“I do.”
Robert swiped a hand across his eyes and shook his head.
“What?” Abigail said, shifting in her seat.
“You’ve gone and fallen for him.” A protest sprung to her lips, but Robert continued. “My father said Lord Sinclair was interested in a match.”
Abigail fisted the fabric of her skirts.
“Sinclair smiles a good deal more than Redbrooke,” Robert said.
Abigail remembered Alexander’s quick smile. Yes, grinning gentlemen were not to be trusted. “He does.”
“He’d make you a better husband than Redbrooke.”
Perhaps. But not in the ways that mattered. “On what do you base your opinion?”
Robert draped his arms along the back of the chair, a contemplative gleam in his sapphire blue eyes. “Well,” he began at last, “Sinclair will make you laugh.” Alexander had used to make her laugh. “And Sinclair is an earl.”
An earl, a viscount, a bread-maker. It was all the same to Abigail. Robert must have seen as much in her expression for he said, “And Sinclair will likely care a deal less about the fact that you’re not,” he colored. “That you’re not…” A virgin. He tugged at his cravat. “English by birth,” he finished lamely.
“My mother is English,” she said.
“Uh, yes, that’s right…”
She took pity on him, returning the conversation he’d begun. “I’m sure Lord Sinclair will make some young lady a very nice husband.”
“But you don’t want to wed him,” Robert interjected.
She nodded. “But I don’t want to wed him.”
“And you do want to wed Redbrooke?”
She jerked at his words, taken aback. She blinked several times. Did she want to wed Geoffrey? She cared for him. Admired him. Understood the pain he’d known, and respected the convictions he carried after the hurts life had dealt him.
But did she want to wed him?
“I shall take your silence as confirmation,” Robert drawled.
“No. No,” she said a touch too hurriedly. She took a slow breath. “No, I don’t want to wed him.”
“Because he’s stodgy?”
Robert didn’t know the great heartache Geoffrey lived with. Geoffrey had done a masterful job in presenting himself as an aloof, unfeeling lord. Her cousins, just like the rest of the world, saw the hard-edged, always-proper figure Geoffrey presented to Polite Society. No. No one delved deeper to see the man he truly was; a man so honorable and good and loyal. “He’s not stodgy.”
Robert sighed. “You care for him, then?”
Abigail studied the folds of her emerald green skirts. “I do,” she uttered quietly, the words oddly freeing. She cared about Geoffrey. This man who’d rescued her from the unwanted advances of a lecherous old nobleman, and saved her scrap of lace from Lizzie. He’d not looked down upon her fascination of the Greek constellations as Alexander and her brothers had been wont to do. And he’d confided in her, as if seeking an absolution of sorts, from her—regular, Abigail Stone from America.
Robert said nothing for a long moment. When at last he spoke, all traces of humor were gone from his expression and words. “Redbrooke values propriety above all else. All of Society knows that.”
In other words, she, Abigail Stone, scandalous miss from America was no match for Lord Redbrooke.
“Perhaps no one will ever learn of what I’ve done,” she murmured, hating the desperate hopefulness threading her words. She continued to pluck at the fabric of her skirts.
Robert placed his hand on hers, staying her movements. “Look at me, Abby.”
She raised her gaze to his.
“It will matter to Redbrooke. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Geoffrey would care that she’d thrown her virginity away as though it were nothing more than a smattered piece of parchment paper.
“It might not,” Abigail insisted. Even as she spoke, she doubted the veracity of her own words.
Still, Geoffrey had made mistakes in matters of the heart. Surely he would understand that Abigail had done the same.
“You’re wrong, Abby. I wish you weren’t. But for some men, well, these things matter. And I strongly suspect Redbrooke will be one of those for whom it matters.”
A knock sounded at the door and they looked up in unison.
The butler cleared his throat. He bore a silver tray with a card upon it. “The Viscount Redbrooke.”
Abigail’s heart lifted in her chest, buoyed with a lightness that sent her rising to her feet with embarrassing speed.
Geoffrey’s tall, powerful frame filled the doorway.
“Lord Redbrooke,” Robert drawled.
“Westfield,” Geoffrey returned, never taking his gaze from Abigail.
She felt herself coloring under the heated intensity of his scrutiny.
“Well,” Robert cleared his throat. “Allow me to leave you two to your visit.”
Geoffrey entered the room, thus allowing Robert to take his leave.
Abigail and Geoffrey stood there with only the echo of rain hitting the windowpanes to fill the quiet. “Geoffrey,” she said.
“Abby.”
Her heart warmed at her name as it tumbled so intimately and effortlessly off his lips. He advanced deeper into the parlor; a predator stalking its prey, and by god she wished to lay herself at his feet in supplication.
Abigail swallowed, her eyes going to the bouquet of striking violet buds interspersed with sprigs of ivy. Geoffrey appeared dogged in his intentions to court and wed Beatrice. For even after Beatrice had rejected his suit, he should continue to visit with such a beautiful offering. Abigail eyed the unfamiliar flowers that in their vibrancy put her in mind of the purpling sunset across the wide-expanse of ocean in her Connecticut home.
A hideous yearning crept around her heart like the relentless ivy growing along the duke’s garden walls. The model of ladylike perfection, Beatrice would surely know the genus of each flower, and master the art of floral arrangements with the same excellence she showed for dancing and embroidering. “Allow me to get Beatrice.” Then, Abigail could make her escape and spare herself the pain of Geoffrey’s determined courtship of her more deserving cousin.
Abigail took a step toward him, and he held his hand up.
She stopped.
He said nothing, and the moment of silence lengthened.
Geoffrey beat his open-palm over the side of his leg in a distracted manner.
“Excuse me,” Abigail said, and made to step around him.
He stepped into her path, yet again.
“They are for you,” he blurted.
Her gaze fell to the flowers he held in his free hand. Abigail glanced around for her cousin Beatrice.
Geoffrey’s fingers grazed her chin, and he gently turned her face toward his. “They are for you, Abby.”
He held them out.
Her fingers closed around the bouquet wrapped in a violet-satin ribbon and hers and Geoffrey’s fingers brushed. She closed her eyes remembering back to the feel of his hands upon her person. Oh god, he’d brought her flowers. “I…” Do not know what to make of this gesture. Abigail raised them to her nose and inhaled the sweet, delicate fragrance. “Thank you. They are beautiful.” Why? Why would he do something like this? Why would he come calling with the stunning arrangement and wreak havoc upon her heart in this manner?
Geoffrey clasped his hands behind his back and looked toward the small crackling fire within the hearth. Abigail followed his gaze, unable to read the unfathomable expression in his eyes; the blue-green hue reminiscent of the Caribbean waters she’d sailed upon with Papa and Mama long, long ago. “My lord?”
“Geoffrey,” he corrected. He wandered over to the terrace doors, and with hands still clasped behind his back, stared outside. “Do you know they say Theseus once travelled to Athens to present himself to his long lost father, King Aegeas.” Geoffrey at last turned to face her. “The king’s wife, Medea tried to give Theseus a
glass of wine poisoned with the aconite flower.” He motioned to the flowers in her hands.
Abigail followed his gesture, and realized he referenced the unfamiliar bloom in her hands. “Oh,” she said. Her lips twitched. Not the most romantic of tales, still Geoffrey’s gesture remained a beautiful one.
He nodded at the bouquet yet again. “The ivy I’m told was a symbol of immortality associated with Dionysus.”
Abigail cocked her head.
Geoffrey cleared his throat. “It seemed fitting that the green of Dionysus be placed amidst the flower of Theseus as a reminder of his folly in giving up Ariadne.” He took a step toward her. “I’ll not be Theseus. Do you understand what I’m saying, Abby.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, because well, she really didn’t know what he was saying. Abigail only knew what she wanted those words to mean.
Geoffrey strode over to her with a power and strength the God Kratos would admire. He stopped in front of her. He brushed his knuckle along her cheek. “I don’t want to lose you.” He spoke with the bold, assurance of a man who knew what he wanted. “The day I nearly toppled you over, you tossed my world into utter chaos.”
She leaned into his touch. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. Sorry for so very much. For transgressions she was too much a coward to put into words.
He smiled, and opened his fingers to cradle her cheek as though she was more precious than Blackbeard’s treasure. Gone was the trace of bitter cynicism which usually accompanied his grin. “Abby, until you, I’d thought myself incapable of ever smiling again. You made me yearn for things I’d kept buried for so long, I’d thought they’d died inside me.” Geoffrey glanced away a moment. “I do not expect you to understand those sentiments,” he murmured. “You are innocent. Untouched of the ugly things I’ve borne witness to in my life.”
Her heart went careening, crashing back down to the reality of her foibles. She stiffened. Geoffrey had constructed an image of her as one who was without flaws, when in reality, there surely was not a more perfect, imperfect individual.
“Geoffrey,” she said quietly. She touched her palm to his hand, staying his movement. “I fear you carry an undeserving opinion of me.”
He turned his lips into her palm, caressing her skin with the gentlest contact. “You’re wrong,” he insisted.
Abigail could not think. She needed distance between them. Abigail disentangled herself from his touch and stepped away.
Bile burned like acid at the back of her throat, and she wished it would singe the words she’d rather never have to speak. She knew the moment she confessed the truth, all the warmth in his eyes would die faster than a shooting star that blazed a path across the sky. She could not, however allow him to maintain this paragon-like vision he’d associated with her.
“Geoffrey—”
“I want to court you, Abby,” he interjected. He reached for her hand, but she gripped the sides of her skirts to keep from reaching out and grasping the dream he dangled before her. “I want to marry you.”
Oh, God. She closed her eyes, and shook her head back and forth. “You don’t truly know me, Geoffrey.” If you did, then you’d not look at me with such warmth.
A roguish half-grin tipped the right corner of his mouth, so very different than the stranger she’d first met at Lady Hughes’s who’d looked upon her with stern disapproval. “I want to know everything about you, Abby.”
A hysterical giggle worked its way up her throat, and spilled past her lips. No, he’d assuredly not want to know everything about her—certainly not the great shame she concealed. The proper, and propriety-driven viscount did not want to know the sordid details that had precipitated her voyage to London.
Geoffrey’s brow furrowed, and his smile dipped. The regal, austere viscount was back in place. “What is it?”
Abigail opened her mouth and closed it, several times. She could not wed Geoffrey. Not without him knowing all the details, and yet…hope, stirred in her breast. Perhaps her secret would not matter to him. He had known the agony of betrayal, and regrets for past mistakes. A man of his reason and logic would surely recognize that they were not unlike one another.
So, why didn’t she fully trust that?
“It is nothing.” The denial emerged as a halting whisper.
“You don’t want me to court you,” he stated, his voice, curiously flat.
Her head jerked up. “No, no. Never that. Not that at all,” she rushed to assure him.
Geoffrey nodded. “Then it is settled. I will court you.”
Abigail closed her eyes. So it was settled.
She was nothing more than a coward.
A gentleman should rely on a well-written list to maintain a well-ordered life.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~18~
The next morning, Abigail entered the breakfast room. Her uncle glanced out from behind the paper in his hands. “Abigail,” he murmured.
She smiled. “Uncle.”
Beatrice’s eyes lit upon seeing Abigail. She paused in spreading butter onto a flaky piece of white bread. “Abby! There you are. Why, you’ve slept quite long this morning.”
Abigail’s skin warmed under their scrutiny. She rushed over to the sideboard and placed several strips of bacon, a baked egg, and a piece of bread onto her plate. With her gaze trained upon her fare, she walked over to the table.
A footman rushed to pull out her chair, and Abigail slid into it. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Abigail picked up the still warm piece of bread and broke it in half. Crumbs fell onto her chintz plate, and she studied those small bits, content to bury focus into the dish until the conclusion of the meal.
She nibbled at the corner of her bread, and feeling eyes upon her, looked up.
The duke and Beatrice studied her in silence.
Abigail choked, and dropped the bread in her hands. She reached for the glass of water and took a tentative sip, and then another.
“I understand Lord Redbrooke brought flowers,” her uncle said at last.
Abigail set her glass down and folded her hands upon her lip, hiding them from sight. “He did,” she said. She returned her gaze to her nearly untouched plate.
Beatrice giggled.
Abigail’s gaze flew up.
Her cousin picked up a delicate tea cup and took a sip. “Never tell me you’d encourage Lord Redbrooke’s suit?”
“Beatrice,” her father chided. He folded his paper and set it down on the empty place beside him.
Beatrice ignored his unspoken admonition. “If he makes you happy, Abby, then there is nothing more I would want than for you to accept his suit.”
For one, too brief moment, her cousin’s blessing seemed the only boundary that prevented Abigail from grasping onto to the dream of Geoffrey as a serious suitor. Then, reality came crashing, careening down upon her. She reached for her bread, and chewed it; but it turned to dust inside her mouth.
“Lord Redbrooke is an honorable gentleman,” her uncle said, his tone quiet.
She nodded woodenly. How could an honorable gentleman ever take to wife such a dishonorable woman? She picked up her fork and shoved the baked egg around her plate.
“Abigail?” The duke’s sternly worded question, her name, brought her head up.
“He would make you an excellent match.”
Abigail’s gaze flitted off to the footmen stationed over by the sideboard. This place, she looked over to Beatrice, and with her innocent cousin here, was not the place in which to discuss an unlikely match between Abigail and Geoffrey.
The butler appeared and Abigail was saved from responding. “Lord Redbrooke to see Miss Stone. I’ve taken the liberty of showing the gentleman to the Chintz Parlor.”
Abigail’s fork clattered noisily upon her china flatware. “Forgive me,” she said hastily.
Beatrice’s smile grew. “Go, Abby,” she said gently.
Abigail rose so quickly her legs knocked the back of the chair, and it scraped noisily
along the wood flooring. She began to pace beside the dining room table.
Geoffrey had called yesterday and stated his intentions to court her. At the time, she’d been besieged by a heady sense of joy. It had clouded her logic and the calm rationality she’d sworn to maintain after Alexander’s betrayal. For an all too brief moment she’d allowed herself to operate under the illusion of ‘what-ifs’: what if her lack of virtue didn’t matter to Geoffrey? What if word of her scandalous past never crossed the ocean? What if…what if…what if…?
Now, in the light of a new day, she could not deny the insurmountable boundaries that made a match between them—impossible.
“Abigail,” her uncle said quietly.
She jumped, and spun to face him.
“I believe Lord Redbrooke to be a fair man. He…” His gaze shifted momentarily to Beatrice, and then back to Abigail. “He is not one of clouded judgment. I’m certain of it.”
Abigail’s throat worked up and down.
“Go, Abby,” her cousin urged.
Abigail swallowed past the swell of emotion and managed a nod. “If you’ll excuse me?” She dipped a curtsy and hurried from the breakfast room.
As she made the long march to the Chintz Parlor she rehearsed everything she would say to Geoffrey. He was as her uncle said, a man of integrity and honor. As such, he deserved to know the truth…and he deserved to hear it from her. With each step, her resolve to confess the all, strengthened…
Abigail paused outside the parlor and smoothed her hands over the front of her day dress. She straightened her back and, taking a deep breath, entered the room.
Geoffrey stood with his back to her, one hand upon the fireplace mantle, his gaze fixed on the empty grate. Her eyes slid closed. He stood there six feet of towering masculine perfection, his muscle-hewn frame carved in a stone, giving him a look of the ancient Gods whose stories filled the skies. The breath left her on a whispery sigh. “Geoffrey.”
He spun around. His gaze, hotter than a physical touch, moved over her face. “Abigail.”
That was it. Abigail. Her name, and yet from that one utterance he conveyed masculine approval, possessiveness, desire.
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 16
