Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (32 page)

Geoffrey adjusted his gloves.

How can he be so coolly unaffected by me? How can he not realize that my heart died the moment he left?

Then, as though he spoke to himself, he said, “Do you know, Abigail, I do not know what to make of that ‘oh’? Does that ‘oh’ mean you want to leave and never see me again? Does it mean you still foolishly, somehow still care for me? Is it mere surprise?”

“No,” she said quickly. She shook her head. “It is none of those things.”

He caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “So then I’m forced to wonder if you merely had your brother escort you here to return my gift, a gift you’ve still not opened.”

“I cannot accept a gift from you,” she said automatically. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

The ghost of a smile played about his lips. “No, that is what your brother explained.”

He folded his arm across his broad chest. “I once asked if you found fault in a gentleman who valued respectability.”

Abigail sat forward, and ran her eyes over the angular planes of his cheeks. “How could I ever find fault with such a gentleman?” she whispered.

Geoffrey leaned across the carriage. “Oh, Abby.” He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand.

She leaned still closer, until their breaths mingled; her heart feeling complete for the first time since her world had crumbled down around her scandalous ears. “I wonder as to the meaning of that ‘oh’, Geoffrey? Does it mean you’d like to be rid of me? Does it mean you’re eager to return to whatever important business it is viscounts tend to? Does it mean you pity me?”

He placed a feathery kiss upon her closed lids. “No. It is none of those things.”

His lips moved a delicate trail down her cheek, his butterfly gentle kiss still so tender upon the nearly healed bruises. “That ‘oh’ means I love you. It means I am nothing without you. It means the day Alexander Powers re-entered your life, my world ceased to mean anything.” Geoffrey trailed his finger along the curve of her cheek, to her chin, then to her nose, as if he were attempting to commit her every feature to memory. “It means, if you’ll still have me, I’d make you my wife.”

Abigail tilted her head back and received his kiss. Geoffrey’s lips moved over hers with a gentle searching that brought tears to her eyes.

She pulled back, and a groan escaped him. “You do not have to marry me, Geoffrey. I understand you value propriety and respectability and by nature of my scandal, I am neither proper nor respectable.”

Geoffrey’s jaw hardened and his furious eyes bore into her. “You are worth far more than every lady in all the British Empire.” And when he said it with such fiery conviction, she found she could believe those words. Geoffrey reached into the front pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded parchment. “Here.”

Abigail stared at the ivory velum, with its unfamiliar black seal.

Geoffrey pressed it into her hand and jerked his chin at it. “Open it.”

She hesitated, and then worked her nail under the seal. She unfolded the parchment.

Abigail read the first two sentences and stopped. Her gaze flew to his.

He squared his jaw. “It is a special license from the archbishop to wed.”

“Ah, I, uh, see that.” She wet her lips. He’d wanted to wed her enough that he’d gone and requested special permission to do so. “You want to marry me?”

He blinked. “Bloody hell, I’m making a muck of this, Abby.” Geoffrey’s olive-hued cheeks went red, and she never loved him more than she did just then.

“Yes,” she blurted.

He slashed the air with his hand. “There is any number of gentlemen more worthy of you than my miserable self. I know I’ve wronged you, but…”

Abigail touched her fingertips to his lips. “I. Said. Yes.”

Geoffrey’s brow furrowed. “You said yes?”

“I did.”

A devilish grin formed on his firm lips. “Well, then.” He made to kiss Abigail, but then pulled away. “I’ve treated you poorly, but in this, I would honor your wishes. If you’d rather us wait to have the banns read, or…”

She kissed him into silence. Geoffrey’s body went taut. The muscles within the elegant lines of his double-breasted black coat stiffened under her touch.

He pulled her onto his lap, and ran his hands over the curve of her hip, the swell of her buttocks, as if reacquainting himself with the feel of her beneath his fingers. She gasped as he cupped her breast. Her lids fluttered and she angled away from him, peering into his hooded eyes. “You do know this isn’t proper?” she whispered against his lips.

Geoffrey curled his hand around the nape of her neck and angled her head. “Being proper is too highly lauded,” he whispered, and then his mouth closed over hers.

A knock sounded on the carriage door and they jerked apart. Their chests rose and fell in fast, matching rhythms.

Abigail looked around frantically, even as Geoffrey shifted her back onto the opposite seat. He tucked two loose strands of hair that had fallen across her shoulder, back behind her ears.

Another knock.

“What is it?” Geoffrey called in the same, cool, composed tones of the gentleman she’d first met at Lord and Lady Hughes’s ball.

Nathaniel opened the door. He looked back and forth, between them, and Abigail felt her skin heat. “Well?” he demanded.

Abigail shifted under his intense scrutiny.

Her brother’s angry stare swung back toward Geoffrey. “When is the wedding to take place?”

***

The wedding between Abigail Stone and Geoffrey Winters, the 5
^th
Viscount Redbrooke would take place at the Earl of Sinclair’s townhouse in the Grosvenor Square section of the London district. Or rather, that was the plan…

If Sinclair’s butler bothered to open the front door.

Geoffrey pounded again.

“Perhaps we might find another, er location to perform the…er ceremony, my lord?” The lips of the same, dour-faced vicar, who’d performed the ceremony between his sister, Sophie, to the Earl of Waxham, tipped downward, in apparent disapproval. He pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose.

Geoffrey ignored him, and continued knocking, mindful of the stares from passing lords and ladies. Still uneasy with undue attention from the
ton
, Geoffrey pounded the door harder.

“Perhaps,” the vicar began again. He fell silent when Geoffrey leveled a glare upon him.

Where the hell is he?

He glanced over his shoulder at the carriage where Abigail and her brother remained. Sinclair’s front door opened, and Geoffrey spun back around. The butler, a short, stout fellow with wizened cheeks and small brown eyes squinted up at him. The older servant, more than a foot smaller than Geoffrey’s own six-foot frame leaned out the doorway. He trained his glassy-eyed gaze first upon Geoffrey, then, the vicar. “How can I help you?”

Geoffrey flinched as the older man’s booming voice, carried down the street. Christ, so much for privacy. “I’d like to speak to Lord Sinclair.”

The butler cupped his hand around his ear. “You’d like to have a chair?” he shouted.

Geoffrey closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Sinclair.”

“Yes?”

Saints be praised. Geoffrey looked over the butler’s shoulder at Sinclair. The earl stood in the foyer, studying the meeting on the front steps of his home with no small amount of humor. If he weren’t here begging a favor of the man who’d proclaimed to be his friend, then he would have told him to go to the devil.

“You said you were a friend.”

Sinclair angled his head.

“I need a favor,” Geoffrey continued.

Sinclair’s eyes widened with interest. “Oh?”

So it was, one hour, seven minutes, and a handful of seconds later, with Nathaniel and Sinclair as their only witnesses, Abigail and Geoffrey were wed in the Earl of Sinclair’s office.

Geoffrey glanced around the sparsely furnished office. With the exception of the earl’s desk, a rose-inlaid table, and a handful of chairs, the room appeared largely unused. There were no well-wishers and bountiful flowers. There was no bridal trousseau as Abigail had deserved. And it struck him—he’d failed her again.

Geoffrey lowered his brow to Abigail’s. “Forgive me,” he whispered.

Her brow wrinkled. “For what?”

He traced his finger along the side of her cheek. “You deserved so much more than this, Abby. You deserved a proper courtship and a gown designed specifically for you and…and…everything else young ladies might dream of.”

Abigail pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Geoffrey, none of that matters.”

Sinclair strode over and slapped Geoffrey upon the back. “Allow me to have my cook prepare dinner.”

“No,” Geoffrey said. He’d been parted too long from Abigail and would not take the time for social niceties…even if that were the proper thing to do. He took Abigail by the hand, and pulled her along to the front of the earl’s office.

She squeezed his hand hard. “Be polite.” She silently mouthed.

Geoffrey’s mouth tightened. He sighed and looked back at Sinclair. “No, thank you.”

Abigail tugged her fingers free of his grasp and turned to Sinclair. “My lord, thank you so much for everything you’ve done this day.”

Sinclair reached for her hand, and bowed over it. “It was an honor, my lady.”

Geoffrey’s frown deepened and he reached between them, disentangling their hands. Though appreciative of Sinclair’s efforts on his and Abigail’s behalf, Geoffrey did
not
appreciate reminders of how bloody engaging and charming the Earl of Sinclair happened to be. Geoffrey gritted his teeth. “Very well, thank you again, then.”

Abigail’s brother stepped forward. He slapped Geoffrey on the back with a hard thwack, the casual gesture belied by the hard glint in the other man’s eyes. “Hurt her, and I’ll kill you, Redbrooke.”

“I promise to care for her,” Geoffrey vowed.” He’d make it his life vow to fill her every day with the joy she deserved.

Nathaniel placed his hands on Abigail’s shoulders, and gave a gentle squeeze.

She nodded. “I know, Nathaniel.” She leaned up and placed a kiss on her brother’s cheek, and just like that, she became Geoffrey’s to care for and love for the remainder of their days.

In matters of the heart, a gentleman should honor the emotion called love.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~33~

The fingers of dusk edged out the day sky, and met in a vibrant explosion of violet and crimson hues that filled the night’s horizon.

Abigail’s stomach lurched as the Duke of Somerset’s barouche rocked to a halt in front of Geoffrey’s townhouse. She released the curtain and it fluttered back into place.

“Are you ready to go in, love?” he whispered against her ear.

She jerked her gaze over toward Geoffrey.

Her mouth went dry under the sudden realization that she’d need to face Geoffrey’s mother. The proper lady had never looked at Abigail with any hint of warmth or kindness. “Your mother will be displeased,” she murmured, wishing she could remain unaffected by the older woman’s disdain. Except this was Geoffrey’s mother, and the woman’s opinion mattered because of it.

Geoffrey brushed back several loose strands of hair that had fallen around Abigail’s shoulder. He placed his lips to her wildly fluttering pulse. “Mother is never pleased,” he whispered.

She slapped at his arm. “You are incorrigible. Your mother—”

“Will be attending one event or another this evening.”

A cowardly sigh of relief escaped Abigail. No matter how small, Abigail welcomed the reprieve.

The driver opened the door and a soothing, spring breeze caressed her face.

Geoffrey leapt down, and tucked that small, unopened package under his arm. Next, he turned and helped Abigail from the carriage.

Once on the pavement, Abigail tilted her head to the right and shifted her lower back in attempt to stretch the cramped muscles. Then, she placed her fingers on Geoffrey’s coat sleeve and followed him up the steps of the impressive townhouse.

She looked at the familiar stone steps and the white stucco façade, remembering back to a vastly different nigh, and a chill stole through her.

Geoffrey touched a hand to the small of her back. He whispered close to her ear. “Don’t. Please, do not let that be what you think of whenever you are here. It would break me, Abigail.”

The front door opened.

Geoffrey guided her inside where they were greeted by the severe looking butler who’d bore witness to Abigail’s humiliation a fortnight ago.

“Ralston, may I introduce you to the Viscountess Redbrooke.”

Ralston’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. He swiftly remembered himself and bowed. “May I wish you felicitations on your nuptials, my lord?”

“Nuptials?”

As one, Abigail and Geoffrey’s gaze swung upward to the top of the long staircase to where the viscountess stood in a burgundy satin evening gown.

Abigail swallowed. It would appear her reprieve was to be far shorter lived than she’d either anticipated or hoped.

The viscountess swept down the stairs. Her skirts snapped and swirled angrily about her ankles. “Nuptials?” she hissed. “Nuptials?”

Abigail curtsied. “My lady.”

Geoffrey’s mother looked through Abigail like she was nothing more than an apparition haunting the townhouse. The regal viscountess’ attention fixed on Geoffrey.

Geoffrey caught Abigail’s hand and gave a faint squeeze in unspoken support. “Mother, remember yourself,” he bit out.

Her mouth opened and closed in way that reminded Abigail of a bass fish she’d once caught. The fish had flipped and twisted upon the ground, before she’d taken mercy upon the creature and tossed him back into the sea.

Abigail held her palms up. “I know you do not approve of me, for very many reasons,” she began. She took a deep breath. “But I love Geoffrey, my lady. And you are most assuredly right, in that I’m improper, and wanting in many ways. And yet, I cannot help but love him.”

Some emotion filled the viscountess’ eyes. She snapped her skirts aside, and marched down the hall without a backwards glance for Abigail or Geoffrey.

Regret slammed into her, as she and Geoffrey continued onward toward her chambers. What had she expected? That Geoffrey’s mother would graciously welcome Abigail into the family’s fold?