She craned her neck. Was there really just one serpent? She’d imagine with the powerful Medusa, the Greeks would have had more…
“I do so hope that frown has nothing to do with my company?” A deep baritone drawled close to her ear.
Abigail jerked her attention back to Lord Sinclair, the dark devil who’d been assigned the seat beside her during her uncle’s dinner party.
She picked up her spoon and toyed with the pistachios and pomegranate garnish in her bowl of white soup. “Forgive me,” she said, offering him a smile. “I was considering the stars,” she confessed.
Sinclair sat back in his seat. “I was considering the stars as well,” he confessed.
Abigail scrambled forward in her seat. “Truly?”
He leaned close, so close she detected the hint of red wine upon his breath. “I was thinking how the brightest star couldn’t compare to your beauty, Miss Stone.”
Abigail sat back in her chair, her jerky movements caused her elbow to knock the table. Soup spilled over the side of her bowl and smattered the ivory lace tablecloth. “Oh,” she said, blinking down at it.
A servant rushed over and she used the diversionary opportunity to look away from Lord Sinclair’s intense scrutiny.
She knew she should be appreciative, and honored by his effusive compliments and high-praise, and yet…she sighed, battling down disappointment.
“Do you know, Miss Stone,” Lord Sinclair began when the servant slipped away, “you seem less than thrilled by my compliment.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all. It is just…” She cleared her throat. “That is to say…”
He rested his hands upon the arms of his chair, looking for all the world like a man who owned the dining room and was not a mere guest of the Duke of Somerset’s dinner party.
Abigail glanced down the long dining table. Her stare landed on Beatrice, now conversing with Lord Sedgwick, who occupied the seat on her right.
To her left, sat the Viscount Redbrooke.
Abigail sucked in a breath. Instead of looking at Beatrice, Geoffrey’s raw, heated stare was fixed upon Abigail.
“I’ve never known Lord Redbrooke to do anything so bold as to stare in public.”
She jumped at Lord Sinclair’s statement.
Even with the great space separating them, Abigail detected the four creases that furrowed Geoffrey’s brow, and the subtle muscle that twitched in the corner of his lip.
“It appears you’ve captivated the viscount,” Sinclair said, his tone peculiar.
Abigail shook her head. “No. He is courting my cousin…”
“He might be courting your cousin, Miss Stone, but he’s not removed his eyes from you since the moment we were seated.”
Abigail stared into the contents of her porcelain bowl, unwilling to meet Lord Sinclair’s knowing expression. She picked up her spoon and tapped it distractedly along the side of her place setting.
When the silence between them stretched onward, she stopped, and set her spoon down, looking up at him.
A half-grin turned the corners of his lips. “And other than the stars, and now your bowl of soup, you’ve not removed your eyes from him.”
Panic built in her breast. She shook her head emphatically, appalled that she’d been so very transparent. “No, you’re mistaken.” Because if Lord Sinclair had detected how thoroughly bewitched, how hopelessly besotted she was with Geoffrey, then surely others had as well. She folded her palms on her lap to hide their tremble. “You are mistaken,” she repeated, this time more firmly.
His eyes lingered upon her face. “I wish that I was,” he said, his words a near whisper. “You intrigue me, Miss Stone. And I’m not one intrigued by marriageable misses.”
She managed a weak smile. “That is kind of you.” Only, there could be no young lady further from appropriate marriageable material, than herself.
“I didn’t say it to be kind. I said it to be truthful. If my mother insists I wed, I’d rather find an unconventional lady such as you.”
A startled laugh burst from her lips, attracting the notice of those seated around the table. She buried her amusement behind her hand. From the opposite end of the table, Geoffrey glowered at her and Lord Sinclair.
Lord Sinclair leaned so close, his breath fanned her cheek. “I do believe he’s jealous, Miss Stone.”
She pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re wrong,” she insisted. “You mistake his disapproval for interest.”
“Come, Miss Stone. You are too intelligent to believe that.” He winked at her. “He was not always serious, you know. Ahh, I see I have your attention now.”
“Have you known Lord Redbrooke very long?” She strove for nonchalance.
Lord Sinclair picked up his wine glass and took a sip. “I say, it’s rather humbling.”
She blinked. “My lord?”
“I’ve sat next to you for more than a half-hour or so. I’ve attempted to charm you and capture your attention, but this is the first real interest you’ve paid me this evening.”
Abigail’s feet curled in her slippers. Mama would be shamed at the deplorable effort she’d put into securing a match. Lord Sinclair was everything a young lady should desire; wickedly handsome, abundantly clever, and quite complimentary. He should be everything she needed to make her forget Alexander’s betrayal.
So why was she sitting here, ruminating like a silly miss about Geoffrey, seated alongside her cousin, holding a glass of wine with such graceful elegance.
After a long stretch of silence, Lord Sinclair sighed. “Yes. I’ve known Redbrooke for a number of years. At one time, we moved in the same social circles. He was always ready with a smile, and quite sought after by the…er…sought after,” he finished lamely.
The ladies.
Abigail studied Geoffrey a moment. With his broad, powerful shoulders, and muscles that fairly strained the fabric of his garment, she imagined women would be mad not to desire the viscount, regardless of his seriousness—seriousness that she found she rather preferred.
“What happened to him?” Abigail asked, unable to call the question back.
Lord Sinclair frowned. “There was a scandal. I’m not certain anyone knows all the details, but it involved a young lady, a baronet’s daughter, I believe. The details of what happened to the lady are not known, but after she disappeared from Polite Society, well, he was never the same.” He followed her gaze to Geoffrey. “I’ve said enough,” he murmured.
As if sensing he were the source of discussion between Abigail and Lord Sinclair, Geoffrey glowered at the both of them.
Lord Sinclair’s next words interrupted her musings. “If I cannot steal your attentions from the very proper Lord Redbrooke, well then I’m going to enjoy making him writhe in his seat with envy.”
“He is not writhing with envy.” Abigail stole a glimpse of Geoffrey. And looked back to Lord Sinclair. “He’s merely shifting in his seat.”
“With envy,” he added.
She smiled, shaking her head at him. “You are incorrigible, my lord.”
A servant appeared, clearing their bowls of soup away and setting out the next course; loin of veal in a béchamel sauce.
“And I’m envious,” he said. Something in his tone, an unexpected seriousness from the normally affable rogue, gave her pause.
Lord Braincourt, seated on the opposite side of Lord Sinclair said something that required his attention, for which Abigail was grateful. She picked up her fork and knife and delicately sliced the veal on her plate. She raised a bite to her mouth and considered Lord Sinclair’s revelation about Geoffrey.
A pang of ugly, very real envy slashed through her.
There had been a young lady—a lady who’d surely made him smile, and considering his stern countenance, had forever changed him into the gentleman Polite Society now saw.
Abigail, however, had seen more. She’d seen a man who’d shed his boots in front of all to see just to rescue her token from Lizzie. She’d witne
ssed the fury he’d unleashed on Lord Carmichael to protect and defend her. She stared down contemplatively at the plate in front of her, wondering at the lady foolish enough to relinquish Geoffrey.
Having been shamed and humiliated by Alexander, Abigail had an even greater appreciation for a gentleman of integrity, capable of genuine love and devotion.
Her family spoke of Abigail making a match, and yet, for the first time since she’d learned the extent of Alexander’s deceit, she began to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could love again.
***
Geoffrey could name all manner of things he’d rather to do than sit at the Duke of Somerset’s long dining hall table, as Abigail conversed with Lord Sinclair.
Why, he’d rather be forced to sit through Mama’s lecture about his duties as viscount.
Which was saying a good deal. Because he loathed the nuisance his mother so often made of herself as much as he detested being the subject of public scrutiny.
Geoffrey punished himself instead with the sight of Abigail seated beside Sinclair. It didn’t escape his notice the number of furtive glances she stole in Geoffrey’s direction. It didn’t escape his notice, because he studied her with the same dogged intensity.
He growled. If Sinclair didn’t remove his gaze from the generous swell of her décolletage, by God he’d drag the blighter across the table, and…
“You seem preoccupied, my lord,” Lady Beatrice murmured.
Geoffrey blamed his distractedness on too much drink earlier that day. He shook his head, returning his attention to Lady Beatrice. “Forgive me,” he murmured, and reached for his glass of wine. He took a sip, and then sat the glass back down.
“It is Abigail,” Lady Beatrice interjected, her words nothing more than the faintest whisper.
Geoffrey choked on his red wine.
“Come, my lord. I see the way you study her.”
He cleared his throat, mind curiously blank.
Lady Beatrice leaned closer and said quietly, “You do not want to court me, my lord.”
“Of course, I want to court you,” he said with a steely edge to his words.
Her lips twitched. “I’m almost flattered, my lord,” she teased. “But your heart would never belong to me.”
“Hearts needn’t be engaged in a marriage,” he said, his response automatic. “I would protect you. You’d never want for anything.”
She gave him a sad little smile. “Anything except love.” Lady Beatrice leaned back in her chair. “I mention love, and you look at me with such shocked horror, I wonder if I’ve merely imagined the way you study my cousin.”
Unbidden, his gaze flitted to Abigail, and then back to Beatrice.
A smile played about her lips. “No. I do not think I’m wrong. I suspect, however, that even if you don’t yourself realize it, you care for her. With no malice or regret, I encourage your courtship of Abby.” With that dismissal, she turned her attention to Lord Sedgwick.
The logical portion of Geoffrey’s brain urged him to protest, to maintain his devotion to courting her.
The words wouldn’t come.
Lady Beatrice had rejected him. Quite simply and with a directness he’d not expected of the demure, gentle young lady. As Geoffrey sat there, he expected he should feel some regret or disappointment at Lady Beatrice’s rejection. Since he’d inherited the Redbrooke title, he’d become accustomed to acquiring everything and anything he desired. He’d employed a ruthless determination to business ventures, and matters of politics. Even his familial obligations where his sister Sophie’s future was concerned had been conducted with a needlelike precision and steely logic.
In a matter of days his world had been tossed upside down.
Instead of panic or regrets, Lady Beatrice had somehow freed him. He stared down at his plate of nearly untouched veal.
His mother, Lady Beatrice, they both spoke of his desire for Abigail.
He’d resolved to never give himself over to those fickle, unreliable sentiments. With Abigail’s outlandish interests, and her birthright as a servant’s daughter, she would never be considered a suitable bride.
Furthermore, ladies did not study matters of astronomy and astrology.
And young ladies in the market for a husband most certainly didn’t publicly denigrate their own dancing skills. His lips twitched. Even if one happened to be a more than poor study.
And yet…
This lady did.
“My lord?”
Geoffrey started, and looked to Lady Beatrice. “Yes, my lady?”
“The meal has concluded.”
Geoffrey blinked, and looked around. His cravat tightened with sudden embarrassment at the lords and ladies present who eyed him sitting there, staring at his plate like a moonstruck calf.
“Ahh, yes. Forgive me,” he said quickly, and rose, grateful when the gentlemen withdrew to partake in brandy.
He required distance from Abigail Stone. With space between them, it would be easier to forget the glimmer in her gray-blue eyes, or the way her bow-shaped lips curved up in a smile, or her endearing tendency to trod upon her dance partners’ toes, or…
He was a bloody liar.
He would never be able to forget the lovely Abigail Stone.
Following a formal supper, a gentlemen needs to strictly observe the after-dinner customs of withdrawing for port with his fellow gentlemen.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~15~
Abigail ignored the inane conversations about fripperies and soirées and everything else the young ladies and their mothers present happened to be discussing throughout the Duke of Somerset’s parlor. She wandered to the edge of the room, tugged the curtain back and gazed out at the night sky.
From the corner of the room, Beatrice sat conversing with several young ladies. They broke off into a fit of giggles. Abigail marveled that she’d ever been so very innocent. How greatly her life had changed in the span of a few months. She’d gone from blushing, innocent debutante to scandalized woman forced to flee the shame she’d wrought upon her family’s name.
Using the distractedness of those present, Abigail took the opportunity to skirt the edge of the room, and slip out the door into the silent hall. She closed her eyes, welcoming the bliss of privacy, and then wandered the length of the hall. She weaved her way toward the parlor that opened out onto her uncle’s meticulously maintained gardens.
As a relative of the host, her presence could easily be explained away. Her lips twisted. And if not, well, there were far greater scandals than excusing herself from company to steal a silent moment in the moonlight.
Abigail slipped inside the Chintz Parlor, resplendent in floral décor. From the rose-patterned curtains to the Aubusson carpet stitched with lilacs and lilies, it inspired a desire for a different setting than the dirt-laden streets of London.
She closed the door behind her and turned around.
“Abigail,” a deep voice murmured.
A startled gasp escaped her. She slapped a hand to her breast, and her eyes searched for his now familiar figure in the room lit only by the glow of the moonlight. “Geoffrey,” she greeted, as her eyes adjusted to the dark room. Abigail located him over by the doors leading onto the terrace.
His gaze remained focused out the window, on the grounds below. She chewed her lip, looking from Geoffrey back to the door behind her. If they were discovered, she’d cause a scandal to nearly match the one she’d fled back home.
Reason told her to turn around.
Reason told her to flee.
She took one step forward.
“Lady Beatrice has rejected my suit.”
Abigail froze, the tip of her slipper hovered a hairsbreadth above the floor. She completed her step. “I’m sorry, Geoffrey.” And oddly, she found even with the envy she’d felt over his honorable intentions for Beatrice, she meant it. She didn’t want to see him hurt.
Her words were met with silence.
Abigail took another step.
> “I don’t like seeing you with Sinclair.”
She cocked her head. “I beg your pardon?” she asked quietly.
“That bastard Sinclair. I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
“Oh.” Abigail blinked, stunned by his harsh pronouncement.
Geoffrey still remained stock still, his broad, muscular back presented to her. “I cannot explain my reaction. It shouldn’t matter who courts you.”
Her heart stilled.
“Yet it does, Abby. It matters for reasons I don’t understand…and for reasons that terrify me,” he said hoarsely.
She took a step toward him, and another, and another, until she hovered at the point just beyond his shoulder. He tensed, but she reached past him and pressed the handle of the door. Unseasonably warm spring air spilled into the room, and surrounded them with the sweet fragrant scent of roses and crocuses.
Abigail took him by the hand. “Come with me,” she said.
Geoffrey hesitated a moment, and she waited for him to do the proper thing and take his leave. Except, he continued to defy every preconceived notion she carried of him as a stiffly formal nobleman. He allowed her to pull him along to the armillary at the center of the garden.
“What…?”
“Shh,” she said, placing one finger against her lips, and then pointed her finger skyward. “That is Lyra.” Geoffrey’s indecipherable stare followed her finger, upward. Abigail studied the lute-shaped formation in the sky. “Orpheus was given the harp by Apollo. He would use the harp to play for his bride, Eurydice. Some say her playing was so beautiful, that when man or animal heard the sound of it, they would stop what they were doing and just listen.” Geoffrey remained silent. “Eurydice died suddenly and Orpheus was left broken-hearted. So he journeyed into the underworld, begging Hades to return her to him.” At one time she’d believed the stuff of legends, had believed that a man was courageous enough to fight to claim her as his, at all costs.
“What happened to her?”
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 13
