“Where did you take yourself off to?”
Abigail jumped at the sudden appearance of her cousin, Robert Dennington, the Marquess of Westfield. She climbed to her feet. “I merely desired a rest from dancing.”
Robert folded his arms across his broad chest, and arched a golden brow. He looked down the row of young ladies behind her. “A rest? You’ve not danced once this entire evening.”
Abigail frowned. Nor did she intend to. She was trying to spare herself that humiliation as long as possible. She’d not expected her roguish young cousin to note as much. She sighed. “Yes. That is true. I wanted to sit.”
He glanced down at her ripped hem. “Ahh, yes…Redbrooke and your hem.”
She furrowed her brow. “Redbrooke?”
Robert reached for a champagne flute from a passing servant and took a sip. “The gentleman who nearly toppled you into Lady Hughes’s servant.
Redbrooke. It was a strong name that bespoke power and seemed to perfectly suit the square-jawed, thickly muscled gentleman.
Robert spoke in a quiet whisper. “You do not have to sit here, Abby.”
Her back went up. “I want to, Robert.” After her scandal in America she’d found she rather preferred obscurity to notoriety. She had received enough attention to last the remainder of her life and then well into the hereafter. No, wallflowers were most times spared from undue notice and dancing and Abigail was quite content to join their ranks. “You needn’t feel like you must watch over me, Robert,” she hurried to assure him. He’d already spent the better part of the evening at her side. “Your sister—”
“Is still otherwise engaged with Lord Redbrooke,” Robert interrupted. He tipped his chin across the ballroom, and Abigail followed the gesture.
Her heart’s rhythm did the oddest little sputter.
Lord Redbrooke stood alongside Beatrice and a trio of other unfamiliar individuals.
Even with the length of the ballroom between them, Abigail detected the pink blush on Beatrice’s cheeks.
They struck quite a pair; Lord Redbrooke’s tall, lean, muscle-hewn frame and olive coloring, next to Beatrice’s petite frame and flawless cream-white skin and golden ringlets.
Something the gentleman said raised a dimpled smile in Beatrice’s cheeks and Abigail would wager her father’s entire line of ships he’d said something perfectly gentlemanly, perfectly charming to her cousin.
“I do not see you as a burden, Abby.”
Abigail wrenched her gaze away from Lord Redbrooke and returned her attention to her cousin.
His brotherly concern warmed her through. With his more than six-foot-tall frame and fair coloring, he so reminded her of her elder brothers, Nathaniel and George. “I’m all right. Truly. I’m sure there is a game of cards somewhere you’d rather see to.”
His frown deepened. “Are you trying to be rid of me?”
She winked at him. “Yes.”
A chuckle rumbled up from his chest, and he shook his head. “If you’re certain…”
“I’m very certain.”
“I’ll return in a short while and partner you in a set.”
A little shudder wracked her frame. “Only if you’re determined to punish both me and your feet.” Her papa had always used to say Abigail could accomplish anything and everything…with the exception of dancing and embroidering. With Abigail’s lack of ladylike talents, Mother had despaired of Abigail ever making a match. In the end, Mother had been all too right.
Robert ran his eyes over her face, and must have seen something written there. “What is it?”
She waved her hand. “It is nothing.”
“Would you rather I stay and dance?”
Abigail laughed and swatted at his arm. “You’re insufferable.”
With a wink, he excused himself.
Abigail embraced the momentary solitude.
For the better part of the evening she’d battled tedium, which had lifted the moment Lord Redbrooke had shredded her hem with the heel of his boot. Something in his sea-green eyes had reflected the haunted look of one who knew pain and heartache.
Abigail knew. Because she, too, had known both those wrenching emotions.
Loud, yet muffled whispers interrupted her musings.
From the corner of her eye Abigail noted the nearby lords and ladies who eyed her, an American oddity in their glittering, perfectly ordered world. Her toes curled inside her ivory slippers and yet, she jutted her chin out, and boldly met the stares of the nobles around her with a frankness her mother would have deplored. It had the desired effect and the nosy peers directed their attention on some poor other unfortunate miss.
Abigail’s gaze collided with Lord Carmichael. Old and rotund, the gentleman had requested one of her later sets. The lecherous reprobate ogled her exposed décolletage a moment, and winked at her.
Shivers of distaste ran down her spine. She yanked her stare away from Lord Carmichael’s and instead directed her attention toward the crowd of shifting figures, who performed the intricate steps of a quadrille. A wistful smile played about Abigail’s lips at the sight of her cousin moving so gracefully, so elegantly, through the movements of the dance. Not like Abigail, who bumbled through every set and whose own dance tutors had deemed her unteachable.
Beatrice glanced up at her dance partner—Lord Redbrooke. The angular lines of his harshly beautiful face were set in a stoic mask. Every so often his thin, firm lips would move, and that pretty pink hue of Beatrice’s skin deepened.
Beatrice had been nothing but good and kind to Abigail…so this hideous envy that dug away at Abigail’s insides was petty and wrong. But God help her, how she longed for the restoration of her own innocence. Unlike Abigail, who had given away everything dear to a young lady, Beatrice remained unsullied, and pure, and therefore perfectly suitable for marriage to an honorable, worthy man.
The pain of past transgressions stabbed at Abigail with all the intensity of a dull knife being twisted inside her.
Suddenly, a longing for home filled her. At home she’d be outside on the cool, dew-kissed grass, inhaling the fragrant scent of sea air, gazing up at the constellations revealed in the stars.
She looked toward the long row of floor-length windows at the central part of Lord and Lady Hughes’s ballroom and imagined herself far away. Through a slight slit in the gold brocade curtains, a distant glint flickered, beckoning, calling, as it so often did.
The London sky, thick with fog and dirt kept hidden the jewels of the sky she enjoyed in her seaport home. But sometimes, on the rarest of nights, rarer than a star shooting through the sky, the fog and dirt lifted and presented the stories contained within the stars.
Abigail took advantage of her position along the wall to plot her escape from the ballroom. With purpose to her steps, she skirted the perimeter of the spacious room, and then stole down a long corridor, needing to put distance between herself and the hot crush of guests. Abigail came to a long row of floor-length crystal windows with double doors that overlooked a grand terrace. She glanced over her shoulder to ascertain that she was in fact alone, and then opened the doors.
Abigail slipped outside. She picked her way around the stone patio, and wandered over to the balustrade. Gripping the edge, she leaned out much the way she had from the hull of her father’s ship and surveyed the magnificent sight of the star-studded sky. The full moon hung high above, casting a white glow upon the walled in garden of thick green shrubbery and cascading flowers.
Abigail closed an eye and pointed her finger out at the darkened horizon, fixing on the bright tip of the Corona Borealis. She studied the crown-shaped constellation not feeling remarkably different than Ariadne abandoned by Theseus.
She inhaled deep in hopes of a familiar scent of the sea, but the slightly stale, stagnant air drove back memories of home.
Mama had grand aspirations of Abigail making a proper English match with some wealthy, young lord. Her mouth twisted bitterly. As though one of the proper English gentlemen
could dismiss the scandal Abigail had created back in America and forgive a lack of virtue in his lady wife. Abigail stood a greater chance of the mythical Dionysus coming down with the crown of stars from the heavens and placing it atop her head.
No proper English lord would be willing to take to wife a young woman who’d given her virtue to a scoundrel. No, what was left of Abigail’s heart belonged to the seaport home she’d been born to. Soon she’d return.
Her heart twisted. It would never be the same. She could not regain what had been lost; her virtue, her pride, her good name. When she returned, which she would, the same derision she’d fled would still await her there.
Abigail opened her eyes. Mama had asked the Duke of Somerset to give Abigail a proper London Season…and when the Season was done, Abigail prayed she would be welcomed back into her family’s fold.
“I suspected you’d be looking for me, lovie.”
Abigail jumped at the nasally voice that slashed into her private musings. She spun around.
The heavily wrinkled Lord Carmichael, stared at her through watery, brown eyes that bulged in a way that put her in mind of a great bluefish she’d once caught fishing with her brother.
She cleared her throat, and spoke with hesitancy. “Lord Carmichael. If you’ll excuse me, I was just returning to the ballroom.” She made to step around his corpulent frame, but he placed himself directly in her path, cutting off escape.
Her stomach roiled with unease.
“What is the rush, lovie?” His paw-like fingers reached out and caught a strand of her hair. “I saw you direct your pretty little chin toward the outside window.”
He’d misconstrued her focus on the starry night outside Lord Hughes’s long windows as an invitation. She shook her head. “No. You were mistaken, my lord. I merely desired fresh air.”
Lord Carmichael rolled the lock of hair between his fingers.
“Remember yourself, sir,” she bit out.
He gave the curl a sharp tug that caused tingling pain to radiate along the sensitive flesh of her scalp. Tears sprung to her eyes.
“My lord,” she said in the same tone she reserved for her youngest brother and sister. “Remember yourself. My family, the duke, will be missing me.” She hoped the reminder of her uncle’s status would force Lord Carmichael to relinquish her.
Her efforts were met with his cackling laugh. “I’ll release you.” He leaned close so his breath fanned her cheeks. “Just as soon as we have a bit of fun out here.”
She recoiled from the scent of heavy liquor, sweat, and garlic that clung to his podgy frame.
“Come, don’t pretend you aren’t interested. I saw you talking to Redbrooke and without proper introductions. An American piece such as yourself, you’ve probably had all manner of men between your legs. Savage men.”
An indignant gasp escaped her. She slapped him so hard his head whipped back. The sound of her hand connecting with his flesh reverberated around the still of the night. Momentary satisfaction filled her at the stark, white imprint her palm had left upon his fleshy cheeks.
Abigail took advantage of his distraction and hurried around him but her satisfaction was short lived. The tip of her slipper caught upon the blasted torn hem, and she stumbled to her knees. She bit the inside of her cheek. Why hadn’t she tended the ripped garment instead of seeking out a moment’s solitude?
She stifled a cry as Lord Carmichael’s fleshy fingers closed around the delicate flesh of her forearm. He jerked her upright and pulled her against his frame. “I’ve heard stories about you,” he rasped.
“Stories?” Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears. She struggled against him and managed to free herself from his hold. Panic hummed in her ears. Good God, had word of her scandal already reached English soil?
Carmichael used her distraction to tug her close with a strength better suited to a man thirty years his junior. “So you like it rough, do you?” He chuckled. “Very well.”
Abigail jammed the heel of her slipper down upon his booted foot. Her ineffectual efforts only raised the old letch’s amusement. She wrestled against him. “Release me.” She detested the quiver of her high-pitched command.
“I will.” His lips caressed her neck. “Just as soon as I get a sample of your charms, lovie.”
Terror surged through her. She struggled against him but he pawed and grabbed at her like a determined animal. She’d come to London in desperate hope of setting aside the shame of her scandal. Instead, it would seem she’d merely traded one scandal for another.
Lord Carmichael tugged the décolletage of her satin ball gown lower, and fury gave strength to her fight.
By God, she would not allow him to further ruin her already tattered reputation. She jabbed him in the side with her elbow.
He grunted, but only shifted his attention to her breast.
God help her.
With the exception of rigorous practice in Gentleman Jackson’s ring, a gentleman should never engage in fisticuffs.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~4~
Geoffrey drained the contents of his champagne flute and passed the empty glass onto the tray of a nearby, liveried servant.
He’d had his quadrille with Lady Beatrice. If his memory served, there were two country reels and a waltz in between their next set.
The evening had been productive in terms of advancing his courtship.
Except…
His gaze scanned the bodies, searching for a too-tall young lady, with fire in her eyes. Guilt had filled him the moment the young lady had taken her leave of the ballroom, surely hurrying off to see to her torn gown.
It had been nearly a quarter of an hour and the young lady had not returned. Geoffrey tapped his finger along the side of his thigh considering her absence. He didn’t expect a young lady, an American should understand the possible scandal of disappearing, unchaperoned in her host’s home. Or worse, the bold creature was meeting with some young swain.
Rage clutched at him. He squared his jaw. It was merely his strict appreciation for propriety that accounted for the need to find the young lady and redirect her to the ball. After all, considering his actions had resulted in her departure from the soiree, it would only be the gentlemanly thing to do to make sure she’d not come to any further trouble because of his actions. Geoffrey set out in search of the American lady.
His quickened step had nothing to do with a desire to see the alluring beauty.
Nothing at all.
Geoffrey strode down Lord Hughes’s halls and followed it to the old earl’s balcony and gardens.
He stared down the corridor. The bright glint of moonlight cast shadows through the crystal windows and reflected off the walls.
Geoffrey froze. The lady wouldn’t have gone outside to repair her torn skirt. He turned around when a soft cry split the quiet.
Disregarding the fact that gentleman did not run, amidst their host’s home, no less, Geoffrey sprinted toward the double doors. He threw them open, and froze.
The young lady hissed and clawed like a cat cornered in Cook’s kitchens. She raked her nails over the side of Lord Carmichael’s cheek, leaving a streak of bloody tracks down his fleshy cheeks.
“You bitch,” Lord Carmichael spat, and shook her hard.
Some kind of savage beast stirred to life within Geoffrey’s chest. A primitive growl worked its way up his throat and spilled past his lips. He raced forward and ripped Carmichael off the woman’s struggling form.
She clawed at Geoffrey’s arms, a wild, haunted look in her eyes. Her chest heaved from the exertions of her struggles.
Geoffrey knew the moment logic replaced the horrified panic inside her. She blinked several times, and then sank to her knees, inching backwards, until her back borrowed support from the stone wall that overlooked the grounds.
“Redbrooke,” Carmichael wheedled. “What are you about? I’m just having a good time with the American girl. She invited me out here.”
“I didn’t,”
the young lady said, her voice flat.
“She did. She motioned to the windows and led me a merry little chase out here. Now she’d have you believe she’s some innocent young miss. What proper lady would be out here unchaperoned, Redbrooke? Only a wh—”
Geoffrey punched Carmichael. The sharp jab to the older man’s fleshy cheeks knocked him to his knees. The lecherous bastard pressed a hand to his nose to staunch the blood flow. From around his hand, Carmichael glared up at Geoffrey. “What did you do that for?” he whined. “She wanted it. Led me out here—”
Geoffrey punched him in the nose and this time, the old reprobate’s eyes slid to the back of his head and he fell into a heap at Geoffrey’s feet.
Geoffrey stared down at his clenched, bloodied fists, and counted to ten. Except the insidious, loathsome remembrance of Carmichael’s sausage-like fingers upon the lady’s skin, twisted around his mind. He took a step toward Carmichael.
“Don’t,” she murmured, as if she’d anticipated Geoffrey’s intentions.
He looked back to the young woman. Several strands of her hair hung in long, wispy waves like a midnight waterfall about her shoulders and down her back. Geoffrey was certain he’d never seen a woman of greater beauty.
Also certain that in his twenty nine, three hundred and seventy-three, nearly seventy-four days, he’d never descended into this crazed, half-mad state.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice gruff to his own ears. He closed the distance between them, and fell to a knee beside her.
A hand fluttered about the bodice of her gown, and he averted his gaze as she righted the material.
The air left Geoffrey on a hiss. “By God, I’ll kill him.”
“I’m all right,” she said with a shocking steadiness to her voice.
Any other lady would have descended into hysterics following such an attack.
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 3
