Geoffrey brushed the back of his knuckles along her cheek. “Are you certain?”
“He didn’t…” She wet her lips. “That is, he didn’t…” She colored. “I’m fine,” was all she said.
Geoffrey reached inside the front of his evening coat and withdrew his monogrammed kerchief. “Here. Allow me.” He touched the fabric to the corner of her lip.
She winced and his gut clenched at having caused her pain. “My apologies.” He handed the cloth off to her, mourning the loss of contact between them.
“I know we’ve not been properly introduced but after your timely intervention, I imagine we’ve moved beyond rigid politeness. My name is Abigail. Abigail Stone.”
It was an unfamiliar name. An American name.
Somehow wildly exotic in its simplicity.
He wondered what this American woman was doing in London.
Geoffrey sketched a short bow. “Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke.”
“Geoffrey,” she said, the word rolled off her tongue as though she tasted the feel of it upon her lips.
“Lord Redbrooke,” he corrected. “It’s not proper for us to refer to one another by our Christian names.” Even if there’d never been a sound more right than his name upon her lips.
His admonition must have roused whatever sense of misguided guilt she had over Lord Carmichael’s attack. Her gaze shifted to the ground. “I cannot stay out here but,” she spread her arms wide. “I cannot return like this.”
Unbidden, his stare fell to her décolletage, previously exposed by Carmichael’s assault. He balled his hands into fists to keep from bloodying the bastard all over again.
However, with the exception of her still-torn hem from their earlier encounter in Lord Hughes’s ballroom and those glorious wisps of hair about her shoulders, she appeared largely un-mussed.
She shook her head back and forth. “My cousin will call him out. I’ll have caused a scandal. My mother will again be disappointed.”
Geoffrey resisted the urge to inquire as to what she’d done to have earned her mother’s displeasure. It would be the height of impropriety to delve into the young lady’s personal affairs. “Here,” he said, gentling his tone. He worked to arrange her long, silken strands back into a semblance of something her maid had attempted with the glorious crown of wavy, black locks. He studied his efforts.
“Do I look presentable?” The question merged hopefulness with resignation.
Geoffrey’s eyes traveled along the high lines of her cheek-bones, to the intriguing birthmark just at the corner of her lip. Glorious. Magnificent.
Instead, he said, “You’ll do.”
“I should go,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
They both should.
And yet, they both remained rooted to the spot, gazes locked.
Something strong, and powerful, a masculine hunger brewed inside him, until he wanted to toss aside his proprietary responsibilities and his commitment to strict decorum and make her his. As if a man possessed, Geoffrey’s hand came up of its own volition to stroke the silken curve of her cheek.
Geoffrey didn’t recognize the savage beast who’d taken down Lord Carmichael with his bare fists, and now longed to carry off this American stranger, take her someplace far away, where they’d both be sheltered from Society’s rigid expectations.
She leaned into his touch. “Dionysus,” she whispered.
His breathing settled into a smooth, steady cadence.
She looked up at him, her face bathed in moonlight; the full orb reflected in the irises of her eyes and placed her palm in his. “You saved me,” she breathed. Then, Abigail guided their joined hands upward, leveling them at the stars glinting above.
Geoffrey looked to their interlocked fingers, lit by the moon’s glow.
Lord Carmichael groaned, and jolted Geoffrey from whatever spell the American enchantress had cast upon him. He glanced down at Carmichael’s prone form.
A stark white scrap of fabric lay, partially obscured by the man’s foot. Geoffrey bent down and tugged it free. The length of fine Italian lace must have been concealed somewhere within the bodice of the lady’s gown. He cleared his throat. “I believe this must belong—”
Her gasp cut into his words. She reached for the lace with tremulous fingers. “Thank you.” Abigail leaned up and placed her lips along his cheek. “I…just, thank you.” The husky timbre of her voice washed over him.
Then, Abigail fled.
He swiped a hand across his eyes.
Christ. This was very bad, indeed.
***
Abigail hurried down the same corridor she’d walked only a short while ago, before Lord Carmichael’s attack, before Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke, had rescued her from certain ruin, before he’d done the oddest thing to her heart’s rhythm.
“There you are!”
Abigail gasped, the soft pads of her white satin slippers slid along the marble floor.
Her cousin, Beatrice, reached out to steady her, a sparkle in her kind blue eyes. “Where have you been, Abby? My brother has been searching for you. I explained you had a tear in your gown. This isn’t where one goes to have her hem r…” Her words died. Of a sudden, Beatrice seemed to take note of the out of place locks that had fallen around Abigail’s shoulder. The warm, teasing light always found in Beatrice’s eyes flickered out, replaced by a hard fury better suited to a ruthless warrior than her gentle-spirited cousin. “What happened to you? Who did this?” she hissed.
Abigail brushed a strand back into place with trembling fingers. “D...did w...what? It is merely my hem that is ruined. Truly.” With her eyes, Abigail implored Beatrice not to ask any further questions. Now that Abigail was free of Lord Carmichael’s clutches, the reality of his assault began to settle around her brain like a serpent sinking its venom into her and poisoning her with the hideous memories of Carmichael’s touch.
Her cousin was good enough not to press Abigail for details. “We need to leave. You can’t be seen like this.” Beatrice glanced around. “Come,” she murmured, and took Abigail by the hand.
“Where are we going?”
“Shh, we must be quiet,” Beatrice whispered as she tugged Abigail along. “We’ll find a place for you to wait while I have the carriage called for.”
“Your father and brother—”
“I’ll tell them your hem was ruined beyond repair, and must leave at once. Robert will see us home.”
Oh, God. Her cousin would need only a glance to know that she’d nearly been ruined here this evening.
Beatrice held her gaze. “You look perfectly lovely.” You’ll do, he’d murmured in a silken baritone that had washed over her. Beatrice pointed her eyes to the towering ceiling. “Many witnessed what transpired, Abby.”
The breath lodged in Abigail’s chest. “What happened?” Her voice emerged as a hoarse croak.
Beatrice spoke in a gentle whisper. “The whole manner in which Lord Redbrooke knocked down that poor servant and ruined your gown.” She wrinkled her nose. “He is a very severe, proud man. Lord Redbrooke, not the servant,” she clarified.
“Beatrice,” Abigail chided. Though serious, and driven by propriety, Lord Redbrooke had also been the man who’d intervened and saved her from certain ruin.
Beatrice shook her head. “Regardless, Robert will never assume anything else is to account for your appearance.”
Abigail bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pointing out that Lord Redbrooke had in fact stepped on her hem, but t it had been Abigail who’d knocked into the servant and sent his tray falling.
Her cousin ran her pale blue gaze over Abigail’s face. “Are you certain you were unharmed because Robert will gladly call out the scoundrel who—”
“No! You mustn’t say anything. It was merely my hem that was ruined. Just my hem.” She’d not allow Robert to risk his life on a dueling field. Abigail’s tattered reputation didn’t deserve such a sacrifice. And for that matter, she’d already ruined enough
lives with her scandalous ways.
Beatrice said nothing for a long moment, and then gave a slow nod. “Very well.”
Abigail’s eyes slid momentarily closed. “You are too good to me.”
“Do hush. I’m just very glad for your company. I’ve had a remarkable lack of feminine companionship.” Her mother, the duchess had died giving birth to Bea. Beatrice took Abigail’s hands and gave them a slight squeeze. “And I’ve always wanted a sister.”
Abigail managed her first smile that evening. She and Beatrice had fallen into a fast friendship from the moment Abigail had set her unsteady sea legs upon English soil. Beatrice had been waiting for her at the wharf side with her father and brother. Unlike Abigail with a gaggle of brothers and a sister, Beatrice remained the sole female in a male household.
Beatrice paused beside a closed door. She shoved it open and peeked inside. “No one is in here,” she whispered over her shoulder. “Go and wait for me,” she ordered, gently propelling Abigail into Lord Hughes’s office. “Now, lock the door. Do not open it until you hear me.”
Abigail managed a nod and shut the door behind Beatrice. She turned the lock.
The hum of silence filled the room, punctuated by the steady tick-tock of the clock.
Abigail closed her eyes, and rested her back alongside the thick wood-panel of the door. Lord Carmichael’s attack swirled through her mind. She hugged her arms close to her chest to ward off the chilled remembrance of his vile grasping. Tears filled her eyes, and the dimly lit library blurred before her. She blinked but the tears would not fall.
As abhorrent and reprehensible as Lord Carmichael was, there had been merits to the charges he’d hurled at her.
Abigail considered Geoffrey Winters, the Viscount Redbrooke’s gallant rescue. He’d saved her from ruin, restored her hair to rights, and retrieved her lace memento…and what was more, not once had he looked upon her with the icy condescension she’d come to expect from respectable members of society. Lord Redbrooke might be a proper lord, but he possessed the kind of heroism the Greeks had made into legend.
Abigail dropped her head into her hands, and wondered whether he’d be so quick to rush to her defense if he learned she’d given away her virtue on an undeserving gentleman.
A gentleman conducts himself with honor and integrity in all matters.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~5~
The next morning Abigail kept company with Beatrice in the Yellow Parlor. Abigail sat at the window-seat that overlooked the walled-in garden at the back of the duke’s townhouse, and sighed. She rested her forehead against the cool pane and gazed down at the stream of sunlight reflected off the armillary at the center of a collection of rose bushes.
He’d rescued her.
He’d rescued her as though she were the pure, innocent woman in desperate need of saving.
Well, the latter part of that had been true, anyway.
Since last evening, Geoffrey Winters, Lord Redbrooke had occupied ever single corner of her mind.
She considered Beatrice’s visage reflected back in the glass window pane. Head bent as she worked diligently on her very ladylike endeavor. Her cousin moved the needle in her hand with expert precision through the embroidery frame upon her lap. Beatrice represented everything Abigail was not—a flawless lady. Her skills upon the dance floor were only rivaled by her mastery of watercolors and embroidering.
As though she felt Abigail’s stare upon her, Beatrice paused mid-stitch and looked up. She tipped her head at a slight angle and set the frame aside. “You have a sad look about you, Abby.”
Abigail fixed her gaze on the fuchsia rose bush below. “Do I?” She’d felt mired down in sadness since the night of her great scandal—except, last evening when she’d nearly been knocked down by stiffly proper Lord Redbrooke. For a too-brief moment she’d remembered what it felt like to smile again, and laugh, and yearn for all manner of things she’d thought forever lost to her after Alexander.
“Did you love him?”
Abigail froze at the probing inquiry.
“I’m sorry,” Beatrice said quickly. “I shouldn’t have asked. I thought it might be helpful to speak of h…it. Please forgive me.”
Abigail shook her head, and turned to face her cousin. She dropped her legs over the side of the window-seat, and her emerald green muslin skirts fluttered about her ankles as her slippers graced the floor. “No, it is fine,” she assured her.” Abigail considered Beatrice’s question. “I believed I loved him.” Now, she suspected she’d worshipped him with girlish eyes.
“Does it hurt to speak of him?” Beatrice asked tentatively.
“It doesn’t.” And oddly, Abigail meant it. The shock of Alexander’s betrayal, she believed, would always sting. Only, since her flight from America, it seemed to have faded.
Beatrice eyed her expectantly.
Abigail folded her hands upon her lap and studied the interlocked digits. “His name was…is,” she amended. “Alexander. He was my brother Nathaniel’s closest friend. They went to school together. He would visit my family.” A wistful smile played about her lips. “He would tease me when I was younger.” He’d continued to tease her about her fascinated interest with the stars when she’d grown into a woman. Alexander had seemed perplexed by her unconventional knowledge.
“Oh,” Beatrice said, with so much pity and so much sadness in that one, tiny little utterance, Abigail’s smiled died. “What happened? You really needn’t feel like you must answer. Truly, I—”
“I fell in love with him,” Abigail cut into her cousin’s words, feeling freed by the admission.
Something wistful stole across Beatrice’s face. “How very fortunate you were.”
Abigail balled her hands into fists, and clenched them so tight she suspected she raised blood on the sensitive skin of her palm. Abigail had been all manner of things where Alexander Powers’ was concerned; foolish, impulsive, illogical. Fortunate had never been one of them.
She’d once carried a dream in her heart for more than the formal, rigid arrangements worked out by families.
And yet…she’d never taken Beatrice for a romantic. Something in the wistful, faraway look of Beatrice’s eyes gave her pause. Had she ever been as blessedly innocent as Beatrice?
“Has a particular gentleman captured your attention, Beatrice?”
Color flooded Beatrice’s cheeks, and she looked around as if to ascertain they were alone. “There is…a gentleman,” she said, with far more seriousness than Abigail had come to expect from her.
Abigail’s heart hitched. Lord Redbrooke and Beatrice had performed those intricate steps of the quadrille so elegantly. “Lord Redbrooke seems a kind,” gallant, “good man.”
Beatrice wrinkled her brow. “Lord Redbrooke? Surely you jest? He is a very serious, unpleasant kind of fellow.”
Surely they spoke of two different gentlemen? Lord Redbrooke, though solemn and stringently proper, had exhibited both a strength and honor Abigail had never before encountered in a gentleman. “The gentleman you speak of, the one who had captured your attention is not, Lord Redbrooke, then?” The question emerged halting.
An inelegant snort escaped Beatrice. “Hardly.” Why should her cousin’s words rouse this relief within her breast? “I do not believe Lord Redbrooke capable of any grand passion.”
Abigail opened her mouth to protest, and then promptly closed it. She’d not reveal the identity of her rescuer. She rather suspected Lord Redbrooke to be a private gentleman who’d not welcome or appreciate any fanfare.
Seeming unaware of Abigail’s sudden quiet, Beatrice continued, “I’m certain Lord Redbrooke will enter into a union that is based on nothing more than wealth and who will make him the most advantageous match.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I suspect Father would like very much for me to encourage the viscount’s suit.”
The Duke of Somerset’s daughter presented an ideal match for the Viscount Redbrooke. Until just then, however, Abiga
il had never considered that her cousin would aspire to anything beyond a strategic match in which mutual attraction was secondary.
“He would make you an excellent husband,” Abigail said softly, hating the truth of her utterance.
Beatrice snorted. “I assure you, I’d never settle for the Viscount Redbrooke. With his stern looks and constant frown, he could hardly inspire any deep affection in a lady.”
Oh, you are so very wrong, cousin. A man such as Lord Redbrooke could never be one a lady settled for, but rather a gentleman who ladies tossed their kerchiefs at.
“Do you desire a love match, Beatrice?”
Another inelegant snort escaped her usually always ladylike cousin. “I’m not a broodmare, Abby. I might be a proper English lady, but even I aspire to love.” Her eyes sparkled. “But you mustn’t tell Father. He’d be scandalized.”
“I’d be scandalized by what?”
Abigail and Beatrice’s gazes flew to the doorway. The duke stood in the threshold. Several inches greater than six feet, he possessed a wide, broad muscle-hewn frame better reserved for one of the men who worked upon her father’s ships than a peer just a smidgeon shy of royalty. A smile creased the lines of his austere cheeks.
“Father,” Beatrice murmured, and hurried across the room. She leaned up and placed a kiss upon his cheek.
An ugly frisson of envy spiraled through Abigail; a longing for the familiar presence of her bear-like father and his booming laugh. Only, the disappointment she’d seen reflected in her own father’s eyes would forever haunt her.
The duke smiled fondly down at his only daughter, and then shifted his focus to Abigail. “I’d like to speak with you Abigail.”
She wet her lips as sudden trepidation filled her. What if the duke had somehow learned of Lord Carmichael’s attack? Abigail nodded. “Your Grace.”
The duke looked to his daughter. “Please excuse us, Beatrice.”
Clearly accustomed to his ducal orders, Beatrice nodded, with a final glance over at Abigail as she took her leave. She closed the door in her wake; the slight click resounding in the quiet of the room.
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 4
