And he belonged to her cousin.
“Ahh, there is, Lord Redbrooke,” Beatrice said, seeming more to herself.
Abigail followed her cousin’s gaze and knew the moment Geoffrey registered Beatrice’s focus.
Geoffrey and Beatrice shared a smile. There, for all of Polite Society, to see. From the stoic lord, it may as well have constituted a formal offer of marriage.
Abigail curled her toes in a desperate bid to halt the urge to flee. All his heroic efforts on Abigail’s behalf had merely been the actions of a gentleman. Here Abigail sat, making more of his rescue when in actuality, Geoffrey would have done the same for Beatrice—any lady, for that matter.
The curtain drew back.
“It is starting,” Beatrice whispered, clapping her hands together with more enthusiasm than Abigail ever had seen demonstrated by her otherwise, reserved cousin.
The actors launched into Act II. Familiar with the tale of a love destroyed and betrayal, Abigail again sought out Geoffrey. Their gazes collided. She offered him a smile.
Unlike the polite smile he’d shared with Beatrice not very long ago, his lips flattened into a hard line, and he returned his focus to the stage below.
Abigail bit the inside of her cheek. Yesterday afternoon, Geoffrey had been stiff, proper, unrelenting…the kind of gentleman she’d never wanted in her life. His harsh revelation yesterday, and then his swift departure, had indicated that Geoffrey, too, carried secrets. She remembered the flash of pain in his eyes, the muscle that had throbbed at the corner of his mouth.
Her cousin, Robert had indicated Geoffrey had not always been the aloof figure who now courted her cousin. And not for the first time since he’d swept onto Lord and Lady Hughes’s terrace and rescued her from Lord Carmichael, she wondered what had happened to Geoffrey, a man who so desperately needed life teased back into him.
She glanced over at Beatrice, thoroughly engrossed in the performance below. Abigail’s heart tightened with unwanted feelings of regret and…envy. Geoffrey had been abundantly clear that he wanted Beatrice to be that young lady.
After all, gentlemen such as Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke, did not wed ruined young ladies careless enough as to toss their virtue away. Regret tasted like the bitterest of fruits and it threatened to choke her as she recalled that night she and Alexander had been discovered in one another’s arms, her gown in dishabille…
Abigail swallowed hard. All the humiliation and despair she’d carried crested like a wave at sea and nearly engulfed her, threatening to pull her under.
Abigail stumbled to her feet, nearly upending her chair.
“Abigail?” Robert looked at her questioningly.
“I-ah-I require a moment,” she said. And before he or Beatrice should think to follow, Abigail fled. She registered the moment her maid Sally started after her, and picked up her pace, down the long hall, down a flight of stairs. She wanted to leave.
“Sally,” she said, her voice raspy to her own ears. “Please have the coach summoned, and then return and tell the marquess I have a megrim.”
Concern filled Sally’s kindly eyes. “Are you certain I should leave you alone, Miss Stone? Perhaps I should return for the marquess.”
“No!” Abigail said. “Please, just have the coach summoned.”
Sally hesitated, and then hurried ahead, leaving Abigail at the main stairway of the theater.
Abigail froze, the tip of her slipper at the top step that represented the path to her freedom from the theatre.
Geoffrey stood at the base of the long, wide staircase. One hand rested casually upon the rail. He looked up at her.
Tears filled her eyes.
She blinked, but the blasted drops she’d been unable to shed since her voyage to London, refused to fall; instead the salty pools blurred her vision.
The unshed mementos of despair still could not mask the concern that blazed to life in the green-blue irises of Geoffrey’s normally hard, impenetrable stare.
Abigail dimly registered his long, powerful legs striding up the stairs with marked elegance and determination.
Drat. Must he be so perfect as to even race up the stairs in a regal manner?
He stopped at the step below her, his gaze working a path over her person. “Abigail? Have you been hurt?”
***
The moment Geoffrey had seen Abigail surge to her feet and flee the duke’s theatre box, he’d set out in pursuit. Even with the distance between them, and the dimly lit auditorium, he’d detected the panicky glitter in her eyes.
Geoffrey cursed, and glanced around but with the second act having just begun, the hall remained eerily quiet. “Abigail, what is it?”
She gave her head a shake. “I-I’m fine. Really. You shouldn’t be here. It’s not p-proper.” Her chest heaved up and down, as she drew in gasping, ragged breaths.
To hell with propriety. Geoffrey took her by the hand and ushered her over to a nearby alcove. He shielded her body with his, in the event someone should come upon them. He studied her with a quiet intensity.
She implored him with her eyes. “You must go. If you’re discovered…”
“I don’t care about discovery,” he said, sharply.
His body stiffened as he realized with a staggering shock, in that moment he didn’t care about his image amongst the ton, or scandal, or the threat of impropriety, or his mother’s expectations. He didn’t even care about the crimes of his youth and Emma’s betrayal. Or his courtship of Lady Beatrice. There would be time enough for logic and reason later. Just then, nothing seemed of greater import than driving back the raw pain reflected in Abigail’s eyes.
The distant echo of Othello’s words reached through the theatre into their sanctuary.
If it were now to die, 'twere now to be most happy; for I fear my soul hath her content so absolute that not another comfort like to this succeeds in unknown fate.
Othello’s words swirled around them, and mocked Geoffrey with their eerie accuracy.
“Why are you troubled, Abigail?” Geoffrey pressed. By god, if one of those callow youths from White’s had dared put their hands upon her person, he would destroy them.
She shook her head. “It’s…” Abigail looked up at him. “It’s…” The hint of unspoken words seemed to dangle upon her lips. Real, and tangible between them.
She bit her lower lip and her gaze skirted his, so uncharacteristic of the woman who brazenly met his stare. “It is nothing,” she finished lamely. “I merely miss my family.”
He narrowed his eyes. Did she expect he could not perceive the lie in her stormy-gray eyes? “Has someone hurt you?”
A bitter little laugh spilled past her bow-shaped, red lips, and she shook her head too- emphatically, confirming his earlier supposition.
Odd, in a mere handful of days he’d come to know her enough to read even the most subtle nuances of her movements. “Who?” The word emerged as a silken whisper. He’d kill the bastard who’d reduced her to this downtrodden figure before him.
“No one. Truly,” she said at last. Her gaze locked with his. “You shouldn’t be here, Geoffrey. We shouldn’t.”
Ahh, so she’d be rid of him?
“No,” he agreed. But he remained.
And so did she.
When had propriety ceased to matter?
Geoffrey dropped his brow atop hers, inhaling the sweet fragrant lilacs that kissed her skin and tantalized his senses. “What have you done to me, Abby?” he whispered. She’d made him forget a pledge he’d taken nearly five years ago. She made him yearn for all manner of things he should no longer desire.
Geoffrey groaned.
I am lost.
His mouth closed over hers.
Abigail leaned up on tip toe and pressed her lean, lush body to his. The generous expanse of her breasts flattened against the wall of his chest.
His hands of their own volition went to her waist. He should set her away. He should turn on his heel and leave the bold young lady who made
him forget.
He should do all manner of things proper.
Instead, he tugged her closer, and moved his hands along the curve of her hips, the base of her buttocks, until a little moan escaped her. Geoffrey parted her lips and swallowed that breathy sound of desire, his shaft hardening against her belly.
“Geoffrey,” she whispered into his mouth.
His tongue danced an age old rhythm with hers. Parry and thrust. Thrust and parry. Her head fell back, and his lips left hers.
“No,” she protested, tugging on the strands of his hair.
Geoffrey ignored her urging and used his lips to trail a hot path along the sensitive spot behind her ear, down to the rapidly fluttering pulse in her neck, and ever lower, to the exposed satiny flesh of her décolletage.
Abigail moaned.
“Now, by heaven, my blood begins my safer guides to rule, and passion, having my best judgment collied, assays to lead the way."
Othello’s mocking words infiltrated the haze of passion. Geoffrey wrenched his head back. He released Abigail with such alacrity, she stumbled against him. He eyed her there with something akin to horror creeping around his mind with tentacle-like fingers.
Abigail looked at him. “Geoffrey,” she whispered.
He shook his head hard enough to yank the muscles in his neck. He welcomed the stiff pain, embraced it for penance. Geoffrey spun on his heel, presenting Abigail with his back. All the while, he struggled to draw in steady, even breaths.
Christ. After Emma’s betrayal and his father’s death, he’d believed himself free of irrational, impassioned responses. And yet, here he stood, a stone’s throw from Polite Society, lusting after Lady Beatrice’s cousin. His eyes slid closed on a wave of guilt.
He’d failed in his responsibilities now, just as he had five years ago.
“Geoffrey,” Abigail repeated softly.
He gave his head a curt shake and when he trusted himself not to cross over to Abigail and take her into his arms yet again, he turned to face her. “Go, Miss Stone.” Or I will not be responsible for what I do next. “Go!” he repeated, his tone harsh and cold.
A flash of hurt filled her eyes.
Abigail stepped behind him and fled.
A gentleman recognizes the value in rising early as beneficial to a healthy constitution.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~12~
Geoffrey guided Decorum through the empty grounds of Hyde Park, giving the mount free rein to stretch his legs. Even as he galloped along the empty riding path, he longed for the open expanse of land in his country seat. Only there could he be free of Society’s focus.
He hadn’t always desired solitude.
At one time, he’d loathed the country and craved the balls and soirees of the Season. It seemed a lifetime since he’d been that man; a lifetime since Miss Emma Marsh.
He tugged on the reins of his horse, and brought it to a trot. He prided himself on the orderly manner in which he’d lived his life these past years. He’d reformed himself from careless rogue into sensible, responsible lord. No living soul; not his mother, nor Sophie, knew of the secret shame and guilt he carried. They didn’t know that there had been a time when Geoffrey had placed his own selfish desires before everything that truly mattered; family, responsibility, his title as viscount—and that decision had proven a costly one.
Last night, he’d exhibited a shocking lack of honor in kissing Abigail.
Geoffrey swiped his hand over his face. Abigail had wrought havoc upon the carefully crafted life he’d built for himself after his father’s tragic death.
Perhaps on this, his thirtieth birthday he was reminded that he still remained unwed and heir-less. Or perhaps the unconventional, bold-spirited Abigail Stone had woven a sorceress’ spell upon him. But, the dream of her had kicked down the wall he’d carefully constructed around his heart.
“Whoa,” he said to Decorum. He brought the mare to a halt at the edge of the Serpentine, and stared out at the impressive, man-made lake. He remembered back to the day he’d waded in to rescue Abigail’s bit of lace. Those actions had belonged to the man he’d been, not the man he’d become.
Except, Geoffrey found the sanguine gentleman of his youth still lived inside him.
He continued to study the pristine, untouched surface of the lake.
His visit here, not mere happenstance.
It reminded him of her…
“Hullo.”
Geoffrey jerked, and his knees bit unexpectedly into Decorum’s flanks. In a desperate attempt to keep the horse from bolting, Geoffrey yanked hard on the reins. The suddenness of his movements startled the mare. Decorum reared on its legs, pawing at the air. Dust and gravel clouded around him.
“Bloody hell,” Geoffrey muttered, as Decorum tossed him sideways. He braced for the moment his body connected with the Earth, but couldn’t prepare for the jolting, jarring pain as his side collided with the ground. He rolled out of the way to keep from being trampled by Decorum’s hooves. All the air left his lungs.
Decorum bolted ahead several feet.
“Oh my goodness!” Abigail cried and raced the remaining distance until she reached his side. Her skirts whipped wildly about her legs, as she skidded to a stop in front of him. She sank to her knees. “Are you hurt?” Her worried gaze ran up and down his prone form.
“I’m…” Sore and embarrassed.
Abigail ran her hands over his person. Her fingers traveled down his forearms and along his back and over his side as she searched him for injury.
The gods surely tested him. Geoffrey groaned.
“Oh goodness, you’re hurt.” Abigail paused. “I’m so sorry.” She momentarily raised her eyes to meet his. ”I...I’m so sorry,” she repeated. She resumed her tender ministrations.
Her fingers graced his hip.
Geoffrey’s body hardened as she came entirely too close to that part of him that longed to lay her down, pull the pins free of her serviceable chignon, and allow her midnight curls to fall about them in a silken cascade. “Madam,” he bit out. His gaze searched the surrounding area and then settled upon Abigail’s pink cheeks. “Where is your maid?”
Abigail’s eyes went wide as she seemed to realize all at once the impropriety of her actions. “I-ah…forgive me.” She struggled to her feet, her gaze skirting his. She glanced down at her toes and scuffed the tip of her slipper along the pebbled path. “I left Sally some time to herself in the gardens.”
He dropped his voice. “You ventured through Hyde Park, alone, madam? Even knowing the perils of being unchaperoned?” There were all manners of cowardly bastards like Lord Carmichael who would gladly shred the young lady’s reputation without a by your leave.
She waved her hand. “What harm could come to me?”
Geoffrey closed his eyes briefly and prayed for patience. When he opened them, he found her studying him, head tilted at an endearing little angle. “I believe you’ve already learned the dangers to be found, even amidst fashionable Society.”
The color drained from her cheeks at his unspoken reminder of Lord Carmichael’s attack. Most women would have dropped their modest gazes to the ground. Abigail Stone, however, was no conventional young lady. Her eyes blazed with emotion. “I merely sought to help, my lord. I’ve helped my brothers and sister after many mishaps.”
He stiffened at her innocent comparison. Even as he sat there lusting after her like an untried youth, Abigail looked to him the way she might one of her siblings. Geoffrey stood slowly.
She must have seen something dark and menacing in his eyes for her hand flew to her breast, and she took, one step, then another, and another, backward.
“Do you believe I’d hurt you?” he snapped.
His words brought her up short. Her chin went up a notch, as he continued to advance.
Geoffrey stopped so close that his boots kissed the tips of her ivory, satin slippers. He looked down at her; his eyes fixed on the tempting red, flesh of her full lips. His breath gre
w ragged. If he dipped his head down, even just a bit, their lips would brush.
“No.”
God help him, he wanted her.
“What?” That single-word question ripped harshly from his throat.
Abigail reached for his hand. “I do not believe you’d hurt me. I do not believe you’re capable of hurting anyone.”
He remembered back to his father’s broken body, and swallowed. Abigail could not be more mistaken.
“Oh, dear. You are hurt,” Abigail said, mistaking whatever emotion she saw in his ravaged eyes for a physical pain.
She took his hand and turned it over, studying it for a moment. The distant cry of a kestrel, echoed overhead, and blended with the heavy beat of his heart. With the tip of her index finger, she dusted bits of gravel and rock from his palm. “You’re bleeding,” she murmured.
She released him and reached into the front of her pocket.
He said nothing as she removed that familiar scrap of lace and touched it to his hand. “No,” he protested, too late. The thin thread of blood that ran a crimson path from the intersecting lines of his palm to his wrist soaked into the stark white fabric of her lace. “Abigail,” he said, hoarsely.
“It is fine.” She did not pick her head up from tending his person. “It does not mean more to me than your injury.”
His heart tugged at those words. The lace had been a gift she carried with her always, a reminder of her home and family, and, Abigail had forever stained it with his blood.
“There.” She tied the fabric about his hand. A smile played across her lips. “You look lovely in lace, my lord.”
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 11
