“I…I…” She shook her head…
“We have to leave. Now.” The duke bit out.
Robert disentangled Abigail’s forearm from Geoffrey’s grip and with determined steps, guided her through the sea of taunting sneers, and leering gentlemen. Bile climbed up her throat, and she fought the urge to keep from casting the accounts of her stomach upon the ballroom floor.
She shot one last parting glance over her shoulder.
Geoffrey remained where she’d left him, legs planted wide, his focus trained on her.
Abigail jerked her attention forward, thinking how so very close she’d been to being happy. Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. What a fool she’d been.
Again.
A gentleman should not allow himself to be bated by a dishonorable gentleman.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~20~
Geoffrey stared after Abigail. A bolt of lightning broke the night sky, and splashed bluish light across the ballroom floor; it cast sinister shadows about the room that danced along the walls and vibrant fabrics of the waltzing ladies. The distant rumble of thunder shook the panes of the floor-length windows. As he stared at Abigail’s swiftly retreating figure, ominous darkness that accompanied a turbulent rainstorm filled him.
Then she looked back at him.
His breath froze at the agonized despair that bled from her eyes.
A viselike pressure squeezed his heart. Christ. What had happened to wreak such a transformation about the smiling, spirited beauty who’d captured his heart?
Geoffrey blinked. The chatter of Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s guests blended with the outside rain, in a loud hum, that slowed his thoughts.
He loved her.
A jolt when through him. He, who’d sworn to never turn himself over to the uncertain, volatile emotion which had destroyed his family, had gone and fallen in love with Abigail. The staggering realization threatened to bring him to his knees.
His body remained immobile. With her keen wit, and ability to laugh, she’d entered his life and upended his well-ordered world. She made him yearn for a life filled with laughter…and he wanted that life with her.
He grinned, knowing he must look like a lack-wit to Society’s leading peers who studied him as though he were a Drury Lane Theatre act. At one time he’d been the same manner of snide, pompous bastards who’d found fault in her merely for the origins of her birth. It had taken Abigail to show him the kind of man he’d been, and made him aspire to more.
He’d not make apologies for having fallen in love with Abigail Stone.
“I hope you are happy with what you’ve done,” his mother hissed.
Geoffrey started. “Mother…”
“Wipe that foolish smile off your face,” she snapped. “We have to leave. Immediately.”
Another rumble of thunder shook the room.
There it was again, the looming sense of calamity that flared and pulsed with a life energy. He remembered Abigail’s hasty departure, the panic in her eyes, his mother’s enraged eyes… “What is it?” he asked, quietly.
“Not here. Waxham has already had the carriage summoned for us,” she said from the corner of her mouth.
A sniggering laugh caught Geoffrey’s attention, and his frown deepened.
“Now, Geoffrey.” His mother barked the command like a colonel giving orders to his troops.
Only, Lord Carmichael stepped into Geoffrey’s path.
Carmichael’s wide smile revealed an uneven row of rotten, yellow-stained teeth. The overwhelming scent of garlic threatened to bowl Geoffrey over. Then his eyes fell to Lord Carmichael’s hands clasped in front of his cumbersome belly. A thin haze of red rage clouded his vision as he remembered the moment he’d come upon Abigail with this fiend’s gnarled hands pawing at her person.
“Step aside, Carmichael,” he seethed.
A loud chortling laugh escaped Carmichael, but broke off into a fit of choking. “Redbrooke,” he said when he’d again managed to breathe.
His mother placed her fingertips along his coat sleeve, and she gave a faint squeeze. “Geoffrey,” she said quietly.
“Rushing off, eh, Redbrooke?” He waggled his overgrown, bushy white eyebrows. “Can’t run from a scandal, really, though can you? Why, not even an ocean away is enough, sometimes.” He dissolved into another round of laughter as though he’d delivered the wittiest of jests.
Geoffrey peered down his nose at Lord Carmichael. “What are you on about?” he said brusquely.
Carmichael’s eyes went wide in his fleshy face. He slapped a hand to his chest, and looked around in feigned disbelief.
“Geoffrey,” his mother said again, the thin thread of desperation there sent off the first warning bells within his mind.
“Never tell me, you’ve not heard,” Carmichael said in a loud whisper.
Geoffrey should continue onward and leave the old bastard prattling on like the bloody fool he was, but something compelled him to feed that question. “Heard?”
The old lord shook his head, the swift movement displaced a strand of white hair, and it fell over his eye, displaying his carefully covered balled pate. “Why, that scandalous bit of goods. Your Miss Stone. Tsk. Tsk.”
Geoffrey’s mouth went dry, and his hands balled into tight fists at his side. He clenched and unclenched them, until he realized what he was doing. Again, Abigail’s tormented visage flashed behind his eyes: her hasty flight from the ball, the bleeding anguish in her eyes.
Forgive me.
“Geoffrey, please,” his mother said again. The uncharacteristic desperate plea in that utterance should have propelled him forward.
“What are you talking about?” Geoffrey could no sooner call the words back than he could cut off his right limb.
Lord Carmichael’s eyebrows shot to the middle of his brow, and he slapped a hand to his chest. “Why, never tell me you don’t know?” he said with feigned shock. He shook his head back and forth pityingly.
“What?” Geoffrey’s voice sounded flat to his own ears.
“Well, about that American miss.” He leaned so close, his stale breath slapped Geoffrey’s face, but Geoffrey’s struggle to breathe had nothing to do with the fetid odor. “Apparently there was a scandal. But then, I’m sure you knew that. All the gossip says you planned to wed the creature. You’d not do something as foolish as that. After all, you’re a proper and honorable sort of fellow. Surely you’d not taint the Redbrooke line with…” He must have seen something written in Geoffrey’s face, for his eyes widened. “Oh, you haven’t heard.” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Heard?” Geoffrey asked his voice wooden.
Carmichael waved his hand in a flourish. “About the whole incident of her being discovered with her lover.” A chortling laugh burst from his thick chest. “Her family hastily packed her up and sent her off to the Duke of Somerset, apparently trying to marry the girl off to some unsuspecting gentleman.” He gave Geoffrey a pointed look. “Then, her father is nothing more than a servant, so one shouldn’t be too shocked by it.”
Geoffrey’s heartbeat slowed, slowed, faltered, and then paused for an infinitesimal moment. Carmichael’s words blurred and blended together until Geoffrey blinked, trying to make sense of them.
Abigail…Lover…Scandal.
“No,” he whispered. His Abigail was not capable of treachery or deceit. “You’re wrong,” Geoffrey said when he trusted himself to speak through the rage thrumming through his body. He’d face the bloody bastard at dawn for daring to impugn her honor.
Carmichael waggled his brows, and then shook his head. The subtle movement displaced another stringy white strand of hair. “I don’t think I am,” he said with clear relish. “I’ve contacts in America who happened to mention the scandal in a recent correspondence.” He cast a glance over at the viscountess. “Why, all the details about Miss Stone aren’t appropriate for a lady’s ears.” He bowed with a flourish. “If you’ll excuse me, Redbrooke?” With a sn
orting laugh, the corpulent lord took his leave.
Geoffrey stared blankly after Carmichael’s retreating figure.
Abigail had not have taken a lover. She could not have.
Lover. His gut clenched as that scandalous, horrific word twisted about his brain like an insidious poison seeping into every corner of his mind and body.
He thought of her hasty retreat, the panic in her eyes…she had borne the look of a woman hunted. He clenched his fists so tightly, he raised blood on his palms.
Geoffrey suddenly became aware of the crowd’s gaze riveted upon him. She’d been a woman hunted by English Society.
“Let us go, Geoffrey,” his mother said quietly.
Wordlessly, Geoffrey fell into step beside his mother. Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s guests parted, allowing him to make his exit; all the while they studied him with a gleeful fascination.
He swallowed hard, but kept his stony gaze directed forward, and silently counted steps.
One. Two. Three.
She’d had a lover.
Four.
She’d deceived him.
Five. Six.
All with intentions of trapping him into marriage.
Seven.
Like Emma.
Oh god, he was going to be ill.
He and his mother made their way outside into the violent storm. A servant rushed to help the viscountess into the carriage. Geoffrey paused, outside, and sucked in deep, gasping breaths of air. He embraced the torrents of rain that poured upon him, the wind that whipped strands of hair into his eyes.
“Geoffrey, come in here now,” his mother called from within the dry, confines of the conveyance.
Geoffrey waved aside the servant and climbed inside. He stared blankly out the window as the door closed behind them.
The carriage rocked into motion, and Geoffrey continued to say nothing on it. His mother remained uncharacteristically silent; no vitriolic words, no shrieking recriminations, and somehow it made his transgression all the worse.
“I’m sorry, Geoffrey,” his mother said at long last. “I know you cared for her.”
I didn’t care for her.
I loved her.
A gentleman should not bother with Society’s gossip.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~21~
A certain American relative of the Duke of S was forced from her country in disgrace after…
Geoffrey tossed the copy of The Times onto his desk, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Since the paper had arrived earlier that morning, he’d read those same seventeen words over and over and over. Each time, he’d willed there to be another Duke of S with a scandalous American relative.
His heart tightened.
He had been a bloody fool where Abigail Stone was concerned, but he was no idiot.
There was only one American relative of the Duke of S who’d been forced from her country in disgrace for lying with a gentleman outside the bonds of marriage.
Geoffrey surged to his feet. The leather of his seat crackled in protest of the abrupt movement. He picked up the copy of The Times and strode over to the fire raging inside the hearth.
Geoffrey tossed the paper into the flames, and stared on with blank eyes as black singed the corners of the parchment. The ends curled, and then a reddish-orange flame swallowed it in a small fiery-red conflagration until it was no more. He didn’t need to punish himself with the sordid details of her past; the hell of his private imaginings was quite enough.
Geoffrey braced his hands upon the mantle, and took a steadying breath. If only it were as simple to rid himself of the truth that had been contained within those pages.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. The Gods laughing at him for having given his heart to another woman who’d only intended to deceive him.
A knock sounded at the door.
He ignored it.
It opened, and then the soft thread of footsteps registered. “You must not closet yourself away like this, Geoffrey.”
He stiffened at his mother’s censorious tone.
God she was tenacious.
“People are talking. Please. Visit your clubs or accept an invitation to some event this evening. It doesn’t do for it to appear you felt any real feelings for that woman.”
“Abigail,” he said tiredly. He scrubbed the back of his hand over his face. “Her name is Abigail.” He sucked in a slow breath.
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.
“Surely there is a mistake,” he said, aloud those flat, deadened words spoken to himself, came as if they belonged to a stranger.
His mother reached over and placed her hand upon his other hand, until he forced his fingers to lessen the unholy grip he had upon the mantle. “I don’t think so.”
And neither did he.
He’d seen the horrified shame and guilt that had radiated from the depths of her storm-gray eyes. Forgive me, she’d whispered.
No, there was no mistake. No lie told by anyone but Abigail.
An icy cold filled him, a chill that had nothing to do with his rain-sopped garments. His heart hardened, the organ froze inside him and cracked.
What a fool he’d been.
Again.
“Geoffrey…”
He glanced over his shoulder at his mother disinterestedly. “Mother, I have business matters to attend to. If you’ll excuse me.”
“But…” she must have seen something in his eyes that indicated his total lack of desire to discuss Miss Abigail Stone or his plans for the afternoon or anything else. Her lips pursed and she gave a curt nod. After the door closed behind her, Geoffrey returned his attention to the fire.
Against all his better judgment, against his highly-valued logic, he’d been unable to resist Abigail’s allure. He’d become hopelessly and helplessly besotted by her.
Geoffrey grimaced. He’d vowed to never again give himself over to the heady emotions of love, and instead establish an advantageous match based on nothing more than wealth and status.
And with just one snag of her too-long hem, he’d tossed aside everything that mattered.
His stomach tightened as he at last allowed each bit of Abigail’s betrayal to seep into his agonized musings.
She’d forced him to feel again. Made him yearn for the impractical. He slashed his hand through his hair. Christ, he’d shared the most personal details of Emma Marsh and more, the death of his father—words he’d never before uttered to another soul.
He’d been honest with her in every regard, and how had she repaid that honesty? With lies.
And with her betrayal, he, who valued his privacy, had been opened up to Society’s scorn and ridicule.
Geoffrey shook his head. He wished he’d never scratched Lady Beatrice Dennington’s name upon his bloody list, because then he wouldn’t know there was a winsome American named Miss Abigail Stone with a fulsome laugh and a penchant for studying the stars.
He bowed his head, and embraced the soothing hiss and snap of the flames.
Damn you, Abigail.
A gentleman must maintain a calm, collected demeanor…even when under duress.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~22~
For two days, it rained.
Abigail stood in the corner of her chambers. She tugged back the sapphire blue silk curtains and peered out into the ravaging storm. A bolt of lightning lit the sky. She touched the windowpane, and with the tip of her finger, followed the swift path of a raindrop down the side of the glass.
The sky had not lessened the torrential wrath it had unleashed upon the earth, since her hasty flight from Lady Ainsworth’s ballroom last evening.
She closed her eyes.
Like a coward, she’d once again fled.
Only this time, she’d fled and left Geoffrey to discover the truth there in front of all polite English Society.
; Her stomach churned.
By now, Geoffrey, like all of the ton, would know the truth of her—she had left America in shame.
By now he would know she didn’t carry the most important commodity required of a lady upon the marriage mart—her virginity.
And he would know she was nothing more than…than…
A fallen woman.
A harlot.
A whore.
How many times had those vile words been hurled at her by people who’d found her wanting. Only Geoffrey had been different. Not once had he looked at her with condescension and ridicule.
When she’d been discovered in Alexander’s arms, she’d imagined there could be no greater pain than what she’d felt upon seeing the shocked hurt reflected in her parents’ eyes. In the days that followed, when it had become clear Alexander had little intention of offering for her, pain had blossomed into an aching despair.
She dropped the curtain and gripped the edge of the window sill so tight her nails left crescent indents upon the wood.
She’d been wrong on both scores. Her heart spasmed. The inevitable loss of Geoffrey would destroy her. Tears, blasted tears, filled her eyes, but the salty mementos would not fall. She blinked them back. She’d come to London, convinced there could be no future for her in the foreign land. She’d resolved never to trust again.
Geoffrey had shaken the walls she’d constructed around her broken heart; he’d unknowingly mended the wounded organ, and breathed life into her, so that it beat at last with a love for him. Foolishly she’d dared to hold onto the dream he represented; of a family, of a gentleman who’d love and protect and cherish her. She hugged her arms tight to herself.
The door opened and the soft thread of slippers upon the hard wood of the floor echoed in the quiet. “Abby, we missed you at supper.”
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 18
