Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (7 page)

After a long night of battling improper yearnings for a tempting American, Geoffrey had managed to rise that morning and brush the memory of her aside. He didn’t need an unconventional miss with a ready smile for unfamiliar gentlemen. No, Lady Beatrice would never do something as forward as to continue to engage a gentleman as Abigail Stone had when he’d stepped upon her gown last evening.

Geoffrey reached Lady Beatrice’s side. The young lady stiffened and for a moment Geoffrey detected a flash of disappointment in her eyes.

He claimed her hand and bowed over it. “My lady, it is most agreeable seeing you this evening.”

The young lady lowered her eyes to the floor, with what seemed to be a perpetual blush upon her fair cheeks.

Marquess of Westfield greeted him with a bow. “Redbrooke, a pleasure as usual.” The dry edge of humor in Westfield’s tone suggested the marquess’ words were not wholly sincere. Westfield inclined his head. “Ahh, forgive my lack of manners. Allow me to introduce you to my cousin.” He shifted, revealing a young lady clad in a sapphire blue satin creation fully engaged in conversation with the Earl of Sinclair.

There was something so very familiar about the elegant lines of her back, the graceful flare of her hips…

A loud humming filled Geoffrey’s ears and he knew with a certainty he’d be willing to wager the Redbrooke line on, the identity of Lady Beatrice’s cousin before the lady even fully revealed herself. “Lord Redbrooke may I present Miss Abigail Stone.”

At that precise moment, Abigail said something to Lord Sinclair, who tossed his head back and laughed. She turned around.

And froze like the deer who’d caught sound of Geoffrey’s hunting dogs.

Geoffrey sucked in a breath. His eyes traveled the high planes of her cheekbones, the charcoal gray irises of her eyes, the full lower lip, the…

Her eyes widened.

“You,” she breathed.

Geoffrey’s mind spun. This warrioress who’d battled Lord Carmichael, his American Helen of Troy, was in fact Lady Beatrice’s cousin. He silently reviewed all the research his solicitor had done on Lady Beatrice. The information he’d uncovered about the young lady had indicated there were American relatives there. It had not, however, indicated she had a cousin with a fulsome laugh and silken tresses as black as sin.

Lady Beatrice’s brow wrinkled, and she alternated her gaze between Abigail and Geoffrey. “You know Lord Redbrooke?”

Abigail and Geoffrey looked at one another and silence stretched out into an awkward pause.

The Marquess of Westfield settled a hard, narrow-eyed stare upon Geoffrey. “You two have met?” he asked, repeating his sister’s earlier question.

Abigail and Geoffrey spoke in unison.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Christ
.

Abigail discreetly coughed. “Uh, that is to say, no, we have not.”

Westfield’s brows lowered, and rogue that he was, surely recognized his cousin wasn’t being altogether truthful.

Lord Sinclair used the opportunity to interject. “Perhaps, Miss Stone referred to her meeting at Lord Hughes’s ball?” He looked to Geoffrey and grinned. “I believe you knocked down Miss Stone? Or was it a servant?”

Geoffrey clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to point out that he hadn’t knocked down either Miss Stone or a servant. Considering the precariousness of the current exchange, he supposed he should be far more grateful for Sinclair’s intervention. Except, presenting him as a bumbling, graceless lord would hardly help him in his quest for Lady Beatrice’s hand.

Why did that possibility not alarm him as much as it should?

“Lord Redbrooke did not knock a servant down,” Abigail murmured. She angled her head. “Nor did he knock me down. He
nearly
knocked me down.”

Laughter moved throughout the group, but it served its purpose and Westfield dropped his questioning.

Geoffrey studied Abigail, so composed and seemingly unaffected by his presence. Geoffrey held her gaze. “Are you well, Miss Stone?”

Abigail appeared to understand his unspoken question. She inclined her head. The subtle movement only served to elongate the impossibly long neck. “I am, my lord. Thank you.”

“I am trying to convince Miss Stone to dance with me,” Sinclair said to the group. He held a hand to his chest. “Alas, it appears I’ve failed to appropriately charm the lady into partnering me.”

Good. He’d rather send Sinclair to the devil than out onto the dance floor with Abigail. Something tight, and wholly uncomfortable gripped Geoffrey’s chest. Something that felt very nearly like jealousy, which made very little sense considering Geoffrey’s intentions for Lady Beatrice. It shouldn’t matter to him if Abigail partnered with Lord Sinclair or the Prince Regent himself.

“I’ve told His Lordship that I’d hardly repay his kindness by trodding upon his toes,” Abigail said with a laugh.

“You do not dance, Miss Stone?” Geoffrey’s taciturn question killed the levity amongst the group.

She shook her head, and seemed the only person immune to his severity, for she smiled up at him. “To my mother’s chagrin, I’m rather deplorable.”

His attention should be reserved for the woman who would one day, if all went to plan, become his future viscountess. Instead, he fixed his gaze to Abigail. “Was it that you did not have suitable instructors in America?”

Lady Beatrice gasped, and it occurred to him, too late, the pomposity of such a question. Even before his most jaded days, he’d never been capable of the effortless charm as exhibited by rogues like Sinclair.

Geoffrey shook his head. “Forgive me. I…”

Abigail waved off his apology. “I assure you, Papa hired some of the most proficient instructors from Europe. I however, proved a remarkably poor study.”

Lady Beatrice made a sound of protest and rushed to her cousin’s defense. “That isn’t true, Abby. Why you’re a lovely dancer.”

Abigail smiled. “I’m remarkably fortunate to have you as a champion, Beatrice. However, I hold no false modesty. I’m truly deplorable.”

Geoffrey was hard pressed to believe such a graceful, elegant woman would be
deplorable
at anything.

Lord Sinclair sketched a deep bow. “Well, I insist that you allow me to at least make a determination for myself on your skill or,” he arched a single brow, “lack thereof, during the next waltz, Miss Stone.”

And now he wanted to plant his fist in Sinclair’s far too-charming smile.

Color flooded Miss Stone’s cheeks, and she fiddled with the card dangling from her wrist.

“I’ll not take no for an answer, Miss Stone,” Sinclair pressed.

The blush on Abigail’s cheeks deepened to a dark red hue that put Geoffrey in mind of a ripened strawberry in the heart of summer. And God, if he didn’t suddenly have a taste for the fruit.

Abigail met Sinclair’s eyes with a direct boldness not suited for an innocent debutante. “Well, if you’ll not accept a rejection on my part and you’re willing to risk the well-being of your toes, than I’d be honored.”

In that moment, Geoffrey who loathed dance as much as he loathed being an object of Society’s scrutiny, wanted to take Abigail in his arms and waltz her throughout an empty ballroom floor. It wasn’t practical. Or proper. Nor would dancing with her serve to advance his goal of marriage to Lady Beatrice, which, just then, didn’t seem as important as it had before he’d arrived at Lord and Lady Essex’s ball.

A waltz.

A waltz and a quadrille.

Geoffrey squared his shoulders and looked to Lady Beatrice. “My lady, will you do me the honor of partnering me in the next set?”

Lady Beatrice’s gaze flitted over to Abigail and Lord Sinclair, and Geoffrey frowned at the wistful longing he saw in her innocent blue eyes.

When she looked back at Geoffrey, she smiled up at him and he assured himself that he’d merely imagined the brief flash of regret in Beatrice’s eyes. “Of course, my lord.”

From the corner of his eye he detected the manner in which Abigail continued to fiddle with her dance card. In the past years, he’d come to consider himself an excellent read of character…which was rather fortunate, because prior to that, he’d been quite dismal at it.

Miss Stone’s distracted movements suggested the young lady was nervous. Or troubled. Perhaps both.

The tip of her nail inadvertently loosened the ivory ribbon and her dance card fell in a fluttery, spiral path toward the Italian marble floor.

She gasped, and made a desperate reach for it but the satin ribbon slipped through her fingers and landed ignominiously at her feet.

“Allow me,” Geoffrey murmured, and stooped to retrieve the item.

“No. I have it!” she said far too quickly.

He ignored her protestations and picked it up. As he stood, his eyes happened upon the names penciled in on the sparse card. It was wholly accidental. Yes, it hardly mattered to him which gentlemen lined Miss Stone’s dance card.

Lord Sinclair. Waltz. Rogue.

Lord Pemberly. Country reel. Reprobate.

Lord Ashfield. Quadrille. Profligate gambler.

Lord Masterson. Waltz. Six children. Far too many for a young lady…

Four partners in total.
He frowned. Surely Westfield, as her chaperone, knew that none of the gentlemen would make an acceptable match for any lady, and surely not for his own relative…?

“Redbrooke?” The dry amusement in Lord Sinclair’s tone cut into Geoffrey’s musings.

As though burned, Geoffrey relinquished Abigail’s dance card, and wordlessly handed it over to her. Heat flooded his neck at having been caught studying the names there. He stole a sideways glance at Lord Westfield, who had a black scowl trained on Geoffrey.

It had been unintentional, his reading the names and all. Why, it hardly mattered to him that four wholly unacceptable, entirely too-roguish gentlemen had claimed her sets.

Geoffrey extended his arm to Lady Beatrice. She placed her fingers upon his sleeve and allowed him to escort her onto the dance floor.

Why did it feel like he lied to himself?

***

Abigail schooled her expression so that Lord and Lady Essex’s guests didn’t note her untoward interest in Beatrice and Geoffrey, who now took their places amongst the other dances.

Lord Redbrooke
, she silently amended.
Lord Redbrooke
.

Her fascination with the stoic gentleman merely stemmed from his rescue at last evening’s ball. There was nothing else for it. He was ever so serious, and seemed to wear a perpetual frown.

However…she had learned from Alexander the perils in trusting a gentleman with a too-ready grin.

“Miss Stone?”

Abigail jumped, and turned back to the tall,
grinning
gentleman forgotten at her side. With his unfashionably long black curls, and sapphire eyes, he was more beautiful than a gentleman had a right to be. Yet, she found herself preferring the understated beauty of Geoffrey Winters’ tall, lean frame. Abigail made a show of retying the card around her wrist, all the while doing a quick inventory of names.

It was the height of rudeness to forget the name of the gentleman one had spoken to for nearly a quarter of an hour. The orchestra plucked the opening strands of a waltz. She scanned the four names.
Ah, yes, she had it!
“Lord Sinclair—waltz!”

She winced as the words echoed off the pillar and couples turned around to study her as though she were an insect that had crawled its way into Lord and Lady Essex’s ballroom.

Lord Sinclair’s grin widened, displaying two perfect rows of even white teeth. He sketched a bow. “I do believe I’ve been insulted.”

Not for the first time, Abigail gave thanks that her mother and father were not present, lest they witness her rather dismal failings at a London Season. There were four gentlemen who’d requested a set. Four gentlemen…and she couldn’t remember the name of the one man who’d been conversing with her for several minutes now? It was that blasted Geoffrey Winters.

The Earl of Sinclair cleared his throat, and she jumped. He nodded toward the card at her wrist. “It doesn’t appear I’ve left much of an impression, Miss Stone, if you require the assistance of a card to remember my identity.”

“I…” Abigail sighed. “Forgive me,” she muttered. She’d never mastered the art of dissembling.

“Sinclair,” Robert drawled from where he stood alongside her. “The dance has begun.”

Eternally grateful to Robert for rescuing her from her plight, she placed her fingers on Lord Sinclair’s arm and traded one embarrassment for another. Until this moment, she’d done a remarkably exceptional job of avoiding all dance at
ton
events. She’d feigned a turned ankle. That had allowed her a handful of dance-free evenings. Then they’d attended the theatre. The opera. A musicale. Oh, then there had been the dinner party at Lord and Lady Pembroke’s. She furrowed her brow. Or was it Pemberly?

“Miss Stone, are you unwell?”

She supposed she could lie to Lord Sinclair or pretend to swoon. Abigail sighed. Alas, the ability to feign a swoon had eluded her just as the ladylike arts of embroidery…and dancing…and watercolor…and…

“I am merely warm, my lord,” she lied.

After a fortnight of attending social functions, it would appear she would at last have to demonstrate for all English Society her shocking lack of grace.

She was renowned for her extreme lack of dancing skills all over the state of Connecticut and well into parts of New York. She supposed she could now add London, England, to the expanding list.

As Lord Sinclair led her onto the dance floor, she felt much like a thief being marched to the gallows. The last thing she desired was any more of Society’s undue attention.

The dancers had already begun twirling in elegantly graceful circles about the ballroom floor. Mayhap no one would notice. Mayhap the crush of dancers about them would obscure Abigail just enough that they’d fail to realize…

She took a deep breath and…

Lord Sinclair winced.

“Forgive me,” she rushed. The tip of her slippers came down hard upon the top of his boot.

He quickly righted her, sparing her from toppling over for all to see.