearance of her cousin, Robert Dennington, the Marquess of Westfield. She climbed to her feet. “I merely desired a rest from dancing.”

Robert folded his arms across his broad chest, and arched a golden brow. He looked down the row of young ladies behind her. “A rest? You’ve not danced once this entire evening.”

Abigail frowned. Nor did she intend to. She was trying to spare herself that humiliation as long as possible. She’d not expected her roguish young cousin to note as much. She sighed. “Yes. That is true. I wanted to sit.”

He glanced down at her ripped hem. “Ahh, yes…Redbrooke and your hem.”

She furrowed her brow. “Redbrooke?”

Robert reached for a champagne flute from a passing servant and took a sip. “The gentleman who nearly toppled you into Lady Hughes’s servant.

Redbrooke. It was a strong name that bespoke power and seemed to perfectly suit the square-jawed, thickly muscled gentleman.

Robert spoke in a quiet whisper. “You do not have to sit here, Abby.”

Her back went up. “I want to, Robert.” After her scandal in America she’d found she rather preferred obscurity to notoriety. She had received enough attention to last the remainder of her life and then well into the hereafter. No, wallflowers were most times spared from undue notice and dancing and Abigail was quite content to join their ranks. “You needn’t feel like you must watch over me, Robert,” she hurried to assure him. He’d already spent the better part of the evening at her side. “Your sister—”

“Is still otherwise engaged with Lord Redbrooke,” Robert interrupted. He tipped his chin across the ballroom, and Abigail followed the gesture.

Her heart’s rhythm did the oddest little sputter.

Lord Redbrooke stood alongside Beatrice and a trio of other unfamiliar individuals.

Even with the length of the ballroom between them, Abigail detected the pink blush on Beatrice’s cheeks.

They struck quite a pair; Lord Redbrooke’s tall, lean, muscle-hewn frame and olive coloring, next to Beatrice’s petite frame and flawless cream-white skin and golden ringlets.

Something the gentleman said raised a dimpled smile in Beatrice’s cheeks and Abigail would wager her father’s entire line of ships he’d said something perfectly gentlemanly, perfectly charming to her cousin.

“I do not see you as a burden, Abby.”

Abigail wrenched her gaze away from Lord Redbrooke and returned her attention to her cousin.

His brotherly concern warmed her through. With his more than six-foot-tall frame and fair coloring, he so reminded her of her elder brothers, Nathaniel and George. “I’m all right. Truly. I’m sure there is a game of cards somewhere you’d rather see to.”

His frown deepened. “Are you trying to be rid of me?”

She winked at him. “Yes.”

A chuckle rumbled up from his chest, and he shook his head. “If you’re certain…”

“I’m
very
certain.”

“I’ll return in a short while and partner you in a set.”

A little shudder wracked her frame. “Only if you’re determined to punish both me and your feet.” Her papa had always used to say Abigail could accomplish anything and everything…with the exception of dancing and embroidering. With Abigail’s lack of ladylike talents, Mother had despaired of Abigail ever making a match. In the end, Mother had been all too right.

Robert ran his eyes over her face, and must have seen something written there. “What is it?”

She waved her hand. “It is nothing.”

“Would you rather I stay and dance?”

Abigail laughed and swatted at his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

With a wink, he excused himself.

Abigail embraced the momentary solitude.

For the better part of the evening she’d battled tedium, which had lifted the moment Lord Redbrooke had shredded her hem with the heel of his boot. Something in his sea-green eyes had reflected the haunted look of one who knew pain and heartache.

Abigail knew. Because she, too, had known both those wrenching emotions.

Loud, yet muffled whispers interrupted her musings.

From the corner of her eye Abigail noted the nearby lords and ladies who eyed her, an American oddity in their glittering, perfectly ordered world. Her toes curled inside her ivory slippers and yet, she jutted her chin out, and boldly met the stares of the nobles around her with a frankness her mother would have deplored. It had the desired effect and the nosy peers directed their attention on some poor other unfortunate miss.

Abigail’s gaze collided with Lord Carmichael. Old and rotund, the gentleman had requested one of her later sets. The lecherous reprobate ogled her exposed décolletage a moment, and winked at her.

Shivers of distaste ran down her spine. She yanked her stare away from Lord Carmichael’s and instead directed her attention toward the crowd of shifting figures, who performed the intricate steps of a quadrille. A wistful smile played about Abigail’s lips at the sight of her cousin moving so gracefully, so elegantly, through the movements of the dance. Not like Abigail, who bumbled through every set and whose own dance tutors had deemed her unteachable.

Beatrice glanced up at her dance partner—Lord Redbrooke. The angular lines of his harshly beautiful face were set in a stoic mask. Every so often his thin, firm lips would move, and that pretty pink hue of Beatrice’s skin deepened.