“Well, you needn’t worry, because he has no intentions of wedding me.” If Geoffrey’s offer that day had been a serious one, he would have returned for her. Now, it appeared his proposal had been driven out of his misplaced sense of guilt, and when Alexander had returned, Geoffrey had been relieved of that responsibility.
“The duke informed me that Redbrooke made you an offer.”
Her mind raced. Geoffrey had spoken to the duke?
“Apparently a well-placed servant happened to overhear your conversation, before mine and Alexander’s arrival.”
She blinked. “Oh.” Her fingers plucked at the smooth fabric of the coverlet.
Silence fell, punctuated by Sally’s determined feet, as she padded across the floor packing up Abigail’s trunks.
“Abby?” Her brother said at last.
She looked up at him.
“Would you be willing to give up your family? Mama and Papa, and your brothers and sister all for Redbrooke?”
When Abigail had first journeyed to England, she’d believed there could be no greeter pain than the loss of her family’s presence in her life.
Having grown to love Geoffrey, she’d found her love for him had filled the empty loneliness she’d felt for her family.
Her brother asked if Abigail could give up her family for Geoffrey.
For Geoffrey, she’d be willing to give up the country she’d been born to, even her family—if he’d have her. “I would, Nathaniel.” I would give up everything for him.
Nathaniel tapped his hand along the side of his thigh, his expression contemplative. “You have the courage to brave a sea voyage alone, and begin a life anew without the presence of your family…and yet, where Redbrooke is concerned, you are coward?” He shook his head. “Abby?”
“Yes?”
“You aren’t a coward.”
His words seeped into the haze of misery that had gripped her since the stormy night when Geoffrey had turned her out of his house. Abby stilled. As her brother had said, she’d braved the scorn and censure of her American compatriots, an ocean voyage alone to an unfamiliar country, a carriage accident…she was no coward.
Nathaniel winked. “That is better.”
Geoffrey might very well have regretted his decision to ask for her hand. It may have been nothing more than a hasty, obligatory offer. But it also might not have been. And she could not make a journey home unless she knew for certain.
***
Seated behind the desk in his office, Geoffrey stared blankly down at the opened ledgers in front of him. He gave his head a clearing shake and then, dipped his pen in ink. He made a mark in the column.
After living in a week long inebriated state, Geoffrey had drank his last brandy. His responsibilities were many. His obligations great.
His role as viscount required him to forget that his heart had been shattered, and focus on those who still relied upon him.
A knock interrupted his silent musings.
“Enter.”
The door opened.
His mother swept inside. She hovered a moment at the threshold of the room.
He tossed his pen down and motioned her forward. “Mother.”
She inclined her head. “Geoffrey.” She steepled her fingers and held her hands in front of her skirts. “You’re sober.”
It had taken him the better part of four days to realize no amount of spirits would ever lessen the blow he’d been dealt in losing Abigail. “I’ve been sober for three days now.”
“Have you?” she asked, a distracted air about her.
“I have.”
Silence.
Geoffrey picked his pen up and dipped it into the crystal inkwell.
“I never approved of your Miss Stone.”
He froze. Ink splattered the parchment in front of him. He resumed writing. “I know that.”
“Just as I’d never approved of your Miss Marsh.”
Abigail could not have been more different than Emma Marsh. He knew that, even if his mother didn’t. His mother didn’t know or appreciate Abigail’s great intelligence, or the courage she’d shown in crossing an ocean and beginning anew after a great scandal.
Geoffrey again dropped his pen. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Is there something you wish to say, Mother?”
“You love her,” she said baldly.
“I do.”
She dropped her arms by her side and drummed her fingertips together. “I still do not approve of her. Love is not an agreeable emotion for you, Geoffrey.”
In his mind’s eye, he saw his father’s broken body. Geoffrey rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. He could no sooner stop loving Abigail than he could stop his own heart from beating.
“Geoffrey, there are many respectable, properly bred English ladies. Please remember your responsibilities as viscount. Why, the scandal that surrounds her,” she shook her head. “It would forever taint your good reputation.”
One’s good reputation made for very lonely company. “She is a far better person than I am, Mother. She is too good for me.”
Mother gasped. “You’re speaking madness, Geoffrey.”
A commotion sounded in the hall. Ralston’s murmured words were lost to the thick solid structures of the corridor walls. The door flew open with such velocity it bounced back and nearly slammed into Sophie. She put her hand out to prevent it from hitting her in the face. Then with grace and aplomb, she closed the door with a decisive click.
“Enough, Mother,” Sophie ordered.
Mother glowered at her. “This is not your affair, Sophie.”
Sophie jabbed her finger at the air. “Stuff it, Mother.” She swept into the room with all the bravado of a commanding officer and pointed at Geoffrey. “Your Miss Stone is leaving.”
His sister might as well have delivered a solid punch to his midsection. All the air left him on a swift exhale. Geoffrey’s closed his eyes. Ahh, god, he couldn’t bear this. It would destroy him.
“Her ship leaves tomorrow morning, Geoffrey.” Sophie planted her arms akimbo. “What do you plan to do about it, brother?”
“I…”
Another knock sounded on the office door.
Geoffrey sent a prayer skyward for patience. “Who is next? The bloody prince regent?” he muttered under his breath. “Enter!”
Ralston cleared his throat. “A Mr. Nathaniel Stone, my lord.”
Abigail’s brother entered the room. The tall, serious looking gentleman eyed him as though he were trying to ascertain Geoffrey’s worth. Geoffrey could have spared him the effort and told Abigail’s brother that he was a worthless blighter.
Nathaniel Stone glanced momentarily at Mother and Sophie. He returned his attention to Geoffrey. “May I request a word with you, Redbrooke?”
Geoffrey’s heart thudded wildly in his chest. “Out,” he said to his Mother and Sophie.
A gentleman should never be too proud.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~32~
Abigail sat within the confines of the Duke of Somerset’s carriage. She reached for the red velvet curtains, and then pulled her hand back. She folded her hands on her lap and resisted the urge to look out at Geoffrey’s townhouse.
Nathaniel must have been in Geoffrey’s home nearly thirty minutes, now. Whatever could they be discussing?
Abigail reached for the fabric of the curtain again, and gave her head a shake.
“Twelve Titans,” she muttered into the quiet.
Hyperion—Titan of Light, Lapetus—Titan of Morality, Coeus—Titan of Intelligence, oh, and then Cronus, leader of the Titans.
It occurred to her then, that she’d not counted the mythical Greek figures in a very long time.
It also occurred to her, that she didn’t give a bloody blast about the Twelve Titans.
The door opened.
Abigail scrambled forward in her seat. “Whatever took you so long? You were…oh…” Her words died on her lips. “You.”
Geoffrey peere
d up at her from outside the carriage. “Yes, me.” His emotionless tone gave little indication as to his thoughts. And then he hefted himself in. He pulled the door shut behind him and took the seat opposite her.
Geoffrey’s tall, muscular frame managed to make the wide expanse of the carriage seem small.
Abigail studied his strong, powerful hands as he set down a very familiar looking package. Her heart thumped wildly. She wet her lips. “You,” she whispered again.
He continued to eye her with that inscrutable expression. “Still me.”
“Oh.” She ran her eyes over him. She’d feared she would leave and never again see him, that her last memory of Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke would be the moment he’d walked out of the duke’s parlor, and out of her life.
Geoffrey adjusted his gloves.
How can he be so coolly unaffected by me? How can he not realize that my heart died the moment he left?
Then, as though he spoke to himself, he said, “Do you know, Abigail, I do not know what to make of that ‘oh’? Does that ‘oh’ mean you want to leave and never see me again? Does it mean you still foolishly, somehow still care for me? Is it mere surprise?”
“No,” she said quickly. She shook her head. “It is none of those things.”
He caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “So then I’m forced to wonder if you merely had your brother escort you here to return my gift, a gift you’ve still not opened.”
“I cannot accept a gift from you,” she said automatically. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
The ghost of a smile played about his lips. “No, that is what your brother explained.”
He folded his arm across his broad chest. “I once asked if you found fault in a gentleman who valued respectability.”
Abigail sat forward, and ran her eyes over the angular planes of his cheeks. “How could I ever find fault with such a gentleman?” she whispered.
Geoffrey leaned across the carriage. “Oh, Abby.” He cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand.
She leaned still closer, until their breaths mingled; her heart feeling complete for the first time since her world had crumbled down around her scandalous ears. “I wonder as to the meaning of that ‘oh’, Geoffrey? Does it mean you’d like to be rid of me? Does it mean you’re eager to return to whatever important business it is viscounts tend to? Does it mean you pity me?”
He placed a feathery kiss upon her closed lids. “No. It is none of those things.”
His lips moved a delicate trail down her cheek, his butterfly gentle kiss still so tender upon the nearly healed bruises. “That ‘oh’ means I love you. It means I am nothing without you. It means the day Alexander Powers re-entered your life, my world ceased to mean anything.” Geoffrey trailed his finger along the curve of her cheek, to her chin, then to her nose, as if he were attempting to commit her every feature to memory. “It means, if you’ll still have me, I’d make you my wife.”
Abigail tilted her head back and received his kiss. Geoffrey’s lips moved over hers with a gentle searching that brought tears to her eyes.
She pulled back, and a groan escaped him. “You do not have to marry me, Geoffrey. I understand you value propriety and respectability and by nature of my scandal, I am neither proper nor respectable.”
Geoffrey’s jaw hardened and his furious eyes bore into her. “You are worth far more than every lady in all the British Empire.” And when he said it with such fiery conviction, she found she could believe those words. Geoffrey reached into the front pocket of his coat and pulled out a folded parchment. “Here.”
Abigail stared at the ivory velum, with its unfamiliar black seal.
Geoffrey pressed it into her hand and jerked his chin at it. “Open it.”
She hesitated, and then worked her nail under the seal. She unfolded the parchment.
Abigail read the first two sentences and stopped. Her gaze flew to his.
He squared his jaw. “It is a special license from the archbishop to wed.”
“Ah, I, uh, see that.” She wet her lips. He’d wanted to wed her enough that he’d gone and requested special permission to do so. “You want to marry me?”
He blinked. “Bloody hell, I’m making a muck of this, Abby.” Geoffrey’s olive-hued cheeks went red, and she never loved him more than she did just then.
“Yes,” she blurted.
He slashed the air with his hand. “There is any number of gentlemen more worthy of you than my miserable self. I know I’ve wronged you, but…”
Abigail touched her fingertips to his lips. “I. Said. Yes.”
Geoffrey’s brow furrowed. “You said yes?”
“I did.”
A devilish grin formed on his firm lips. “Well, then.” He made to kiss Abigail, but then pulled away. “I’ve treated you poorly, but in this, I would honor your wishes. If you’d rather us wait to have the banns read, or…”
She kissed him into silence. Geoffrey’s body went taut. The muscles within the elegant lines of his double-breasted black coat stiffened under her touch.
He pulled her onto his lap, and ran his hands over the curve of her hip, the swell of her buttocks, as if reacquainting himself with the feel of her beneath his fingers. She gasped as he cupped her breast. Her lids fluttered and she angled away from him, peering into his hooded eyes. “You do know this isn’t proper?” she whispered against his lips.
Geoffrey curled his hand around the nape of her neck and angled her head. “Being proper is too highly lauded,” he whispered, and then his mouth closed over hers.
A knock sounded on the carriage door and they jerked apart. Their chests rose and fell in fast, matching rhythms.
Abigail looked around frantically, even as Geoffrey shifted her back onto the opposite seat. He tucked two loose strands of hair that had fallen across her shoulder, back behind her ears.
Another knock.
“What is it?” Geoffrey called in the same, cool, composed tones of the gentleman she’d first met at Lord and Lady Hughes’s ball.
Nathaniel opened the door. He looked back and forth, between them, and Abigail felt her skin heat. “Well?” he demanded.
Abigail shifted under his intense scrutiny.
Her brother’s angry stare swung back toward Geoffrey. “When is the wedding to take place?”
***
The wedding between Abigail Stone and Geoffrey Winters, the 5th Viscount Redbrooke would take place at the Earl of Sinclair’s townhouse in the Grosvenor Square section of the London district. Or rather, that was the plan…
If Sinclair’s butler bothered to open the front door.
Geoffrey pounded again.
“Perhaps we might find another, er location to perform the…er ceremony, my lord?” The lips of the same, dour-faced vicar, who’d performed the ceremony between his sister, Sophie, to the Earl of Waxham, tipped downward, in apparent disapproval. He pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose.
Geoffrey ignored him, and continued knocking, mindful of the stares from passing lords and ladies. Still uneasy with undue attention from the ton, Geoffrey pounded the door harder.
“Perhaps,” the vicar began again. He fell silent when Geoffrey leveled a glare upon him.
Where the hell is he?
He glanced over his shoulder at the carriage where Abigail and her brother remained. Sinclair’s front door opened, and Geoffrey spun back around. The butler, a short, stout fellow with wizened cheeks and small brown eyes squinted up at him. The older servant, more than a foot smaller than Geoffrey’s own six-foot frame leaned out the doorway. He trained his glassy-eyed gaze first upon Geoffrey, then, the vicar. “How can I help you?”
Geoffrey flinched as the older man’s booming voice, carried down the street. Christ, so much for privacy. “I’d like to speak to Lord Sinclair.”
The butler cupped his hand around his ear. “You’d like to have a chair?” he shouted.
Geoffrey closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Sinclair
.”
“Yes?”
Saints be praised. Geoffrey looked over the butler’s shoulder at Sinclair. The earl stood in the foyer, studying the meeting on the front steps of his home with no small amount of humor. If he weren’t here begging a favor of the man who’d proclaimed to be his friend, then he would have told him to go to the devil.
“You said you were a friend.”
Sinclair angled his head.
“I need a favor,” Geoffrey continued.
Sinclair’s eyes widened with interest. “Oh?”
So it was, one hour, seven minutes, and a handful of seconds later, with Nathaniel and Sinclair as their only witnesses, Abigail and Geoffrey were wed in the Earl of Sinclair’s office.
Geoffrey glanced around the sparsely furnished office. With the exception of the earl’s desk, a rose-inlaid table, and a handful of chairs, the room appeared largely unused. There were no well-wishers and bountiful flowers. There was no bridal trousseau as Abigail had deserved. And it struck him—he’d failed her again.
Geoffrey lowered his brow to Abigail’s. “Forgive me,” he whispered.
Her brow wrinkled. “For what?”
He traced his finger along the side of her cheek. “You deserved so much more than this, Abby. You deserved a proper courtship and a gown designed specifically for you and…and…everything else young ladies might dream of.”
Abigail pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Geoffrey, none of that matters.”
Sinclair strode over and slapped Geoffrey upon the back. “Allow me to have my cook prepare dinner.”
“No,” Geoffrey said. He’d been parted too long from Abigail and would not take the time for social niceties…even if that were the proper thing to do. He took Abigail by the hand, and pulled her along to the front of the earl’s office.
She squeezed his hand hard. “Be polite.” She silently mouthed.
Geoffrey’s mouth tightened. He sighed and looked back at Sinclair. “No, thank you.”
Abigail tugged her fingers free of his grasp and turned to Sinclair. “My lord, thank you so much for everything you’ve done this day.”
Sinclair reached for her hand, and bowed over it. “It was an honor, my lady.”
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 25
