Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (22 page)

Sophie’s smile dipped.

Waxham cleared his throat. “It is never easy to deviate from the desires and wills of one’s parent,” he said. The gravity of his tone spoke of a man who could identify with Geoffrey’s secret shame. Waxham’s gaze settled momentarily upon his wife’s head. “But, matters of the heart should not be decided by logic and order.”

Just then, at the entrance of the ballroom, Abigail appeared upon the arm of her cousin, Lord Westfield. Geoffrey’s breath hitched in his chest.

Abigail’s violet satin skirts shimmered in the glow of the candlelit ballroom. An intricate floral design threaded with glimmering diamonds had been stitched upon the bodice of her gown. It drew his attention to the generous swell of her bosom and his mouth went dry. She had the look of Eve in the garden of sin, and how he longed to throw aside all that was proper and join her there.

She scanned the ballroom, as though searching for someone, and then their gazes met and held.

Abigail smiled, dipping her head in a subtle greeting.

Geoffrey imagined he was grinning like a love-struck simpleton. But god help him, he wanted her.

“Oh dear,” his sister said, shattering the pull. “You’ve fallen quite hard.”

Waxham pat him in a commiserative gesture upon his shoulder.

Geoffrey shook his head, and started toward Abigail. Yes. He’d fallen quite hard.

***

For the better part of the day, Abigail had wrested an impending sense of disaster. She’d credited the thundering skies for the odd apprehension that caused gooseflesh to dot her skin. The storm was the kind of storm that had shattered too many great ships at sea.

The carriage bearing the duke, Robert, Beatrice, and Abigail had arrived a short while ago at Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s ball. The torrents of streaming rain and the deep puddles throughout the London streets had made their carriage ride a long one. Then they’d had to wait in an endless row of carriages until they’d reached the entrance of the townhouse, as everyone made a desperate attempt to shorten the distance between their carriages and the front door.

Abigail’s gaze landed upon several ladies. They snapped their fans open, and over the rim of the satin accessories ran their eyes over Abigail in a manner that indicated they’d found her wanting. Then, they averted their stares with a pointed flourish.

Her stomach roiled at the cut direct that had been so very familiar at home. The ugly reminder of her past only intensified her earlier misgivings.

“Oh, my. I believe I was wrong,” her cousin murmured.

Abigail forced aside the portentous musings. “Hmm?”

“About Lord Redbrooke,” Beatrice clarified. “I never believed that particular gentleman capable of anything beyond stiff politeness.” Beatrice sighed. “I would trade my little finger to have a man look at me the way Lord Redbrooke is looking at you.”

Abigail’s heart tripped at a funny little pace as Geoffrey’s long-legged stride closed the space between them. He stood taller than most gentlemen in the ballroom, making it easy for Abigail to follow his path. He navigated through the throng of guests with a masculine grace.

In all the time Alexander Powers had courted her, he’d never looked at her in the hot, penetrating manner that Geoffrey now did. Geoffrey’s was the primeval gleam of a man who wanted to lay claim to her.

And all her earlier reservations, her unfounded fears lifted as he stopped in front of her. She tilted her head back and her breath caught. Geoffrey studied her through thick, lowered lashes. She curtsied. “My lord.”
Did that breathless greeting belong to her?

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. Even through the thin fabric of her glove, Geoffrey’s touch heated her skin, and sent warmth radiating out through her body.

Just then, a harsh, bold laugh cut into the charged exchange, and she froze. Pinpricks of unease ran along her spine. Her gaze collided with a gentleman who stood just beyond Geoffrey’s shoulder. The foppish dandy, garishly dressed in violet, satin breeches had his lascivious stare trained upon her bosom. Abigail’s apprehension grew.

“Miss Stone, may I have this dance?” Geoffrey’s request jolted her back to the moment.

“I…”

A shocked gasp cut into her reply, and yanked Abigail’s attention to a nearby stern-faced matron with a frown upon her fleshy cheeks. The woman raked a frigid gaze over Abigail’s person.

“Abigail?” Geoffrey’s question reached her, muffled and vague the way she’d used to hear her mother and father’s calls from when she’d been submerged beneath the ocean’s surface.

Oh, God.
Abigail sent a prayer skyward.

“Abby?” Beatrice’s voice laced with concern blended with Geoffrey’s.

The pointed stares, and too-loud whispers carried her back to a different night, to the time she’d been discovered in Alexander’s arms, when her world had crumpled down around her. She shook her head.

“I’m all right.” Her protest sounded halfhearted to her own ears.

Of course no one knew. No one could know. This was not her shoreline home. This was a country of different people, an ocean apart from the shame of her past.

Then her gaze tripped upon her uncle and cousin Robert as they cut a determined swath through the crowd of people who peered down long, noble noses at Abigail. Purpose drove the steps of both the duke and his son.

Her eyes slid closed.

Not now. Not here.

She recognized their matched, hardened expressions.

Geoffrey frowned. “Abigail?”

Abigail opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Forgive me, Geoffrey,” she whispered.

He lowered his brows. “For…?”

Her uncle and cousin reached her side.

Geoffrey turned to greet the duke. He bowed. “Your Grace. I’d like to request an audience with you tomorrow morning.”

The duke’s lips flattened into a hard line. “Redbrooke.”

What matter of business could Geoffrey have with the duke? Then Geoffrey looked at her, his eyes warm, and gentle upon her face…and she knew. He intended to offer for her. She folded her hands around her waist and looked around, confronting the expressions of the
ton
who were taking great relish in her public fall. Agony formed like tight knots in her stomach until she wanted to twist and writhe to escape it.

Abigail took first one steadying breath. Then another. And another. Perhaps it was merely her own insecurities and memories of the past that drove cloying fear up her throat, and threatened to choke her.

Then she spied Lord Carmichael, the old bastard who’d put his hands all over her person; his fleshy lips were pulled back in a victorious smile. Her heart froze, and she knew. Oh God, how she knew. Somehow the old letch had discovered her scandalous past.

Robert took her gently but firmly by the arm. “We need to leave, Abby.”

No! Not again.

She managed a jerky nod and tugged her arm free of Robert’s hold; her toes flexed within the soles of her slippers, as she was filled with a restive need to run and keep running until she’d escaped the all too familiar disdain.

Beatrice’s brow furrowed. “Leave? Why we’ve only just—”

“Beatrice,” the duke’s single, harshly uttered word silenced Beatrice. He looked to Geoffrey. “Tomorrow, then.”

Her uncle was mad. Tears flooded her eyes, and Geoffrey’s face blurred before her. With his value for propriety and honor, Geoffrey would sooner send her to the devil than see her to the altar. She swayed on her feet, the room dipped and spun like her youngest brother’s wood whip top that he’d played with over and over.

Geoffrey cursed and reached for her. He caught her against him, even as outraged gasps escaped the lords and ladies around the ballroom.

She tilted her head back, and gazed at him through the blasted moisture that filled her eyes. “Please, don’t.”
Because if you continue to hold me, I’ll dissolve into a puddle of shame and despair at your feet.

His square jaw tensed as he scraped a frantic gaze over her person, tightening his hold upon her. “Abigail, what is it?” The faint thread of panic that underlined his words sent guilt spiraling, until it filled every corner of her body. In mere moments, the look of gentle concern and caring would die to be replaced with revulsion. She’d braved the scorn of her American compatriots, and been mocked and ridiculed as an American interloper in British Society…she could not stand to bear witness to the moment all affection went out of his eyes.

“I…I…” She shook her head…

“We have to leave. Now.” The duke bit out.

Robert disentangled Abigail’s forearm from Geoffrey’s grip and with determined steps, guided her through the sea of taunting sneers, and leering gentlemen. Bile climbed up her throat, and she fought the urge to keep from casting the accounts of her stomach upon the ballroom floor.

She shot one last parting glance over her shoulder.

Geoffrey remained where she’d left him, legs planted wide, his focus trained on her.

Abigail jerked her attention forward, thinking how so very close she’d been to being happy. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. What a fool she’d been.

Again.

A gentleman should not allow himself to be bated by a dishonorable gentleman.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~20~

Geoffrey stared after Abigail. A bolt of lightning broke the night sky, and splashed bluish light across the ballroom floor; it cast sinister shadows about the room that danced along the walls and vibrant fabrics of the waltzing ladies. The distant rumble of thunder shook the panes of the floor-length windows. As he stared at Abigail’s swiftly retreating figure, ominous darkness that accompanied a turbulent rainstorm filled him.

Then she looked back at him.

His breath froze at the agonized despair that bled from her eyes.

A viselike pressure squeezed his heart. Christ. What had happened to wreak such a transformation about the smiling, spirited beauty who’d captured his heart?

Geoffrey blinked. The chatter of Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s guests blended with the outside rain, in a loud hum, that slowed his thoughts.

He loved her.

A jolt when through him. He, who’d sworn to never turn himself over to the uncertain, volatile emotion which had destroyed his family, had gone and fallen in love with Abigail. The staggering realization threatened to bring him to his knees.

His body remained immobile. With her keen wit, and ability to laugh, she’d entered his life and upended his well-ordered world. She made him yearn for a life filled with laughter…and he wanted that life with her.

He grinned, knowing he must look like a lack-wit to Society’s leading peers who studied him as though he were a Drury Lane Theatre act. At one time he’d been the same manner of snide, pompous bastards who’d found fault in her merely for the origins of her birth. It had taken Abigail to show him the kind of man he’d been, and made him aspire to more.

He’d not make apologies for having fallen in love with Abigail Stone.

“I hope you are happy with what you’ve done,” his mother hissed.

Geoffrey started. “Mother…”

“Wipe that foolish smile off your face,” she snapped. “We have to leave. Immediately.”

Another rumble of thunder shook the room.

There it was again, the looming sense of calamity that flared and pulsed with a life energy. He remembered Abigail’s hasty departure, the panic in her eyes, his mother’s enraged eyes… “What is it?” he asked, quietly.

“Not here. Waxham has already had the carriage summoned for us,” she said from the corner of her mouth.

A sniggering laugh caught Geoffrey’s attention, and his frown deepened.

“Now, Geoffrey.” His mother barked the command like a colonel giving orders to his troops.

Only, Lord Carmichael stepped into Geoffrey’s path.

Carmichael’s wide smile revealed an uneven row of rotten, yellow-stained teeth. The overwhelming scent of garlic threatened to bowl Geoffrey over. Then his eyes fell to Lord Carmichael’s hands clasped in front of his cumbersome belly. A thin haze of red rage clouded his vision as he remembered the moment he’d come upon Abigail with this fiend’s gnarled hands pawing at her person.

“Step aside, Carmichael,” he seethed.

A loud chortling laugh escaped Carmichael, but broke off into a fit of choking. “Redbrooke,” he said when he’d again managed to breathe.

His mother placed her fingertips along his coat sleeve, and she gave a faint squeeze. “Geoffrey,” she said quietly.

“Rushing off, eh, Redbrooke?” He waggled his overgrown, bushy white eyebrows. “Can’t run from a scandal, really, though can you? Why, not even an ocean away is enough, sometimes.” He dissolved into another round of laughter as though he’d delivered the wittiest of jests.

Geoffrey peered down his nose at Lord Carmichael. “What are you on about?” he said brusquely.

Carmichael’s eyes went wide in his fleshy face. He slapped a hand to his chest, and looked around in feigned disbelief.

“Geoffrey,” his mother said again, the thin thread of desperation there sent off the first warning bells within his mind.

“Never tell me, you’ve not heard,” Carmichael said in a loud whisper.

Geoffrey should continue onward and leave the old bastard prattling on like the bloody fool he was, but something compelled him to feed that question. “Heard?”

The old lord shook his head, the swift movement displaced a strand of white hair, and it fell over his eye, displaying his carefully covered balled pate. “Why, that scandalous bit of goods. Your Miss Stone. Tsk. Tsk.”

Geoffrey’s mouth went dry, and his hands balled into tight fists at his side. He clenched and unclenched them, until he realized what he was doing. Again, Abigail’s tormented visage flashed behind his eyes: her hasty flight from the ball, the bleeding anguish in her eyes.

Forgive me.

“Geoffrey, please,” his mother said again. The uncharacteristic desperate plea in that utterance should have propelled him forward.

“What are you talking about?” Geoffrey could no sooner call the words back than he could cut off his right limb.