Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (16 page)

Abigail was not Emma. Abigail was incapable of the deceit and trickery that had filled Emma Marsh’s black heart.

His mother touched his shoulder.

He stiffened.

“Geoffrey, I know you think me cold and unfeeling, but aside from the death of your father, nothing has caused me greater pain than seeing how Emma Marsh hurt you.”

The agony of guilt robbed him of breath. For years he’d withheld the details of that night from his mother, knowing the truth would destroy her. Or mayhap he was merely a coward. In sharing the truth, he would always be the recipient of his mother and sister’s deserved scorn.

“We’ve been invited to attend a dinner party at the Duke of Somerset’s. I suspect he’s gathered the nature of your intentions, Geoffrey. You are so very close to securing one of the most coveted matches of the Season.”

He nodded.

His mother removed her hand from his shoulder. “Happy Birthday, Geoffrey.”

Geoffrey touched a hand to the front of his jacket, where Abigail’s stained lace rested against his heart. “Mother,” he said, his voice tried to his own ears. “I’ve letters to see to.”

She took her leave with a stony silence. As the door closed with a decisive click, he fetched his partially drunk glass of brandy and the crystal decanter, and carried them over to his desk. Geoffrey settled into the comfortable leather folds of his winged back chair, and sloshed the liquid into his glass. He set the bottle down.

This had been the exact spot Father had sat the moment Geoffrey had confessed his intentions to wed Emma Marsh.

His fingers tightened reflexively about the glass. Diminutive and possessed of hazel eyes and hair like spun gold, she could not be more different in appearance than Abigail. A bright-eyed, teasing flirt, Emma had been the youngest daughter to an impoverished baronet and with her tinkling laugh, she had captivated Geoffrey the moment he’d first seen her at Almack’s.

She had led him a merry little chase, vowing not to settle for a match less than a marquess.

Geoffrey stared into the amber depths of his glass. When she’d suddenly shifted her attentions and affections wholeheartedly to him, he’d naively believed she’d loved him, besotted fool that he was.

He finished his brandy in one gulp, welcoming the fiery trail it blazed down his throat.

His mother constantly likened Abigail to Emma…but nothing could be further from the truth. Abigail did not crave and require pretty compliments and the undivided attention as Emma had. In fact, he could count on just one hand the number of sets Abigail had danced. Instead, she seemed to prefer keeping company of the partner-less young ladies, and skirted the edges of Society’s periphery.

Geoffrey poured himself another brandy, well onto his way to getting thoroughly foxed.

He’d defied his family’s wishes only once before. The outcome had proven disastrous. The consequence one he would never be fully absolved of.

But bastard that he was, Geoffrey still yearned to make a match not dictated by stiff propriety and decorum.

Tonight he would take dinner with the Duke of Somerset and see to his responsibilities…just as he had done for five years.

Geoffrey hadn’t wanted for more…

Until now.

While attending dinner parties, a gentleman should give his undivided attention to the persons seated next to him.

4
^th
Viscount Redbrooke

~14~

One head of hare.

One serpent.

Abigail’s gaze moved beyond Lord Lewlick’s shoulder and focused on the window. The curtains were drawn back just enough to allow the moon to filter its white light through the brocaded fabric, and reveal a smattering of stars.

She craned her neck. Was there really just one serpent? She’d imagine with the powerful Medusa, the Greeks would have had more…

“I do so hope that frown has nothing to do with my company?” A deep baritone drawled close to her ear.

Abigail jerked her attention back to Lord Sinclair, the dark devil who’d been assigned the seat beside her during her uncle’s dinner party.

She picked up her spoon and toyed with the pistachios and pomegranate garnish in her bowl of white soup. “Forgive me,” she said, offering him a smile. “I was considering the stars,” she confessed.

Sinclair sat back in his seat. “I was considering the stars as well,” he confessed.

Abigail scrambled forward in her seat. “Truly?”

He leaned close, so close she detected the hint of red wine upon his breath. “I was thinking how the brightest star couldn’t compare to your beauty, Miss Stone.”

Abigail sat back in her chair, her jerky movements caused her elbow to knock the table. Soup spilled over the side of her bowl and smattered the ivory lace tablecloth. “Oh,” she said, blinking down at it.

A servant rushed over and she used the diversionary opportunity to look away from Lord Sinclair’s intense scrutiny.

She knew she should be appreciative, and honored by his effusive compliments and high-praise, and yet…she sighed, battling down disappointment.

“Do you know, Miss Stone,” Lord Sinclair began when the servant slipped away, “you seem less than thrilled by my compliment.”

She shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all. It is just…” She cleared her throat. “That is to say…”

He rested his hands upon the arms of his chair, looking for all the world like a man who owned the dining room and was not a mere guest of the Duke of Somerset’s dinner party.

Abigail glanced down the long dining table. Her stare landed on Beatrice, now conversing with Lord Sedgwick, who occupied the seat on her right.

To her left, sat the Viscount Redbrooke.

Abigail sucked in a breath. Instead of looking at Beatrice, Geoffrey’s raw, heated stare was fixed upon Abigail.

“I’ve never known Lord Redbrooke to do anything so bold as to stare in public.”

She jumped at Lord Sinclair’s statement.

Even with the great space separating them, Abigail detected the four creases that furrowed Geoffrey’s brow, and the subtle muscle that twitched in the corner of his lip.

“It appears you’ve captivated the viscount,” Sinclair said, his tone peculiar.

Abigail shook her head. “No. He is courting my cousin…”

“He might be courting your cousin, Miss Stone, but he’s not removed his eyes from you since the moment we were seated.”

Abigail stared into the contents of her porcelain bowl, unwilling to meet Lord Sinclair’s knowing expression. She picked up her spoon and tapped it distractedly along the side of her place setting.

When the silence between them stretched onward, she stopped, and set her spoon down, looking up at him.

A half-grin turned the corners of his lips. “And other than the stars, and now your bowl of soup, you’ve not removed your eyes from him.”

Panic built in her breast. She shook her head emphatically, appalled that she’d been so very transparent. “No, you’re mistaken.” Because if Lord Sinclair had detected how thoroughly bewitched, how hopelessly besotted she was with Geoffrey, then surely others had as well. She folded her palms on her lap to hide their tremble. “You are mistaken,” she repeated, this time more firmly.

His eyes lingered upon her face. “I wish that I was,” he said, his words a near whisper. “You intrigue me, Miss Stone. And I’m not one intrigued by marriageable misses.”

She managed a weak smile. “That is kind of you.” Only, there could be no young lady further from appropriate marriageable material, than herself.

“I didn’t say it to be kind. I said it to be truthful. If my mother insists I wed, I’d rather find an unconventional lady such as you.”

A startled laugh burst from her lips, attracting the notice of those seated around the table. She buried her amusement behind her hand. From the opposite end of the table, Geoffrey glowered at her and Lord Sinclair.

Lord Sinclair leaned so close, his breath fanned her cheek. “I do believe he’s jealous, Miss Stone.”

She pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re wrong,” she insisted. “You mistake his disapproval for interest.”

“Come, Miss Stone. You are too intelligent to believe that.” He winked at her. “He was not always serious, you know. Ahh, I see I have your attention now.”

“Have you known Lord Redbrooke very long?” She strove for nonchalance.

Lord Sinclair picked up his wine glass and took a sip. “I say, it’s rather humbling.”

She blinked. “My lord?”

“I’ve sat next to you for more than a half-hour or so. I’ve attempted to charm you and capture your attention, but this is the first real interest you’ve paid me this evening.”

Abigail’s feet curled in her slippers. Mama would be shamed at the deplorable effort she’d put into securing a match. Lord Sinclair was everything a young lady should desire; wickedly handsome, abundantly clever, and quite complimentary. He should be everything she needed to make her forget Alexander’s betrayal.

So why was she sitting here, ruminating like a silly miss about Geoffrey, seated alongside her cousin, holding a glass of wine with such graceful elegance.

After a long stretch of silence, Lord Sinclair sighed. “Yes. I’ve known Redbrooke for a number of years. At one time, we moved in the same social circles. He was always ready with a smile, and quite sought after by the…er…sought after,” he finished lamely.

The ladies.

Abigail studied Geoffrey a moment. With his broad, powerful shoulders, and muscles that fairly strained the fabric of his garment, she imagined women would be mad not to desire the viscount, regardless of his seriousness—seriousness that she found she rather preferred.

“What happened to him?” Abigail asked, unable to call the question back.

Lord Sinclair frowned. “There was a scandal. I’m not certain anyone knows all the details, but it involved a young lady, a baronet’s daughter, I believe. The details of what happened to the lady are not known, but after she disappeared from Polite Society, well, he was never the same.” He followed her gaze to Geoffrey. “I’ve said enough,” he murmured.

As if sensing he were the source of discussion between Abigail and Lord Sinclair, Geoffrey glowered at the both of them.

Lord Sinclair’s next words interrupted her musings. “If I cannot steal your attentions from the very proper Lord Redbrooke, well then I’m going to enjoy making him writhe in his seat with envy.”

“He is not writhing with envy.” Abigail stole a glimpse of Geoffrey. And looked back to Lord Sinclair. “He’s merely shifting in his seat.”

“With envy,” he added.

She smiled, shaking her head at him. “You are incorrigible, my lord.”

A servant appeared, clearing their bowls of soup away and setting out the next course; loin of veal in a béchamel sauce.

“And I’m envious,” he said. Something in his tone, an unexpected seriousness from the normally affable rogue, gave her pause.

Lord Braincourt, seated on the opposite side of Lord Sinclair said something that required his attention, for which Abigail was grateful. She picked up her fork and knife and delicately sliced the veal on her plate. She raised a bite to her mouth and considered Lord Sinclair’s revelation about Geoffrey.

A pang of ugly, very real envy slashed through her.

There had been a young lady—a lady who’d surely made him smile, and considering his stern countenance, had forever changed him into the gentleman Polite Society now saw.

Abigail, however, had seen more. She’d seen a man who’d shed his boots in front of all to see just to rescue her token from Lizzie. She’d witnessed the fury he’d unleashed on Lord Carmichael to protect and defend her. She stared down contemplatively at the plate in front of her, wondering at the lady foolish enough to relinquish Geoffrey.

Having been shamed and humiliated by Alexander, Abigail had an even greater appreciation for a gentleman of integrity, capable of genuine love and devotion.

Her family spoke of Abigail making a match, and yet, for the first time since she’d learned the extent of Alexander’s deceit, she began to believe that maybe, just maybe, she could love again.

***

Geoffrey could name all manner of things he’d rather to do than sit at the Duke of Somerset’s long dining hall table, as Abigail conversed with Lord Sinclair.

Why, he’d rather be forced to sit through Mama’s lecture about his duties as viscount.

Which was saying a good deal. Because he loathed the nuisance his mother so often made of herself as much as he detested being the subject of public scrutiny.

Geoffrey punished himself instead with the sight of Abigail seated beside Sinclair. It didn’t escape his notice the number of furtive glances she stole in Geoffrey’s direction. It didn’t escape his notice, because he studied her with the same dogged intensity.

He growled. If Sinclair didn’t remove his gaze from the generous swell of her décolletage, by God he’d drag the blighter across the table, and…

“You seem preoccupied, my lord,” Lady Beatrice murmured.

Geoffrey blamed his distractedness on too much drink earlier that day. He shook his head, returning his attention to Lady Beatrice. “Forgive me,” he murmured, and reached for his glass of wine. He took a sip, and then sat the glass back down.

“It is Abigail,” Lady Beatrice interjected, her words nothing more than the faintest whisper.

Geoffrey choked on his red wine.

“Come, my lord. I see the way you study her.”

He cleared his throat, mind curiously blank.

Lady Beatrice leaned closer and said quietly, “You do not want to court me, my lord.”

“Of course, I want to court you,” he said with a steely edge to his words.

Her lips twitched. “I’m almost flattered, my lord,” she teased. “But your heart would never belong to me.”

“Hearts needn’t be engaged in a marriage,” he said, his response automatic. “I would protect you. You’d never want for anything.”

She gave him a sad little smile. “Anything except love.” Lady Beatrice leaned back in her chair. “I mention love, and you look at me with such shocked horror, I wonder if I’ve merely imagined the way you study my cousin.”

Unbidden, his gaze flitted to Abigail, and then back to Beatrice.