Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (31 page)

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~31~

Abigail stared down at her packed trunks and valises. They rested in an orderly heap at the foot of her bed. Her maid, Sally, continued to pull garment after garment from the armoire, and lay them upon the coverlet of Abigail’s four-poster bed.

He’d not come.

He’d not returned for her.

Pain twisted Abigail’s heart, and she drew in a deep, shuddery breath.

Odd, how very similar this moment was to another. Abigail stood, numb while Sally moved to place the remaining gowns inside the trunks.

Abigail folded her arms across her middle. Only this time, she’d not been forced away in shame. She’d chosen to leave.

Nothing remained for her here. There was no life in England without Geoffrey. His world had very clearly resumed its proper, practical course—a course that did not include the shameful, American Abigail Stone.

The door opened.

Abigail glanced over distractedly. Her cousin stood at the front of the room. Her wide, blue eyes filled with sadness tugged at Abigail’s already broken heart.

“Oh, Abby, you mustn’t leave,” Beatrice said softly.

Abigail picked up her silver comb and brush. She turned the delicate pieces over to Sally who accepted them, and rushed over to another trunk and began to pack Abigail’s accessories.

“I must,” Abigail murmured.

Beatrice walked over to Abigail. She stopped several feet away, and ran her gaze over Abigail’s face. “Is it because you love Mr. Powers?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Because I did believe that perhaps you loved Lord Redbrooke.”

Abigail shook her head. “I…” She took a deep breath. “No. It is not because of Alexander.”

Beatrice picked up one of Abigail’s butterfly jewel-encrusted combs and moved it back and forth between her two hands. She wandered over to Abigail’s bed littered with gowns, and sat upon the only empty corner. “I did believe you would wed Lord Redbrooke.” She glanced up from the combs in her hand. “Did you not want to wed him?”

Abigail swallowed. Her gaze slipped over to the now wilted bouquet in the large porcelain vase upon her mantle. “I did want to wed him. He…”

Does not love me.

Never came back for me.

Was merely motivated by a gentlemanly sense of honor and guilt.

“He…” Her words ended on a sigh. “It’s not to be, Beatrice.”

Beatrice settled back in her seat, hopelessly wrinkling the golden satin gown beside her. “I do not like this forlorn side of you.”

Sally reached for the unopened box Geoffrey had left behind at his last visit. Her maid placed the oddly shaped package into a trunk. “No!” Abigail exclaimed. She felt herself coloring. “Uh…that is just, thank you,” she said, and rushed over to remove the small item from the trunk.

Beatrice cocked her head and studied the box. “What is it?”

Abigail shrugged. “I don’t know. Lord Redbrooke brought it the day he called, and…”

“You never opened it?” Beatrice snorted. “I believe you are the only woman in all the kingdom who’d fail to open a gift.”

Abigail looked down at the package. It’s not that she didn’t
want
to open it, per se. She did. Rather desperately. It wouldn’t, however, in light of Geoffrey’s rejection, be proper to retain the unopened gift. She’d been meaning to have it delivered to his townhouse with a very informal, polite letter. But she’d never gotten herself round to doing it.

Perhaps because the minute the flowers wilted and the box was gone, it would be the end of something that almost was.

She sighed and set the box down on her vanity. “Will you see that it is delivered to him, Beatrice?”

Beatrice rushed to her feet. “You’d merely return it?”

Abigail nodded. “It is the right thing to do.” After all, it would be the height of impropriety to accept a gift from a gentleman.

Beatrice propped her hands on her hips and tapped her foot on the floor. “Bahh, love is wasted on you and Lord Redbrooke! The two of you are a perfect match.” She threw her hands up in an air of resignation and marched over to the door.

Beatrice yanked it open with great force and stumbled into Nathaniel.

Abigail’s brother stood poised, hand raised as if he’d intended to rap on the wood panel.

“Forgive me,” Beatrice muttered, and slipped by him.

Nathaniel gave his head a bemused shake. “What was that about, poppet?”

She shook her head. “I’m a bit old to be called poppet.”

He crossed over and tweaked her nose. “You’ll always be poppet.”

It appeared her brother still viewed her as the same young girl she’d been; the one who’d chased after him, and put spiders in his boots, and ink in his tea. He somehow had seemed able to look past the scandal and simply see his sister—Abby Stone.

Nathaniel surveyed the room, and seemed to do a kind of inventory of the stacked trunks and valises. “It appears you’re nearly packed.”

She attempted to swallow, with little success. Instead, she nodded.

Nathaniel motioned for her to sit.

He clasped his hands behind his back. “When I journeyed here, Abby, I did so with the intention of reuniting you and Alexander. I expected you’d reconcile, and we would return. The three of us. It isn’t that simple, is it?”

It hadn’t been that simple in very many years. “No,” she whispered.

“You love him?”

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I do.”

“If you wed him, then you’ll have to remain here, and there is nothing more I would hate in the world than to board my ship and sail away knowing that this is where you’ll spend the rest of your days.”

“Well, you needn’t worry, because he has no intentions of wedding me.” If Geoffrey’s offer that day had been a serious one, he would have returned for her. Now, it appeared his proposal had been driven out of his misplaced sense of guilt, and when Alexander had returned, Geoffrey had been relieved of that responsibility.

“The duke informed me that Redbrooke made you an offer.”

Her mind raced. Geoffrey had spoken to the duke?

“Apparently a well-placed servant happened to overhear your conversation, before mine and Alexander’s arrival.”

She blinked. “Oh.” Her fingers plucked at the smooth fabric of the coverlet.

Silence fell, punctuated by Sally’s determined feet, as she padded across the floor packing up Abigail’s trunks.

“Abby?” Her brother said at last.

She looked up at him.

“Would you be willing to give up your family? Mama and Papa, and your brothers and sister all for Redbrooke?”

When Abigail had first journeyed to England, she’d believed there could be no greeter pain than the loss of her family’s presence in her life.

Having grown to love Geoffrey, she’d found her love for him had filled the empty loneliness she’d felt for her family.

Her brother asked if Abigail could give up her family for Geoffrey.

For Geoffrey, she’d be willing to give up the country she’d been born to, even her family—if he’d have her. “I would, Nathaniel.”
I would give up everything for him.

Nathaniel tapped his hand along the side of his thigh, his expression contemplative. “You have the courage to brave a sea voyage alone, and begin a life anew without the presence of your family…and yet, where Redbrooke is concerned, you are coward?” He shook his head. “Abby?”

“Yes?”

“You aren’t a coward.”

His words seeped into the haze of misery that had gripped her since the stormy night when Geoffrey had turned her out of his house. Abby stilled. As her brother had said, she’d braved the scorn and censure of her American compatriots, an ocean voyage alone to an unfamiliar country, a carriage accident…she was no coward.

Nathaniel winked. “That is better.”

Geoffrey might very well have regretted his decision to ask for her hand. It may have been nothing more than a hasty, obligatory offer. But it also might not have been. And she could not make a journey home unless she knew for certain.

***

Seated behind the desk in his office, Geoffrey stared blankly down at the opened ledgers in front of him. He gave his head a clearing shake and then, dipped his pen in ink. He made a mark in the column.

After living in a week long inebriated state, Geoffrey had drank his last brandy. His responsibilities were many. His obligations great.

His role as viscount required him to forget that his heart had been shattered, and focus on those who still relied upon him.

A knock interrupted his silent musings.

“Enter.”

The door opened.

His mother swept inside. She hovered a moment at the threshold of the room.

He tossed his pen down and motioned her forward. “Mother.”

She inclined her head. “Geoffrey.” She steepled her fingers and held her hands in front of her skirts. “You’re sober.”

It had taken him the better part of four days to realize no amount of spirits would ever lessen the blow he’d been dealt in losing Abigail. “I’ve been sober for three days now.”

“Have you?” she asked, a distracted air about her.

“I have.”

Silence.

Geoffrey picked his pen up and dipped it into the crystal inkwell.

“I never approved of your Miss Stone.”

He froze. Ink splattered the parchment in front of him. He resumed writing. “I know that.”

“Just as I’d never approved of your Miss Marsh.”

Abigail could not have been more different than Emma Marsh. He knew that, even if his mother didn’t. His mother didn’t know or appreciate Abigail’s great intelligence, or the courage she’d shown in crossing an ocean and beginning anew after a great scandal.

Geoffrey again dropped his pen. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is there something you wish to say, Mother?”

“You love her,” she said baldly.

“I do.”

She dropped her arms by her side and drummed her fingertips together. “I still do not approve of her. Love is not an agreeable emotion for you, Geoffrey.”

In his mind’s eye, he saw his father’s broken body. Geoffrey rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. He could no sooner stop loving Abigail than he could stop his own heart from beating.

“Geoffrey, there are many respectable, properly bred English ladies. Please remember your responsibilities as viscount. Why, the scandal that surrounds her,” she shook her head. “It would forever taint your good reputation.”

One’s good reputation made for very lonely company. “She is a far better person than I am, Mother. She is too good for me.”

Mother gasped. “You’re speaking madness, Geoffrey.”

A commotion sounded in the hall. Ralston’s murmured words were lost to the thick solid structures of the corridor walls. The door flew open with such velocity it bounced back and nearly slammed into Sophie. She put her hand out to prevent it from hitting her in the face. Then with grace and aplomb, she closed the door with a decisive click.

“Enough, Mother,” Sophie ordered.

Mother glowered at her. “This is not your affair, Sophie.”

Sophie jabbed her finger at the air. “Stuff it, Mother.” She swept into the room with all the bravado of a commanding officer and pointed at Geoffrey. “Your Miss Stone is leaving.”

His sister might as well have delivered a solid punch to his midsection. All the air left him on a swift exhale. Geoffrey’s closed his eyes. Ahh, god, he couldn’t bear this. It would destroy him.

“Her ship leaves tomorrow morning, Geoffrey.” Sophie planted her arms akimbo. “What do you plan to do about it, brother?”

“I…”

Another knock sounded on the office door.

Geoffrey sent a prayer skyward for patience. “Who is next? The bloody prince regent?” he muttered under his breath. “Enter!”

Ralston cleared his throat. “A Mr. Nathaniel Stone, my lord.”

Abigail’s brother entered the room. The tall, serious looking gentleman eyed him as though he were trying to ascertain Geoffrey’s worth. Geoffrey could have spared him the effort and told Abigail’s brother that he was a worthless blighter.

Nathaniel Stone glanced momentarily at Mother and Sophie. He returned his attention to Geoffrey. “May I request a word with you, Redbrooke?”

Geoffrey’s heart thudded wildly in his chest. “Out,” he said to his Mother and Sophie.

A gentleman should never be too proud.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~32~

Abigail sat within the confines of the Duke of Somerset’s carriage. She reached for the red velvet curtains, and then pulled her hand back. She folded her hands on her lap and resisted the urge to look out at Geoffrey’s townhouse.

Nathaniel must have been in Geoffrey’s home nearly thirty minutes, now. Whatever could they be discussing?

Abigail reached for the fabric of the curtain again, and gave her head a shake.

“Twelve Titans,” she muttered into the quiet.

Hyperion—Titan of Light, Lapetus—Titan of Morality, Coeus—Titan of Intelligence, oh, and then Cronus, leader of the Titans.

It occurred to her then, that she’d not counted the mythical Greek figures in a very long time.

It also occurred to her, that she didn’t give a bloody blast about the Twelve Titans.

The door opened.

Abigail scrambled forward in her seat. “Whatever took you so long? You were…oh…” Her words died on her lips. “You.”

Geoffrey peered up at her from outside the carriage. “Yes, me.” His emotionless tone gave little indication as to his thoughts. And then he hefted himself in. He pulled the door shut behind him and took the seat opposite her.

Geoffrey’s tall, muscular frame managed to make the wide expanse of the carriage seem small.

Abigail studied his strong, powerful hands as he set down a very familiar looking package. Her heart thumped wildly. She wet her lips. “You,” she whispered again.

He continued to eye her with that inscrutable expression. “Still me.”

“Oh.” She ran her eyes over him. She’d feared she would leave and never again see him, that her last memory of Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke would be the moment he’d walked out of the duke’s parlor, and out of her life.