Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (12 page)

Geoffrey cocked his head. Sinclair’s words humming through his ears like he’d been submerged under water, and left there too long. “Her cousin?” he asked blankly.

“Yes,” Sinclair said with a nod. “Miss Abigail Stone. The scandal sheets had written of your seeming interest in Lady Beatrice, however, there seems to be some uncertainty as to whether it is the Lady Beatrice or the lovely Miss Stone who has you so enthralled.”

All manner of suitable responses escaped him. He should vehemently protest the charges, and yet his focus remained on why the too-roguish, too-charming Sinclair should concern himself with Abigail Stone.

“She’s an American,” Geoffrey said at last, choosing to keep his tone neutral.

“I suspected you would find her unsuitable,” Sinclair said more to himself. “Told Drake and Emmaline,” he said referring to the Marquess of Drake and his marchioness, Lady Emmaline, who happened to be Geoffrey’s sister’s dearest friend. “That there is no way you would be interested in an American.” An entirely inappropriate half-grin turned the other man’s lips. “I, on the other hand, well, I have very little problem with her being an American.” Sinclair shoved back an unfashionably long strand of black hair that fell over his eye.

With their dark coloring, Sinclair and Abigail would make a striking match. Another growl worked its way up Geoffrey’s throat.

“I say, are you all right?”

Geoffrey imagined the wicked Sinclair with the charming Miss Stone, and all Geoffrey’s earlier imaginings of her spread upon satin sheets, her arms extended toward him, were replaced with her reaching for the bastard Sinclair. Something Geoffrey didn’t recognize, something he’d never before felt, not even with Emma, something primal and dark reared its ugly head until he wanted to snarl and toss the table aside and bloody Sinclair the way he’d bloodied Carmichael.

He gave his head a shake.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He must be going mad. Geoffrey drew in a steadying breath and lied through his even, white teeth. “I have no interest in the lady.”

Sinclair smiled. “Splendid, Redbrooke.” Laughter from over at the betting book snagged his attention. “What the hell are they wagering on?”

Geoffrey shrugged and because frankly he’d had enough of the idea of Miss Stone and Lord Sinclair together, Geoffrey used that diversionary question to make his much needed escape. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and rose.

Alas, Sinclair seemed unable to identify a clear dismissal. He jumped up from his seat and fell into step beside Geoffrey. “Bloody dandies,” he muttered to Geoffrey. “Were we ever that foolish?”

Geoffrey scowled at the other man. “I wasn’t."

Sinclair blinked. “Did you just insult me, Redbrooke?”

They reached the rainbow menagerie of too-bright satin waist coats, sparing Geoffrey from responding to Sinclair. As one, the group of gentlemen fell silent, eying Geoffrey with a hesitancy, even as they parted to allow him access to the betting book.

He scanned the wagers.

Lord Ashville bets Lord Forbes 200 guineas to 10 that an event between them understood takes place before another which was named. May 17, 1818.

Lord Montgomery bets Lord Avondale 100 guineas to 20 that Lady Waxham will be enceinte before the Season is concluded.

Geoffrey frowned at seeing his sister’s name in the betting books, and continued reading.

Sinclair’s black curse sent three of the dandies hurrying off.

Geoffrey continued reading.

Lord Carmichael bets Lord Havensworth 50 guineas to 10 Miss Abigail Stone will…

His body went immobile, as the words inked in black upon the page blurred before his eyes.

Geoffrey’s gaze narrowed.

…find herself compromised by an English gentleman, and shipped back to the Americas with a sullied reputation.

That dark, primordial urge reared its ugly head. Geoffrey spun around, and the remaining young gentleman who’d not possessed the sense to flee before, went wide-eyed. The brightly colored peacock gulped and fled for his respective table.

Geoffrey turned back to the damned page. He reached for the parchment.

“Don’t,” Sinclair said quietly, anticipating Geoffrey’s hasty actions.

Geoffrey stared down at the page, unable to explain this unholy urge to defend the lady’s honor.

Sinclair cleared his throat, looking pointedly at Geoffrey’s hand.

As if burned, Geoffrey yanked his fingers back. He’d just tried to rip a page from the famed betting books. What in hell was wrong with him?

Abigail Stone.

The sooner the young lady returned to America, the better off he would be.

He looked to Sinclair. “You shall meet no resistance from me in your courtship of Miss Stone.” With those words, he bowed, and took his leave; for the first time hating his dedication to propriety and his image amidst Society.

A gentleman must be diligent in his studies and have an appreciation for matters of intellect.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~10~

The following morning, Geoffrey rose and dressed, with his resolve to court and wed Lady Beatrice strengthened. He’d already focused enough of his too important time upon the unsuitable Miss Stone. Determination fueled his strides as he marched up the front steps of the Duke of Somerset’s townhouse, and rapped on the door. As he waited for the butler, he turned out and studied the busy street and carriages with a direct intensity that caused the passing gentlemen and ladies to politely avert their attention.

He spun around as the door opened, and held out his calling card. “To see Lady Beatrice.” Not her cousin. Not the delectable, troublesome American miss.

The expressionless servant bowed, and motioned for him to enter. Geoffrey handed his cloak and hat over to the butler and followed him as he led him to Lady Beatrice.

Each step that carried him closer to Lady Beatrice echoed with the words his father had tried to ingrain into him.

Duty.

Words Geoffrey had so foolishly ignored for the love of a woman.

Honor.

A woman who’d wanted nothing more than to foist her bastard off on him.

Responsibility
.

… and enjoy the wealth marriage to him would have assured her.

Decorum
.

His father’s lifeless face flashed in his mind, and he momentarily closed his eyes at the familiar ache of guilt and pain.

Atonement.

The butler stopped and opened a door. Laughter, clear, and honest as a summer’s day filled the brightly lit parlor, and spilled from the room. The husky, delicious alto could only belong to one woman.

“The Viscount Redbrooke.”

Upon his introduction, conversation in the bright, sunny parlor, died. His gaze alighted on Lady Beatrice, seated on a floral upholstered sofa, an embroidery frame in her hands. She set it down on the table in front of her and rose, amidst fluttering elegant pink satin skirts.

With her golden curls and the refined lines of her heart-shaped face, she epitomized genteel English beauty.

Then his eyes fell to Abigail, who occupied the seat next to Lady Beatrice.

He wanted to find the generous swell of her breasts and gently flared hips unbecoming on a proper lady. But by God, Abigail Stone possessed the kind of beauty man fought wars for.

She tipped her chin up a notch under his lengthy scrutiny. The slight tightening of her lips indicated she believed he’d evaluated her and found her wanting.

When in truth, he was the only one to be found wanting.

He bowed. “My lady. Miss Stone,” he greeted. He loathed the pull she had over him; a pull that made a mockery of the vow he’d taken after his father’s death.

Lady Beatrice nudged Abigail.

Abigail sprung to her feet, and curtsied. “My lord.”

Geoffrey felt Abigail’s stare on him and it occurred to him that she expected cool disdain from him. His mouth tightened. It appeared she possessed a rather ill-opinion of Geoffrey. “Hello, Miss Stone.”

“Hello, my lord.”

Beatrice motioned to the matching King Louis chair next to her seat. He hesitated a moment, eyeing the remaining spot alongside Abigail with a covetous longing he should be flogged for.

“Would you care for refreshments? Abigail was sharing her knowledge of the Greek myths,” Beatrice explained, folding her hands upon her satin skirts.

“No, refreshments,” he murmured. He quirked a brow in Abigail’s direction. “Greek myths?”

She colored, quite prettily from the tip of her head, down her neck, until he wondered just how far the heat of embarrassment ran.

Beatrice continued. “And she’s been teaching me of astrology and astronomy. She knows a good deal about the constellations. Abigail suggested that I might someday visit the Royal Astronomical Society.” Beatrice blushed.

It would appear Miss Stone had turned Lady Beatrice into something of a blue-stocking, not something he’d dashed upon his list of acceptable traits for his future viscountess.

Geoffrey directed his attention to Abigail. “You study the constellations, Miss Stone. I find that rather interesting endeavor for a respectable young lady.”

She squared her shoulders. “I take it you disapprove of a lady who is learned in such matters.”

He hooked his ankle across his knee. “Quite the opposite. I value a woman who possesses a keen mind and sharp intellect.”

He could tell by the slight widening of her eyes that he’s startled her with his admission.

Her lips tilted up at the corner in the hint of a smile. “My father is a shipping magnate in America, my lord. An appreciation for the stars and all things having to do with the sky is something he instilled in his children from early on.”

So the young lady’s family owned a shipping venture. Yes, he’d known a powerful shipping magnate had been connected to the Duke of Somerset in some way or another. The research provided by his solicitor had confirmed as much. “What manner of goods does your father deal in, Miss Stone?”

Lady Beatrice looked at Abigail and shook her head once; the meaning quite clear. Young ladies did not to discuss matters of business with gentleman.

Geoffrey wondered for a moment if Abigail intended to shift the conversation to more mundane matters such as the weather, and the latest soirees.

She tipped her chin up. “My father’s owns a line of clippers that run textiles down the Atlantic, to a chain of islands in the Caribbean waters.” She met his gaze squarely, as though she expected him to be scandalized by the mere mention of a gentleman dealing in trade.

“Ah, textiles have proven quite lucrative for me as well. Though a good deal of my business ventures are with India and in this part of the world.”

She stared at him, with wide, unblinking eyes. “You deal in trade?” she blurted.

He bit back a grin at having properly silenced the presumptuous, if endearing American miss.

“Abigail,” Beatrice said chidingly.

His lips twitched with mirth. It would appear Abigail neither knew, nor perhaps cared, about what constituted proper discourse among ladies and gentlemen.

Abigail ignored her cousin, and held Geoffrey’s gaze. “I shouldn’t expect that a proper English gentleman would deal in matters of business.”

“You would be wrong then, Miss Stone,” he murmured.

Polite Society did not approve of nobles who dabbled in trade.

What they did, approve of, however, were nobles in possession of outrageous amounts of wealth. And in spite, of Abigail’s rather low opinion and Society’s stringent expectations, Geoffrey had only expanded upon the mercantile empire built by his father.

Abigail opened her mouth to again speak, but Beatrice coughed discreetly into her hand, and those words went unspoken.

Geoffrey returned his attention to the lady he’d selected for his future viscountess, and he steered the discourse back to those topics she’d expressed an earlier interest in. “You care for matters of astronomy then, my lady. Is that something you’d like? To visit the Royal Astronomical Society?”

Lady Beatrice shook her head emphatically. “Oh, that wouldn’t be at all proper, my lord.”

Alas, Abigail would not allow him to remain focused upon Lady Beatrice.

“Whyever not?” Abigail interjected. “What harm is there in your visiting the Society?”

Lady Beatrice’s expression conveyed a blend of skepticism and horror.

Twin splotches of color filled Abigail’s cheeks, a deep red hue putting him mind of a succulent apple plucked from the tree. “Well, you can,” she said, a touch defensively, wholly unaware of Geoffrey’s desire for the summer fruit. She waved her hand. “Why, my father was born a servant. He worked in some fine lord’s household.”

“And then he fell in love with Aunt Margaret.” The whimsical quality to Lady Beatrice’s quiet utterance gave Geoffrey pause. With those few words, and wistful glimmer in her eyes, Geoffrey had his first indication that Lady Beatrice aspired for more than a cold, calculated wager between two suitable members of noble blood.

He shifted, uncomfortable by the sudden realization. He’d sought a match with Lady Beatrice who represented the practical choice. She possessed impeccable bloodlines and conducted herself with poise and grace amidst Society.

Now, she’d revealed herself given to more fancy than he’d ever considered.

Beatrice continued, seemingly unaware of Geoffrey’s turbulent thoughts. “Isn’t that true, Abigail? They have a great love, don’t they?”

“They do,” Abigail said softly.

Geoffrey’s jaw hardened. The love she spoke of had cost her mother the respectable place she’d held in Polite Society. She’d been forced to travel an ocean away to a foreign world and reestablish a life for herself…all because of love.

Lady Beatrice looked over at him and must have glimpsed something dark in his expression. “You disapprove of a marriage based on love, my lord?”

Again, Emma’s regal face flashed to mind. Since Abigail Stone had entered his life, all the old, ugly remembrances had resurfaced.

He detected the intent glimmer in the eyes of both ladies and Geoffrey knew whatever he next spoke would matter a great deal…it would seem, to both Abigail and Beatrice. “I believe there are great risks in making decisions based on emotion.”