Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (9 page)

Geoffrey took a deep breath filled with the sudden urge to hunt down Lord Carmichael and bloody the reprobate bastard senseless.

Lady Beatrice leaned down and retrieved her embroidery frame. She longingly studied the vibrant threaded floral arrangement upon the fabric and it occurred to him that the young lady would rather be seeing to her needlework than keeping company with him.

The realization should chafe. He frowned. Yet, oddly her indifference left him wholly unaffected.

“You embroider,” he said, in a desperate bid to engage the woman he’d selected for his future Viscountess Redbrooke.

“I do.”

Well, the young lady certainly wasn’t making this visit any more comfortable.

A sharp burst of laughter followed by a deep chuckle from outside the parlor interrupted their stilted exchange.

Geoffrey’s gaze shot to the doorway where Miss Stone stood alongside her cousin, the Marquess Westfield.

“I say, Abby. I find all that rather hard to…” The marquess registered Geoffrey’s presence. His amusement died, only to be replaced by an inscrutable expression that conveyed neither approval nor disdain. “We have company. Or, Beatrice has company. Redbrooke,” he greeted.

In a frantic attempt to keep from tracing each line of Abigail’s face, Geoffrey rose, his gaze trained on Westfield.

When Geoffrey managed to convince himself that his interest in Miss Stone was that of the same curiosity reserved for an act at Piccadilly Square, and not of any real masculine interest, he allowed himself to look at her.

God punish him as a liar.

Abigail Stone smiled, as if she knew he lied to himself.

And to Lady Beatrice.

Lady Beatrice rose in a flurry of ivory skirts, and rushed over to Miss Stone. “Dearest, Abigail, you remember Lord Redbrooke from last evening, don’t you?”

Abigail dipped a curtsy. “I do.”

He expected her to drop her gaze as Lady Beatrice and any respectable young English miss might. Instead, she unflinchingly met his stare, a fiery glitter in her eyes; eyes that put him in mind of a summer storm.

“Miss Stone.”

She curtsied. “My lord.”

“You must regale Lord Redbrooke and me with your story,” Lady Beatrice insisted. She took Abigail by the hands and guided her over to the sofa she’d occupied mere moments ago, all but dismissing Geoffrey.

“Abigail has the most brilliant stories,” Westfield said, sinking into the seat across from Geoffrey. He waved over to Abigail. “You must finish, Abby.”

“Oh, please do,” Lady Beatrice said, scooting to the edge of her seat and with the light in her eyes, she was more animated than she’d been since Geoffrey had entered the Duke of Somerset’s parlor.

Abigail looked to Geoffrey. “I’m sure Lord Redbrooke doesn’t want to hear a story about a squirrel.”

Yes, at any other time, told by any other person, he imagined that would be an accurate statement. Not here. Not now. Not with this woman. “I would care to hear your tale.” Three pairs of eyes swung in his direction, all filled with varying degrees of shock. “I would,” he said, a touch defensively. Not normally one for storytelling; especially potentially improper stories about foreign creatures, told by engaging young ladies, Geoffrey found this time, he cared to hear her particular tale.

She smiled at him and it transformed her from stunning goddess to ethereal creature memorialized in songs and sonnets by great poets.

“Well, you see, the summer months in Connecticut are quite unbearable. Mother insists we adhere to propriety and leave the doors and windows closed, even if it means we all nearly swelter to our deaths. Last year, Mama was visiting a neighbor one afternoon and Papa instructed the servants to open all the windows and doors.”

Lord Westfield grinned. “And?”

“And,” she continued. “A squirrel darted through the front door and ran the servants on a ragged chase through the house. Papa’s dogs, two, more than slightly overweight sheepdogs, believed the squirrel to be some form of sheep or another and ran the poor little creature around the house.” She gesticulated wildly. “He climbed up Mama’s curtains and tore the lace beyond repair.” Abigail caught Geoffrey’s eye and bold as you please, winked. “Needless to say, that was the last time Papa had the doors and windows open.”

Geoffrey frowned.

Abigail arched a brow. “Is there a problem, my lord?”

Boldness must be a character trait reserved for Americans.

“It would seem if your father had left the windows and doors closed, that your mother’s lace curtains would be intact.”

She waggled a brow at him. “I do believe that is what makes the story amusing, my lord.” There was no mistaking the reproachful note threading her thinly veiled admonition. “You are rather serious, my lord.”

Lady Beatrice gasped, the delicate sound drowned out by her brother’s sharp bark of laughter.

“There is something unseemly in being proper and respectable, Miss Stone?” Geoffrey challenged.

She sat forward on the edge of her seat. “If you say so, my lord.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“There is no need to apologize. I agree.”

Geoffrey folded his arms across his chest. “I meant my words as a question. Not a statement.”

Abigail leaned back in her seat. “Ahh.”

“Ahh?”

She smiled. “Is that another question? Or another statement, my lord?”

“Do behave, Abby,” Lady Beatrice said, gently.

Abigail glanced over at Beatrice. “Even if it is very fun teasing Lord Redbrooke?”

Lady Beatrice’s eyes went even rounder in her face.

It took a long moment for Geoffrey’s head to cease spinning.

Westfield, who up to that point, seemed to entertain the possibility of tossing Geoffrey out on his arse, gave him a commiserative look.

Suddenly, filled with a desperate urgency to place much needed space between himself and Abigail Stone, Geoffrey turned to Lady Beatrice. “My lady, will you accompany me for a walk in Hyde Park?”

Silence met his terse request. Bloody hell, he must apply a bit more romanticism to his courtship. Ladies required romanticism. He silently added that to the list he’d compiled for courting a very marriageable miss.

“It is lovely out,” she murmured, and damn if it didn’t sound as though the young lady were trying to work up the resolve to join him. Her eyes lit up, suddenly. “Abby you must accompany us. And you, as well, Robert.”

Hell. That most certainly hadn’t been part of Geoffrey’s plans for the afternoon. He expected in any moment she’d begin issuing invites to the chambermaids and footmen to spare her from his solitary company.

Geoffrey couldn’t imagine anything more disastrous than the tempting Abigail Stone joining them on their outing.

“That would be lovely,” Abigail said, with far greater conviction than her cousin, the distinguished Lady Beatrice had exhibited mere moments ago.

And damn if his blasted heart didn’t lift at the prospect of her joining them.

A gentleman must demonstrate restraint and calm in all matters.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke.

~8~

Abigail, Beatrice, her cousin Robert, and the Viscount Redbrooke strolled along a walking path in Hyde Park that overlooked the wide man-made lake filled with pink pelicans and elegant white swans.

With the tip of her finger, Abigail tapped her chin.

There were fourteen men. Seven women. She wrinkled her brow and mentally tabulated figures again. No, there were
eight
women. She’d forgotten Cassiopeia. Mustn’t forget the vain beauty who’d been forced to sacrifice her only daughter to atone for that vanity. Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen land animals. “Nineteen,” she amended.

“Nineteen what?” Robert asked, shooting her a sideways glance.

“Land animals,” she murmured.

Robert glanced around, as if searching for the nineteen creatures she’d mentioned.

Abigail smiled, grateful he didn’t ask further questions about her odd tendency of cataloguing the mythical creatures that made up part of the Greek constellations.

Robert leaned down the several inches separating them in height. “It appears Redbrooke would like to make a match with Beatrice.”

Abigail stumbled a bit and her cousin steadied her.

“Beatrice won’t have Lord Redbrooke, not if he were the last titled gentleman in all the kingdom,” he whispered.

As though Lord Redbrooke sensed he were the subject of discussion, he glanced over his shoulder. That familiar, dark frown lined the harsh planes of his face before he redirected his attention on the path in front of them. With his somberness and stern demeanor, Geoffrey could not be more different than Alexander Powers. Alexander had possessed a light sense of humor, so vastly different than the often grave viscount.

“Are you very familiar with Lord Redbrooke?” she asked, unable to quell the urge to know more about the hardened young lord.

Robert lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He’s a stodgy fellow. But he wasn’t always that way. We attended Oxford in the same years.” He grinned. “Many considered him something of a rogue, then.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper. “There were rumors of a young woman who’d captured his affection, but I’m not privy to the details. No one is.”

Robert fell silent, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pressing him for further details.

Just then, Beatrice let loose a startled shriek and stumbled. She pitched forward with a small cry but before she collapsed amid the rocks and gravel of the path, Geoffrey caught her.

Abigail breathed a small sigh of envy, and then remembered herself. Goodness, she was daft as a ninny. “Beatrice! Are you all right?” She rushed over to her cousin’s side.

The viscount cradled Beatrice close to his chest.

Thick, ugly tendrils of guilt wrapped their cloying hooks about Abigail’s heart, which she shoved aside, shamed at the petty sentiments.

Tears filled Beatrice’s pretty blue eyes. “How silly I am. I believe I turned my ankle.”

“Not silly at all,” the viscount murmured. He seemed to waver, alternating his gaze between Beatrice and the marquess. It occurred to Abigail he wanted to inspect Beatrice for injury but hesitated to do so, probably out of fear of the impropriety of touching her cousin.

Again, Abigail’s stomach tightened at the idea of Lord Redbrooke learning of her scandalous actions in America.

Robert scooped up his sister. “Rather careless of you, Bea,” he muttered.

Ever the model of ladylike decorum, Beatrice dropped her gaze to her brother’s cravat.

“Don’t be silly,” Abigail hurried to assure them. “I’m sure you stepped upon a rabbit hole or…” She glanced down at the untouched earth. Her gaze collided with Beatrice, who gave her a desperate look. Abigail’s eyes widened as she realized her cousin had feigned an injury. “Or perhaps a large rock, or some such, that caused you to fall.” Beatrice mouthed a silent
thank you.

“Abigail, why don’t you continue walking? It is ever so beautiful out and it would hardly be fair to require you to abandon your outing,” Beatrice said.

Geoffrey blanched.

Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure the viscount has more important matters to see to than walking with me around Hyde Park.”

She expected him to offer at least a haphazard protestation. When it became apparent he didn’t intend to say anything on the matter, she wrinkled her brow
. Oh, the ninnyhammer
. He appeared incapable of even feigning polite interest in escorting her on the remainder of the stroll.

Not that she wanted him to pretend, per se.

She did, however, not care to be made to feel less than an afterthought.

“Now, you’re being silly. The viscount would be glad to accompany you. Isn’t that right, my lord?” Beatrice directed her question to Geoffrey, who stood, arms clasped behind his back, his face a stoic mask. Beatrice didn’t wait for him to respond, but motioned to the servant who’d accompanied them. “Please remain with my cousin Miss Stone and Lord Redbrooke. My brother will see me home.”

“That really isn’t necessary.” Abigail’s words sounded a touch too-pleading to her own ears.

“Oh, I insist.” Beatrice tapped her brother on the arm.

Abigail folded her arms across her chest, tapping her foot upon the ground as Beatrice and Robert took their leave.

In the distance, Beatrice peeked out from behind her brother’s shoulder, and winked.

Abigail let out a beleaguered sigh.

It would appear she was to be alone with Lord Proper…whether either of them wished it or not.

A breeze tugged at her skirts, and freed a strand of her hair from the Italian lace woven through her hair by her maid. Abigail surveyed the swans and pelicans that flitted about the wide, man-made lake. Abigail touched her fingers to the delicate strip of fabric and forced herself to look at Lord Redbrooke.

He stood, his large frame immobile, as if he feared any movement would cause him to splinter into a thousand million pieces.

He glanced back toward the direction Beatrice and Robert had disappeared.

“Are you afraid of me, my lord?”

Geoffrey’s gaze snapped back to her. Annoyance glittered in his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

She smiled up at him, and then dipped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I assure you, you need not fear being alone with me. I’ll not bite.” Abigail held out her arm.

Geoffrey stared at her like she was the mythical sea monster, Ketos. He stared so long she began to feel rather foolish standing there with her arm out to him, for all the passing English lords and ladies to see. She lowered her arm but met his gaze directly. She’d not be cowed or humiliated by an English lord. Not when she’d come here for an attempt at a fresh start for past transgressions.

“I didn’t think you would,” he said at last. And closed the small distance between them. This time, he extended his arm.

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t think you would bite,” he clarified.

Her lips twitched. She hesitated a moment, and then placed her fingertips along the sleeves of his coat. “I was merely jesting,” she murmured. “Are you always so serious, Geoffrey?” she asked, when they began strolling along the walking path.