Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(13)

Color flooded Beatrice’s cheeks, and she looked around as if to ascertain they were alone. “There is…a gentleman,” she said, with far more seriousness than Abigail had come to expect from her.

Abigail’s heart hitched. Lord Redbrooke and Beatrice had performed those intricate steps of the quadrille so elegantly. “Lord Redbrooke seems a kind,” gallant, “good man.”

Beatrice wrinkled her brow. “Lord Redbrooke? Surely you jest? He is a very serious, unpleasant kind of fellow.”

Surely they spoke of two different gentlemen? Lord Redbrooke, though solemn and stringently proper, had exhibited both a strength and honor Abigail had never before encountered in a gentleman. “The gentleman you speak of, the one who had captured your attention is not, Lord Redbrooke, then?” The question emerged halting.

An inelegant snort escaped Beatrice. “Hardly.” Why should her cousin’s words rouse this relief within her breast? “I do not believe Lord Redbrooke capable of any grand passion.”

Abigail opened her mouth to protest, and then promptly closed it. She’d not reveal the identity of her rescuer. She rather suspected Lord Redbrooke to be a private gentleman who’d not welcome or appreciate any fanfare.

Seeming unaware of Abigail’s sudden quiet, Beatrice continued, “I’m certain Lord Redbrooke will enter into a union that is based on nothing more than wealth and who will make him the most advantageous match.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I suspect Father would like very much for me to encourage the viscount’s suit.”

The Duke of Somerset’s daughter presented an ideal match for the Viscount Redbrooke. Until just then, however, Abigail had never considered that her cousin would aspire to anything beyond a strategic match in which mutual attraction was secondary.

“He would make you an excellent husband,” Abigail said softly, hating the truth of her utterance.

Beatrice snorted. “I assure you, I’d never settle for the Viscount Redbrooke. With his stern looks and constant frown, he could hardly inspire any deep affection in a lady.”

Oh, you are so very wrong, cousin. A man such as Lord Redbrooke could never be one a lady settled for, but rather a gentleman who ladies tossed their kerchiefs at.

“Do you desire a love match, Beatrice?”

Another inelegant snort escaped her usually always ladylike cousin. “I’m not a broodmare, Abby. I might be a proper English lady, but even I aspire to love.” Her eyes sparkled. “But you mustn’t tell Father. He’d be scandalized.”

“I’d be scandalized by what?”

Abigail and Beatrice’s gazes flew to the doorway. The duke stood in the threshold. Several inches greater than six feet, he possessed a wide, broad muscle-hewn frame better reserved for one of the men who worked upon her father’s ships than a peer just a smidgeon shy of royalty. A smile creased the lines of his austere cheeks.

“Father,” Beatrice murmured, and hurried across the room. She leaned up and placed a kiss upon his cheek.

An ugly frisson of envy spiraled through Abigail; a longing for the familiar presence of her bear-like father and his booming laugh. Only, the disappointment she’d seen reflected in her own father’s eyes would forever haunt her.

The duke smiled fondly down at his only daughter, and then shifted his focus to Abigail. “I’d like to speak with you Abigail.”

She wet her lips as sudden trepidation filled her. What if the duke had somehow learned of Lord Carmichael’s attack? Abigail nodded. “Your Grace.”

The duke looked to his daughter. “Please excuse us, Beatrice.”

Clearly accustomed to his ducal orders, Beatrice nodded, with a final glance over at Abigail as she took her leave. She closed the door in her wake; the slight click resounding in the quiet of the room.

The duke motioned for Abigail to claim her seat and moved deeper into the room, sitting in the wide King Louis chair alongside the yellow velvet sofa. “You are well, Abigail?”

“Oh, very,” Abigail replied as she took her seat. “Thank you for taking me in.”

The duke folded his arms across his broad chest. “That is what family does, Abigail.” He frowned. “My father was a foolish, pompous man. He sent your mother away because he disapproved of her wedding your father.”

“My father was a footman.” Abigail felt the need to remind him.

A snorting laugh escaped her uncle. “I didn’t say she made an ideal match. But I’d not turn out my own child and force them across the ocean for anything.”

Abigail’s breath hitched, and she knew the moment her uncle realized what he’d said. He sat back in his chair with a sigh. “Your parents love you dearly, Abigail.”

“Yes.” Or they had. She suspected Mama and Papa would never truly forgive Abigail her great offense. For that matter, Abigail could not find fault with their decision. They still must consider dear Lizzie, who would one day wed. As a fallen woman, Abigail had greatly hindered her sister’s future opportunities.

“Your parents want you to make a proper match.”

She stiffened and smoothed her palms over her skirts. “I—”

“Need to, Abigail,” he interrupted, his tone a blend of gentle concern and stiff resolve. “Eventually the reason for your visit to London will reach Polite Society.”