Geoffrey steepled his fingers and rested his chin upon them. “It was never my intention to…to…come to care for Abigail.”
She resumed her frantic pacing, muttering under her breath in a most undignified manner. “She is wholly inappropriate.”
“Her father is a wealthy shipping magnate in America.”
She cringed. “Her father is nothing more than a servant.” His mother’s scathing tone cut into his defense. “Come Geoffrey, the scandal which precipitated her mother and father’s rapid departure to America is not an old one, and it is well-known.” Mother stopped pacing. Her rapid breathing indicated the thin level of control the normally composed viscountess had on her emotions.
It occurred to him that he’d been just as pompous as Mother in his viewpoints. He shook his head. What a bloody ass he’d been.
“You’ve so admirably maintained a cool, reserved manner these past years. I had imagined,” she shook her head sadly, “or hoped, rather, after that scandalous woman, you’d put such heady passions aside.”
His mouth went dry as she dredged Emma’s betrayal to the surface. He looked away from her accusatory stare, too much a coward to confront the disapproval teeming in her gaze. “Abigail is not Emma,” he said the words for himself, just as much as for her benefit. In the years since his father’s death, Geoffrey had vastly more experience from the callow youth he’d been; he’d come to have a greater grasp on both his self-control and his ability to evaluate the character and worth of a person.
His mother stomped over in a most unladylike manner and stopped in front of his desk. She arched a brow. “Do we even know that for certain? After all, her mother was responsible for a great scandal. Is it unlikely that the daughter would be just as disreputable?”
Odd, he didn’t know the details surrounding Abigail’s mother’s flight from England. It had never seemed to matter.
Geoffrey frowned. His mother’s revelation mattered naught. He had little intention of altering his plans to wed Abigail.
He shoved back his chair and climbed to his feet, tired of his mother’s unfounded charges against Abigail’s reputation. “In the months she’s resided in London, Abigail’s done nothing Polite Society can find fault with.”
Mother folded her arms across her chest. “She cannot dance. Why, she trods all over her dance partners’ feet.”
His lips tightened. “I’d not be so trite as to not court a woman because she’s not skilled upon the dance floor.”
“Hmph. Very well, then, there was the matter of her speaking to you without introduction.” He started. “Oh, come, Geoffrey. Did you truly believe I wouldn’t have paid attention to you and that scandalous creature’s first meeting?”
Fury fell like a curtain across his eyes, and he blinked it back. His mother continued, either unknowing or uncaring of the volatile emotions thrumming through him. “And rumor would have it, that the Duke of Somerset allowed that American woman into his home because she is escaping some kind of scandal.” She dropped her voice to a low whisper as though she were imparting some great secret that would forever destroy the Redbrooke reputation. “We do not even know the details of her being here!”
Geoffrey folded his arms across his chest. “I believed it safe to assume the lady was in fact here for a London Season.”
If looks could burn, then Geoffrey would be reduced to a pile of ash at the viscountess’ feet. “This is no game, Geoffrey. This. Is. The. Redbrooke. Line.” She dropped her voice to a hushed whisper. “I also heard rumors of a most improper meeting between the young lady and Lord Carmichael…”
A loud humming filled Geoffrey’s ears. His mother’s mouth was moving, but he’d ceased to process words. Fury; potent and all-consuming spread to every corner of his body until he wanted to turn his desk upside down and storm from the room, hunting down that bloody bastard. By god, he would beat the old letch down all over again.
When he again trusted himself to speak, Geoffrey said, “Carmichael is a loathsome, reprehensible cad. It would do to not to listen to rumors from his lying lips.”
His mother cocked her head. “You considered wedding Sophie to him.”
He closed his eyes a moment, and then opened them. “I was merely trying to guide Sophie to making a match.” Then, it occurred to him. “You didn’t truly believe I would have seen Sophie wed Carmichael?”
Her silence served as the answer to his question.
Were his mother and sister’s opinion of him so low that they truly believed he’d ever accept the suit of that foul fiend?
His mother made an impatient sound. “Regardless, Sophie is now wed to Waxham. It is your marital circumstances I wish to discuss. I do not want you to wed that American woman.”
“Abigail,” he corrected automatically.
“Bah,” she cried. “What manner of name is Abigail? Even her name is wholly inappropriate for the next Viscountess Redbrooke.”
He’d had enough. Geoffrey clenched his jaw and squeezed his next words out past tight lips. “Mother, I intend to wed Abigail. There are no great scandals…”
“How can you be sure?” his mother cried.
He continued, ignoring her interruption. “She has noble bloodlines and her family is well-connected.” Those things mattered to his mother…and just a short while ago had mattered very much to Geoffrey. Until Abigail. “And she makes me happy,” he added, not expecting those last words to hold any real weight with his mother.
Her next words proved him correct. “Then take a mistress, Geoffrey. But please, I implore you, do not dilute your noble bloodlines with that American woman and her common family.” Tears filled his mother’s eyes.
Guilt twisted around his stomach. He had no intentions of deviating in his plans to wed Abigail, but that didn’t lessen the guilt of causing his mother pain. Not, when he’d already caused her the greatest agony with his father’s death. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said quietly. The least of what he was sorry for, however, was Abigail Stone.
She held her palms outward, in supplication. “Please, Geoffrey. You know so very little about the lady and yet you’d offer her your name and all that goes with the distinguished Redbrooke title.”
He frowned. Odd, how in so short a time Abigail had tossed his life into such an upheaval he’d brave Mother’s disapproval for the opportunity to again laugh and smile. It was, as mother said, sheer madness to forget himself for the sake of a woman. However, Abigail was a siren, and Geoffrey had been lured by her effervescent spirit; a spirit that had only served to remind him that he himself was very much alive.
Mother studied him. She seemed to use the time to compose herself, for when she spoke, her tone was more steady, the look in her eyes less desperate. “Very well, Geoffrey. If you intend to wed this…”
“Abigail,” he interjected, sternly. The sooner she accepted his intentions to wed Abigail, and acknowledged that Abigail would be the future Viscountess Redbrooke, then the easier it would be.
“If you insist on wedding Abigail,” she amended. “Then I would put a favor to you.”
He eyed her warily. “What is it?”
“I would ask you to act with more prudence than you did with Miss Emma Marsh. Court her. But there is no reason to move hastily in this regard.”
Geoffrey reclaimed his seat. He drummed his fingertips along the arm of his chair. His mother was indeed correct. His urgency stemmed from nothing more than a desire to make Abigail Stone his. He remembered Sinclair, last evening. The bold, bastard’s roguish stare fixed upon Abigail. The other man had barely uttered a word to the guests around him, his focus reserved solely for Abigail. Geoffrey knew as much. Because he’d studied Abigail and Sinclair’s every interaction. Sinclair’s head bent close to her ear, the teasing grin on the other man’s lips, the delicate pink of Abigail’s blush.
He shook his head forcefully. “No. I’ll not wait to make her my wife.”
“Geoffrey!” his mother cried out. “Have you not learned from your mistakes?
Your father…”
She must have seen something horrible written on Geoffrey’s face, because her words died.
Geoffrey gripped the wood arms of his chair so tight, his nails left indents into the hard surface. He studied the opened ledgers upon his mahogany desk, the same desk his father had used to see to his business affairs.
“A fortnight,” he said at last.
“And the three consecutive Sundays for the banns,” his mother insisted, a determined edge had replaced the plaintive tone she’d employed for their discourse, up to that point.
Geoffrey inclined his head. “I’ll not request a special license from the archbishop.” The scandal created by his sister and brother-in-law, the Earl of Waxham had necessitated a special license. In Geoffrey’s case, there was no scandal, merely impatience on his part.
He did not allow himself to consider the possibility Abigail might reject his suit. Any marriage between them would require she forsake all she’d known and begin a new life, in a new country.
Geoffrey shoved the thought aside. Abigail would say yes. The alternative…he shook his head. There really was no alternative.
His mother clasped her hands in front of her. “Are you certain there is nothing I can say that will make you see reason?”
“There is not.”
She said nothing for a long moment. Then, nodded slowly. “Very well, then, Geoffrey. I hope you will not be hurt.”
Again.
He set his jaw at a stony angle. “I don’t intend to be, Mother.”
She shook her head with infinite slowness. “Mark my words, Geoffrey. You are acting rashly. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve a visit with Lady Davenport.” Mother gave a flounce of her hair, and spun on her heel.
“Mother,” he called, when she reached the door.
She paused with her hand on the handle but didn’t turn to face him.
“She is a good woman.”
“Well, I imagine time will reveal whether or not that is accurate,” she said frostily.
With that, she opened the door, and closed it behind her.
When courting a young lady, a gentleman would be wise to provide the young lady with flowers from the hothouse.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~17~
Seated at the small rose-inlaid mahogany writing desk, Abigail stared at the blank parchment in front of her. She’d intended to draft a note for her brothers and sister. Instead, she sat, considering last evening’s exchange with Geoffrey. She trailed the tip of her pen in a circle upon the parchment. Then, sighed, and tossed the pen down. There was no hope for it; Abigail could not concentrate. She glanced to the full floor-length terrace door that overlooked her uncle’s gardens, remembering back to her meeting with Geoffrey.
Her heart bled for the pain he’d been dealt by that viperous creature and for the guilt Geoffrey still carried. Abigail knew those sentiments all too-well, for she woke up with it every morning—the constant reminder of the disappointment she’d been to her family.
“Are you all right? You, seem distracted.”
Abigail started and looked at Beatrice, seated upon the sofa with her embroidery frame in her hands.
“I’m all right.”
Beatrice lowered her frame. “Are you certain?”
“I’m certain. Please, do not let me distract you from your efforts.”
Beatrice set the floral stitched cloth aside, a hurt expression on her lovely face. “You are no bother, Abby.”
Abigail stood and walked over to her cousin. She slid into the seat alongside Beatrice, and studied the purple, blue, and green threads that made up the immaculate piece. How very gifted her cousin was; gifted in all the ways young ladies were intended to be.
Gentlemen desired flawless ladies, such as Beatrice. No gentleman sought a blue-stocking with an inordinate amount of interest in Greek mythology and constellations.
Her heart twisted. Though in the end, it hadn’t been Abigail’s lack of ladylike talents that had destroyed all possible marital prospects.
Geoffrey’s visage flashed to her mind. The way he’d been two nights ago; raw pain, etched in the angular lines of his noble cheeks, the brittle twist of his hard lips.
Or mayhap it had been that her wounded soul had recognized a kindred spirit in him?
“You seem distracted again, Abby.”
She jumped. “I am,” she admitted, hearing the sheepish tone to her confession.
“Is it Lord Redbrooke?”
Abigail blinked. Surely she’d misheard her. “I…uh…” Oh, goodness. “Are you certain you don’t have feelings for the viscount, Beatrice? Because if you do, I swear I’ll never think of his name again.” It was a lie. For the remainder of her life, she’d remember the solemn gentleman who’d made her again dream of love.
Beatrice snorted. “Surely I’ve been rather clear in my feelings for Lord Redbrooke. Oh, he seems like a nice enough gentleman,” Beatrice hurried to assure her. Abigail released a breath she’d not even realized she’d been holding. “He is far too serious, Abby.” She wrinkled her nose. “I do not want a too-serious gentleman.”
Abigail did. That seriousness is what had first drawn her to Geoffrey—his sober, stoic honesty.
Her stomach tightened at the irony. She craved honesty even as she carried a secret shame. Those muscles in her belly contracted, and she had to fold her arms across her waist to drive back the pain of it.
“I was going to visit the shops today for some ribbon. Will you join me?” her cousin invited, seeming unaware of the tumultuous thoughts raging through Abigail.
Abigail managed a wan smile and waved her hand. “I wanted to finish writing a letter to my family.”
Beatrice stood in a flounce of skirts. “Letter writing?” She wrinkled her nose as though Abigail had stated her intentions to pay a visit to Newgate Prison. “Are you certain?”
“I am.”
Beatrice sighed. “Very well, then.”
Abigail stared after her cousin’s retreating figure. When the door closed, Abigail stood, and wandered over to the terrace windows. The gray sky, filled with large, dark, black clouds perfectly matched her mood. As if Zeus, Lord of the Sky, God of the Rain had taken offense at her promise to Geoffrey, a drop of rain fell upon the window pane. Then another. And another. Until a torrent opened, and water fell from the sky in great, streaming rivulets. Abigail studied two beads of rain and followed their downward race upon the windowpane, until they disappeared.
Anything to keep from thinking about Geoffrey’s confession. Her efforts proved futile. Not unlike her, Geoffrey had given his heart to an undeserving person. In Abigail’s case, however, she carried the shame of having given up her virtue. She closed her eyes. Geoffrey would think her no different than the deceitful Emma.
A man such as he, who’d come to value respectability above all else, could never take to wife a woman who by her actions, had demonstrated herself to be less than a lady. She managed a wry smile. Not that Geoffrey had any intentions, honorable or dishonorable, toward her.
Abigail opened her eyes and stared out at the grounds where they had stood two evenings ago.
Except…
If that were true…
Why had he shared the pained remembrance of his past; truths, that by his own admission, he’d not shared with any other?
Abigail shook her head back and forth against the smooth surface of the cool windowpane. Why, hadn’t she merely confessed to him the reason for her journey to London? It had been a night of shared truths…and yet, she’d withheld the shameful pieces of her past. The truth was, she was a coward.
Geoffrey’s sole mistake had been in loving a woman, a woman who’d wronged him.
In Abigail’s case, her mistake had been loving a man, and acting on that love. She would forever remember her mother’s bitter, agonized tears of despair, her shouted protestations that Abigail did not know what she’d done.
And until she’d come to know and care for Geoffrey, Abi
gail hadn’t truly grasped the extent of her actions.
“Fool, fool, fool.”
“If you’re counting fools, you will never run shy of names in London.”
Abigail screeched, at the unexpected intrusion, and spun around.
Her cousin Robert sat upon the yellow sofa, eyeing her with an inscrutable expression, and a gentle smile on his lips.
Her skin warmed, not realizing she’d spoken aloud. “I did not hear you enter. Forgive me,” she said, lamely, wondering how long he’d been there, privy to her silent humiliation. She dropped her gaze to the floor.
“You’re not a fool, Abby,” he said quietly.
Abigail wrenched her gaze back to his. Apparently he’d been present even longer than she’d hoped.
“You’re not a fool,” he repeated.
“I…” She folded her hands in front of her, clasping them tightly.
“I know why you came to London, Abby, and if there wasn’t an ocean between me and that bastard, I swear on God himself, I would gladly put a bullet through the blackguard’s heart.”
Her throat bobbed up and down. She hadn’t realized Robert had known about the reason for her visit. Of course, it was foolish to imagine the duke hadn’t shared the details with his only son and heir.
“And I don’t believe Redbrooke is worthy of you, either.”
She jerked her head up so quickly, the muscles in her neck wrenched painfully. Abigail ignored the ache. “Beatrice told you.”
Robert hooked his ankle across his knee. “Come, do you believe I’d be so blind as to fail to note your notice of Redbrooke?” He arched a brow, and then grinned sheepishly. “And yes, Bea might have mentioned it.”
Abigail managed a laugh. She walked over, and took the seat alongside him on the yellow-velvet sofa. “He’s very proper.”
“And quite stodgy,” Robert added.
She frowned at Robert’s words so very similar to Beatrice’s…and not at all flattering. He’s not stodgy.” She felt the need to defend.
He scratched his head. “You do know I’m speaking of Redbrooke. Not Sinclair?”
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 15
