His chest tightened with inexplicable disappointment.
“I see Lady Tisdale,” his mother said, calling him back to the moment.
Geoffrey managed a faint nod as his mother took her leave, and he returned his search for the temptress. For four years, he’d managed to convince himself that he craved a placid, calm, poised young lady for a wife. Great beauties roused grand passions and wrought all manner of heartache. In the span of a heartbeat, the winsome creature in the crowd made mockery of his efforts at atonement.
Christ, what in hell is wrong with me?
The sole purpose of his being at Lord and Lady Hughes's ball was to partner Lady Beatrice in two sets; a waltz and a quadrille, and indicate his interest in the young lady. It would not do to be observed standing like a foppish gent just out of university with his mouth agape over an altogether different young lady.
Except…his mind was filled with images of too red lips, and a tall, lean frame, and…he gave his head a shake. Standing here, lusting after some unknown lady would not help him accomplish his goal of marriage to Lady Beatrice.
In desperate need of a drink, Geoffrey took a step toward a liveried servant bearing a tray full of champagne when his black Hessian boot suddenly snagged the hem of a young lady’s skirt.
The tear of fabric ripping blended with the din of conversation around them.
The lady gasped, and pitched forward. Even as the glass of ratafia in her hand fell to the floor, her hip collided with the passing servant who teetered on his feet. The young man’s serving tray tilted precariously, and for an infinitesimal moment Geoffrey believed the servant had steadied his burden.
But the servant’s tray slipped from his fingers. Champagne flutes careened to the floor, and sprayed the bubbling liquid onto the gown of several matrons standing nearby, who cried out in shock and scurried off.
“Pardon me,” Geoffrey murmured to the servant, and then returned his attention to the woman he’d inadvertently sent reeling. A mere five or so inches smaller than his six foot frame, she stood taller than most of the ladies present. “Forgive me. Are you all…?”
She smiled up at him.
His question died upon his lips as he gazed down at the woman who’d unwittingly beckoned from across the ballroom mere moments ago. His eyes traveled the high planes of her cheekbones, the gray irises of her eyes, her full, red lips.
…and then her slipper met the moisture upon the marble floor. Like one of the skaters at the Frost Fair on the River Thames, she slid forward, into a nearby pillar. “Ouch.”
Geoffrey’s arm shot out and he sought to steady her.
“Thank you,” she said. She shook out her sea foam green skirts and unlike the horror that wreathed the faces of the surrounding ladies, wry amusement fairly glittered in her gray-blue eyes. “I am uninjured,” she assured him.
His eyes widened and with alacrity, he released her.
She cocked her head to the side. “Are you injured?”
Her flat accent did not possess the clipped proper tones of a proper English lady. He blinked. “Injured?”
“You appear unwell, sir.”
By God…
“You are an American,” he blurted.
A mischievous smile played about her lips. “I am.” She looked around and then back to him. “Never tell me you’re scandalized by me being an American?”
He was scandalized by the wicked direction his mind had wandered that involved an American woman. If his mother was outraged at the prospect of a Scott assuming the Redbrooke title, what would she say to an American lady having garnered Geoffrey’s attention?
“Ahh, you do smile,” the young woman said.
Geoffrey frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Alas, it is gone,” she said with a long, exaggerated sigh.
Geoffrey became aware of the appalled stares of Polite Society’s most respectable peers, trained upon him. From across the room, his mother, who stood alongside Lady Tisdale, glared with blatant disapproval. It was the much needed reminder of past failings and inner weaknesses that had wrought much agony upon his family. By standing here engaging this…this…stranger, in the midst of Lord and Lady Hughes’s ballroom, he opened himself up to public censure. His intentions were marriage to Lady Beatrice, and any hint of untoward interest in another would not be countenanced by the Duke of Somerset or his daughter.
Geoffrey folded his arms across his chest. This American upstart might have a face and body to rival Helen of Troy, but possessed the uncouth manners one would expect of an American. “Miss,” he said from the corner of his mouth. “We’ve not been properly introduced, therefore, any discourse between us is highly improper.”
Her lips twitched, with, he suspected, mirth. “I would say toppling over the host’s servant and spraying his guests with champagne and glass is also improper, but you’ve done that, sir.”
Geoffrey felt heat climb up his neck, and resisted the urge to tug at his suddenly tight cravat, shamed by the accuracy of her charge. He did not create scandals. Not anymore. He was proper. And poised. And…
She arched a brow.
Well, in this instance he’d created a small scandal. Still, he needn’t raise further eyebrows by talking to the vexing miss.
Even if he wanted to.
He needed to go. Immediately. Anywhere but within mere inches of the lady who smelled like lilacs and lavender and now champagne. “Again, forgive me for causing you distress.” He bowed deeply and beat a hasty retreat.
Geoffrey had made a fool of himself once over a young lady. He’d not be so foolish again.
A gentleman’s responsibility is first and foremost to his family’s material comforts and well-being.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~2~
From where she stood near the other partner-less young ladies, Miss Abigail Stone stared after the gentleman who’d gone and thoroughly shredded the delicate lace trim of her satin gown. She ignored the sideways glances directed her way by the row of ladies and slid into an empty seat. For the first time in a month since she’d taken up residence with her uncle, the Duke of Somerset, interest stirred through her.
The serious looking gentleman had fled faster than the God Hermes in his winged sandals, but not before Abigail had detected a flash of discomfit in the greenish-blue irises of his eyes. It hadn’t been mere guilt from someone who’d ruined her gown, but something more, something far deeper. In that, she’d felt a kindred connection to the stranger.
It had taken Abigail’s entire twenty years and a handful of days to learn that guilt drove a person to desperate measures. A sense of guilt could force a person to give up their family, home, and everything they held dear.
It could drive one to brave the perils of turbulent storms and unpredictable sea voyages.
She sighed. Guilt was a rather nasty thing.
Just then, from across the ballroom floor, a young lady raised her fingers to her lips and with a direct look at Abigail, pointedly whispered something to the lady at her side. A case of tittering ensued.
Abigail glanced away. After her brief time in London, she’d come to appreciate that an unknown ocean crossing was far preferable to having to live amidst the cold censure and disdain of people who’d judged her and found her wanting.
Abigail redirected her attention to the commanding, stern-faced man who’d fled her side. He stood, conversing with a young lady and a tall, handsome gentleman—a gentleman who seemed unable to remove his stare from the blonde woman on his arm.
An odd pang tugged at Abigail’s heart. There had been a time when a gentleman had studied her with that very look. She’d not realized until after his betrayal that eyes could lie.
Her gaze slid away from the trio, out to the sea of twirling dancers and wondered how her life might have been different if she’d come to London as merely the niece of the Duke of Somerset and not a relative fleeing scandal.
Abigail’s mouth tightened. The sooner her mother and father came t
o accept that she would never again be their sought-after, much respected daughter, the sooner her world could resume a semblance of normalcy.
Her heart twisted with the bitterness of truth. There would never again be anything normal about her life.
***
The young lady whose hemline he’d destroyed sat along the wall, studying him. Geoffrey frowned. Respectable young ladies didn’t stare. It wasn’t proper. Or polite.
Then, there was a boldness to this American woman so different than anything he’d ever witnessed amongst English women. He should be more appalled by such indiscretion. And yet, he couldn’t dredge up the appropriate level of shock.
“Are you looking for someone, Geoffrey?”
Geoffrey stiffened, and turned to face his sister, Sophie, now the Countess of Waxham, and her husband, Christopher, Earl of Waxham. The couple had wed just a few short weeks ago after quite a scandal, which had only fueled Geoffrey’s determination to avoid any hint of impropriety.
Of course his observant sister should have noted his interest. Geoffrey strove for bored indignation. “I don’t know what you’re speaking about.”
His sister snorted. And he knew he’d failed.
“It appears as though you’re searching for someone.” His sister looked to her husband. “Doesn’t it, Christopher?”
“It…”
Geoffrey turned a frown on his brother-in-law.
Waxham offered a sympathetic grin, holding his palms up sheepishly.
Sophie’s timely appearance however reminded him of his purpose that evening, and it wasn’t to act like a foolish swain over a mysterious American lady. Geoffrey inclined his head. “I’d like you to perform a certain introduction for me.”
Sophie opened and closed her mouth several times. “Introduction? To a young lady?” Disbelief underscored her question.
“Is that so very hard to believe?” Geoffrey rescued a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing servant, who eyed him with a wariness that said the servants had already discussed the Viscount Redbrooke’s remarkable lack of grace.
Sophie and Waxham exchanged a look.
Geoffrey frowned over the rim of his glass. When he’d been a young boy, his father, the former viscount, had schooled Geoffrey in his roles and responsibilities as a noble. The line would continue with him. His jaw set. He was determined of it. Geoffrey would never be absolved of his guilty actions on that night nearly five years past, but continuing on the male line would be a final act of penance for those sins.
Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “You are not at all yourself this evening, Geoffrey.” She made to press the back of her hand against his forehead but he shifted out of her reach.
Geoffrey closed his eyes a moment and prayed for patience. “I don’t know what you mean.” He knew exactly what she meant; he didn’t feel much like himself this evening.
Sophie waved her hand. “There was that whole incident with your knocking over Lord Hughes’s servant.”
For an instance, Geoffrey felt a kindred connection to Sophie, who’d battled such gossip over the years. His sister had wrought much havoc upon Geoffrey’s household and in public, only it hadn’t occurred to him, until now, that the attention may have been unwarranted. “I did not knock over Lord Hughes’s servant.” He looked to Waxham one more time, in an unspoken male plea for support.
“Ah, yes. I believe it was a young lady your brother knocked over,” Waxham offered.
A growl escaped Geoffrey. It had been the young lady’s blasted hem he’d stepped upon.
His sister’s eyes went wide in her face. “Did you just growl, Geoffrey? How very,” she wrinkled her nose. “Primitive of you.”
He’d had enough of Sophie’s needling. “Will you or will you not perform the necessary introductions?” Geoffrey bit out.
“Oh, dear,” Sophie muttered to her husband. “I do not like that look.”
“And I don’t care for your public discussion on a matter of delicacy,” Geoffrey bit out on a hushed whisper.
Waxham said something close to Sophie’s ear.
Sophie sighed. “Very well.” She turned her focus to Geoffrey. “I shall help. And I shan’t ask any questions.” She made that final statement with a scowl for her husband.
Perhaps Geoffrey had unfairly judged the other man after all. Any man who could elicit Sophie’s cooperation deserved some modicum of respect.
Sophie folded her arms across her chest. “Introductions, however, will require you to impart the identity of the lady who had caught your attention earlier.”
Geoffrey couldn’t very well admit that the woman who had ensnared his notice was not in fact the woman he’d selected as his future viscountess.
He did a cursory search of the crowd and caught sight of Lady Beatrice Dennington. The only female born to the Duke of Somerset, she stood alongside her brother the Marquess of Westfield, heir to the dukedom, known by Society as something of a rogue. Westfield was not unlike the man Geoffrey once had been…the man he’d resolved to never be again.
Sophie tilted her head. “Geoffrey?”
“Lady Beatrice Dennington,” Geoffrey said quietly.
Sophie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’d like you to introduce me to Lady Beatrice.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Hmph.”
Pause.
“Aren’t you going to ask why I said, ‘Hmph’?” she said after a moment.
“No.”
Sophie shook her head. “You are utterly exasperating. You weren’t always this stodgy, rude fellow. Mother said at one time you were quite the rogue.” He shot her a black look, quelling the rest of her words. She sighed. “Very well. I shall perform the necessary introductions.”
Whether I approve or not. Geoffrey would have placed a significant wager, if he was still the wagering type of gentleman, that his sister muttered those words under her breath…or some other variant.
“Come along,” Sophie encouraged and set out, forcing Geoffrey to hasten his step like he was one of the Queen’s terriers.
“You do know she is enjoying this immensely,” his brother-in-law said, with far too much humor in his pronouncement.
Geoffrey spoke through clenched teeth. “Yes, yes she is.” His sister Sophie had courted scandal since she’d made her come out. For all his efforts and pleading, she’d not changed at all in her more than two London Seasons. He imagined his relying on her assistance caused her a good deal of amusement.
The trio weaved in between lords and ladies. Sophie, however, moved through the throng with purpose better suited to a woman following the drum. She didn’t bother to occasionally pause for politeness sake, but continued onward until they reached Lady Beatrice Dennington, who stood amidst a cluster of young swains—swains who would only serve to complicate Geoffrey’s intentions.
He favored the group of gentlemen with a black glare that sent them scurrying.
Sophie shot him a sideways glance, and shifted her attention to Lady Beatrice. A wide smile filled his sister’s plump cheeks. “Hello, Lady Beatrice,” Sophie greeted.
Lady Beatrice returned Sophie’s smile and dipped a curtsy. “Hello, my lady.”
Sophie waved her hand. “Please, no need for such formality. Allow me to introduce you to my brother, the Viscount Redbrooke.”
Lady Beatrice looked at Geoffrey, before directing her demure gaze to the floor. “My lord.” He strained to hear her faintly spoken words.
He battled down disappointment at the young lady’s meekness; his response made little sense. Such reserved politeness befitted the young lady who would be his viscountess. Such a woman wouldn’t be capable of deceit and trickery. Nor would such a woman need to trap an unsuspecting, gentleman into marriage.
His father would have approved of this match.
That should be enough. It had to be.
Waxham discreetly nudged Geoffrey.
Geoffrey offered a hasty bow, and claimed Lady Beatrice’s hand
. “My lady, it is a pleasure.”
She sank into an elegant curtsy.
The orchestra concluded a lively country reel. A smattering of applause filled the crowded hall. If memory served him, a waltz was the next set. A waltz and a quadrille. A waltz and a quadrille. That was his intended plan for an unspoken declaration of his courtship.
“Lady Beatrice, will you to do me the honor of partnering me in the next set?”
The young lady blushed. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”
With the exception of the earlier stir Geoffrey had caused involving a teasing, American temptress, everything appeared to be going exactly as he’d planned.
A gentleman must remain free of scandal. Always.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~3~
With the tip of her slipper, Abigail tapped a steady beat upon the Italian marble floor.
There were four mythical centaurs. She chewed her lip. Or were there five? Of course, it would really depend on whether one included the centaurs and centaurides as one.
After the scandal she’d created at Mr. and Mrs. Van Buren’s ball, Abigail had developed the oddest nervous tendency of cataloguing mythical Greek figures. It served as a welcome distraction from the gossips.
Asbolus. Chariclo. Chiron. And Nessus. Yes. Yes. “There are four.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Abigail started, realizing she’d been counting aloud, and looked over at the plump young lady who occupied the seat next to her. The woman shoved her wire-rimmed spectacles back upon her nose and studied Abigail like she’d sprouted a second head.
“Forgive me.” Abigail opened her mouth to engage the brown-haired, brown-eyed lady in conversation, but the woman directed her attention elsewhere.
Abigail sighed. After her fall from respectable society, she’d learned rather quickly that aloof condescension was not reserved for a single continent. Since her uncle had introduced her to London’s Polite Society, Abigail had braved soirees and dinner parties and visits to the theatre, amongst lords and ladies who peered down their long noses at her—the curl of their lips indicating that, without even knowing her, they’d found her wanting, simply because of her birthright.
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 2
