Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (8 page)

Lord Sinclair smiled. “This is the most fun I’ve had this evening.”

“Which is not saying a good deal about Lady Hughes’s festivities,” Abigail muttered beneath her breath, stumbling again.

He tossed his head back and his laughter echoed throughout the crowd.

Abigail peeked around the ballroom to ascertain whether Lord Sinclair’s bold laughter had earned the focus of nearby dancers. After all, her intentions in coming to London were to avoid any hint of untoward behavior.

She caught a glimpse of Lord Redbrooke and Beatrice.

Lord Redbrooke scowled at Abigail and Sinclair. Heat slapped her cheeks and she yanked her attention away from Geoffrey and stared at Lord Sinclair’s immaculately folded cravat.

He winced as she stepped upon his toes yet again. “I’m sorry,” she said, automatically.

“Think nothing of it, Miss Stone.”

Abigail silently counted. One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three. If she focused on the rhythm of the orchestra then she’d not have to notice Geoffrey as he swept her graceful cousin about the floor while she, ungainly Abigail, tried not to destroy poor Lord Sinclair’s fine Hessian boots.

“Ouch.”

Tried and failed.

“Forgive me.”

Lord Sinclair adjusted her in his arms, shifting Abigail ever so subtly toward him, so that he bore the weight of their off-center movements. “Oh,” she said, her mouth falling open with surprise. “That is vastly better.”

“For the both of us,” he drawled.

“For…oh.” She clamped her lips tighter than a New England clam at the suggestiveness of his words; words that reminded her of Lord Carmichael’s ill-opinion and recent attack. She’d fled America in the hopes of escaping those suggestive glances.

One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three.

“Tell me, Miss Stone? Are you enjoying your time in England?”

She faltered, and again he adjusted her in his arms. “Yes.”
No.
She yearned for the day she could return to her family. A pang struck her heart. That is, if she were ever able to return. She wondered not for the first time how long the scandal of being discovered in a man’s arms would be gossiped about by the prominent families of their Connecticut seaside town. Mother had said forever.

Which would mean she’d never be welcomed home.

“Are you counting?”

She nodded.

“I do believe I’ve never partnered with a young lady who counted.”

Abigail glanced up. “Oh, I’m sure the young ladies you danced with can count, my lord. They most likely just do not do it aloud.”

He blinked, and then again tossed his head back and laughed. “You’re a delight, Miss Stone.”

You’re a delight.

Alexander Powers had whispered those very words into her ear many a-time.
Foolish. Foolish
.

Fortunately, the set concluded, and Lord Sinclair’s boots seemed to have survived the heavy trampling under her slippers. Wordlessly, he escorted her back to her cousin, Robert.

“Miss Stone, it was a pleasure. May I be permitted to call upon you?”

Abigail cocked her head. “Call on me?” Lord Sinclair wanted to call on her, which implied he wanted to court her, which would be utter madness—on his part. She was the ungraceful, too loud American woman with a scandalous past. He did not know that latter part, but nonetheless…

Robert spoke for her. “That would be permissible.”

Lord Sinclair bowed low at the waist, and with a last lingering look for Abigail, took his leave.

“Sinclair is a decent enough gentleman,” Robert said in a hushed tone.

Abigail wet her lips, not pretending to misunderstand him. “Robert…” They couldn’t have this discussion. Not here. Not with all English Society’s leading lords and ladies present. Her cousin did not know the full extent of what had brought her to London.

Abigail had been sent to London in the hopes she would make a match. Yet, in spite of her family’s rather low opinion of her, Abigail possessed enough integrity to not trap an unsuspecting gentleman into marriage. Gentlemen had stringent expectations for a wife, and a lady who’d tossed away her virtue on an undeserving scoundrel would never make anyone a suitable bride.

She’d come to reconcile that her mistake had merited her parents hastily packing her up and shipping her off to England.

Only now, for the first time since she’d been discovered with Alexander, Abigail wished she’d made altogether different decisions, wished she was still the pure, unsullied lady worthy of an honorable and honest courtship.

Unbidden, her gaze sought out Geoffrey. He and Beatrice cut an impressive figure as they took their leave of the dance floor and made their way back to Abigail and Robert.

It hadn’t mattered that she was unfit for a gentleman—until now. Until Lord Redbrooke had tugged free her scrap of Italian lace from under Lord Carmichael’s boot and held it out to her.

Now, it seemed to matter, too much.

Geoffrey bowed over Beatrice’s hand, and then turned to Abigail. “May I have this dance?” Geoffrey asked curtly.

His harsh, angry tone hardly belonged to a man who desired her company. Abigail inclined her head. “I fear with your seriousness, my lord, you’d only be appalled by my shocking lack of talent and grace.”

The firm, square line of his jaw hardened. “Are you denying my request?” He spoke with the conviction of a man whose status had clearly grown him accustomed to having his wishes met.

She tipped her chin up. “Is it a request, my lord?”

Beatrice and Robert’s gazes moved from Abigail to Geoffrey.

“Is that a reply, Miss Stone?”

She felt the warm flush of color suffuse her cheeks. Goodness, with his directness, the man was unconscionable.

She glanced down and quickly looked over her card. Of course he’d gathered from before that her next set was available.

Why would the Lady Essex’s orchestra play a second waltz? Still considered scandalous, the dance would require Geoffrey to take her in his arms. Her eyes flew to his, and he arched a brow in unspoken challenge.

Abigail tilted her chin back. She’d braved the cut direct from Connecticut’s leading families, been shamed before her family; she’d not be cowed by this man’s effrontery.

He held his arm out, and as they were attracting the notice of those around him, Abigail placed her fingertips along his sleeve and allowed him to guide her onto the dance floor. They took their position among the other dancers.

“I was not jesting when I said I am a deplorable dancer,” she murmured as the orchestra began to play.

“No. I observed as much in your set with Lord Sinclair,” Geoffrey’s words dripped with a cool indifference. His gaze remained fixed upon the top of her head.

Oh, the wretch.

Abigail ground her heel atop his slipper. “Oh, pardon me.”

With his veneer of icy coolness, Geoffrey made Abigail wonder whether she’d imagined the chivalrous gentleman who’d rescued her last evening.

Some emotion, volatile and hot, blazed to life in his eyes.

No. This was in fact, the same man.

His firm lips, which seemed sculpted in a perpetual frown, deepened, and his chestnut brown eyebrows knitted into a single line, indicating that he’d accurately gathered her misstep had been intentional. “I must admit, Miss Stone, I believed you would have provided one excuse or another to avoid dancing with me.”

His words sent her back upright, and she angled her head. Did he suppose she was intimidated by his churlish behavior “Do you expect I should be embarrassed by my lack of skill?” She didn’t allow him to respond. “I’m neither a coward, nor a liar, my lord.” There was the matter of secrecy on her scandal with Alexander Powers, but that was entirely different. Her silence was no lie, but rather a desperate bid at survival. The world was not kind where fallen women were concerned. She didn’t expect this proud, proper man would be at all different.

Geoffrey shifted her in his arms. “Tell me, Miss Stone, is dancing not an art perfected by American ladies?”

She blinked innocently up at him. “Oh, yes, my lord, by rule American ladies do not dance. Nor do they embroider or paint.”

He leveled her closer, and lowered his head so that his breath, a blend of mint and brandy, fanned her cheek. “Are you making light of me, Miss Stone?”

Abigail suspected Geoffrey was not a man used to being insulted. “You are very serious.”

“I am.”

Her lips twitched at his succinct reply.

“You find fault in a gentleman who values respectability.”

She stumbled, and he expertly righted her. “Miss Stone?” he prodded.

“I find fault in a gentleman incapable of humor,” she countered. Abigail trailed her gaze over the angular planes of his face. A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched, an indication that he’d been affected by her subtle insult.

His lip pulled back in a condescending sneer. “And are American gentlemen a humorous lot?”

She again faltered as his words ripped through her already ravaged heart; his unknowing reminder of one American
gentleman
who had been quick to smile and had teased her mercilessly. “They are,” she said.

Fortunately she was saved from further questioning. The music drew to a close, and Abigail and Geoffrey stopped amidst the dance floor, studying one another. Never before had Abigail been more grateful for the end of a set. She dropped a curtsy. “Good evening, my lord. Thank you for the dance.”

And before he could reply, she turned on her heel and fled.

Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke posed a danger to her frayed emotions and she would be wise to avoid him.

Abigail grasped the sides of her skirts and crushed the smooth, satin fabric within her fingers.

Then, she’d never been wise were gentlemen were concerned.

A gentleman should rise at a respectable hour and be fruitful with his time.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~7~

Geoffrey stepped out of his carriage, his gaze trained on the Duke of Somerset’s townhouse. Following Lord and Lady Essex’s ball, he’d taken his leave with a renewed sense of commitment to his plans of wedding Lady Beatrice Dennington. One sole dance with Abigail Stone had served to remind him of the perils of a headstrong miss with cheeky retorts.

So then, why did he relish the possibility of again seeing the winsome beauty? As he strode up the duke’s steps, he gave his head a hard shake. His reaction to the lady was utter madness.

He’d been unable to rid himself of the memory of her; the pale glow of moonlight kissing the generous crest of her décolletage, or her laugh better suited to bedroom games and naughty deeds.

Geoffrey cursed, and climbed the handful of steps to the threshold of the Duke of Somerset’s door. He shifted the bouquet of hothouse flowers he held, over to his other hand, and knocked on the front doors of the impressive smooth-finished, cream-colored stucco townhouse.

His back fairly prickled with the fascinated eyes of those lords and ladies out at this fashionable hour. The news of his courtship of Lady Beatrice had surely already found its way into the scandal sheets. Geoffrey frowned, detesting the scrutiny.

The door opened. A butler in fine red livery apparel and a powdered wig greeted him.

Geoffrey held out his card. “To see Lady Beatrice Dennington.”

The butler looked down at the card, and inclined his head. “If you’ll follow me, Lady Beatrice is receiving callers.”

Geoffrey’s frown grew as he followed the butler. He liked the idea of competing for Lady Beatrice’s affection even less than he cared for the unwanted attention he’d received on the duke’s front steps. Geoffrey would rather not compete for the lady’s affections. After all, it would only serve to complicate his courtship and interfere with the strict timeline he’d set to have his marital affairs in order.

The butler paused beside a door. “The Viscount Redbrooke, my lady.”

Seated upon a chintz sofa at the center of the room, Lady Beatrice looked up from her needlework, a perfectly acceptable ladylike talent. She stood so quickly her embroidery frame toppled to the floor. A flash of something akin to disappointment flared in her eyes.

“My lord,” she murmured.

Geoffrey entered the room, and stopped beside her. He bowed, holding the artfully arranged flowers out to her. “My lady.”

She accepted them with a quiet thanks and motioned for him to sit.

Geoffrey claimed the seat nearest her, and proceeded to study her.

His mind turned over all manner of appropriate discourse. He beat his hand along the side of his leg. “We’ve been enjoying lovely weather.” He winced inwardly at his paltry attempt at discourse.

Lady Beatrice nodded. Her gaze flickered over to the window and then back to him. “Yes. Yes we have,” she said softly.

Silence fell.

It stretched on, thick and unending, punctuated by the tick-tock-tick-tock of the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantle. Lady Beatrice’s fingers plucked at the upholstery of the velvet sofa she occupied, a telltale indication of her discomfort.

Well, surely most matches amongst the
ton
began with such discomfiture. Geoffrey supposed it should take several more visits before they were comfortable in one another’s presence.

Her cousin, the lovely Abigail, danced through his mind. He imagined the bold-spirited young lady would fill such a void with lively chatter and unrestrained laughter.

A sound of impatience rumbled up from in his chest.

“My lord?” Lady Beatrice’s halting question jerked him back to the moment.

“Uh-I beg your pardon?”

Silence.

His mind drifted back to his first meeting with Abigail Stone.

Dionysus.

What had she meant with that single utterance?

Perhaps he should revisit the Greek classics and reacquaint himself with the details of that particular myth. Not because it mattered per se, but because a gentleman should be versed in…

“My lord, are you all right?” Lady Beatrice asked, her head tilted at a small angle.

“Yes. Fine.” He resisted the urge to pull out his watch fob and consult the time. Now that he’d launched his courtship of Lady Beatrice, he could see to his other matters for the day. There were the ledgers that needed going over. A trip to Gentleman Jackson’s. Except a round with the legendary Jackson only put him in mind of Carmichael’s attack on Abigail; the panicked light in her eyes, the exposed flesh of her full, cream-white breasts, the…He gripped the edges of the seat so tight he left crescent marks upon the gold velvet fabric of the King Louis chair he occupied.