Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(16)

After a long night of battling improper yearnings for a tempting American, Geoffrey had managed to rise that morning and brush the memory of her aside. He didn’t need an unconventional miss with a ready smile for unfamiliar gentlemen. No, Lady Beatrice would never do something as forward as to continue to engage a gentleman as Abigail Stone had when he’d stepped upon her gown last evening.

Geoffrey reached Lady Beatrice’s side. The young lady stiffened and for a moment Geoffrey detected a flash of disappointment in her eyes.

He claimed her hand and bowed over it. “My lady, it is most agreeable seeing you this evening.”

The young lady lowered her eyes to the floor, with what seemed to be a perpetual blush upon her fair cheeks.

Marquess of Westfield greeted him with a bow. “Redbrooke, a pleasure as usual.” The dry edge of humor in Westfield’s tone suggested the marquess’ words were not wholly sincere. Westfield inclined his head. “Ahh, forgive my lack of manners. Allow me to introduce you to my cousin.” He shifted, revealing a young lady clad in a sapphire blue satin creation fully engaged in conversation with the Earl of Sinclair.

There was something so very familiar about the elegant lines of her back, the graceful flare of her hips…

A loud humming filled Geoffrey’s ears and he knew with a certainty he’d be willing to wager the Redbrooke line on, the identity of Lady Beatrice’s cousin before the lady even fully revealed herself. “Lord Redbrooke may I present Miss Abigail Stone.”

At that precise moment, Abigail said something to Lord Sinclair, who tossed his head back and laughed. She turned around.

And froze like the deer who’d caught sound of Geoffrey’s hunting dogs.

Geoffrey sucked in a breath. His eyes traveled the high planes of her cheekbones, the charcoal gray irises of her eyes, the full lower lip, the…

Her eyes widened.

“You,” she breathed.

Geoffrey’s mind spun. This warrioress who’d battled Lord Carmichael, his American Helen of Troy, was in fact Lady Beatrice’s cousin. He silently reviewed all the research his solicitor had done on Lady Beatrice. The information he’d uncovered about the young lady had indicated there were American relatives there. It had not, however, indicated she had a cousin with a fulsome laugh and silken tresses as black as sin.

Lady Beatrice’s brow wrinkled, and she alternated her gaze between Abigail and Geoffrey. “You know Lord Redbrooke?”

Abigail and Geoffrey looked at one another and silence stretched out into an awkward pause.

The Marquess of Westfield settled a hard, narrow-eyed stare upon Geoffrey. “You two have met?” he asked, repeating his sister’s earlier question.

Abigail and Geoffrey spoke in unison.

“Yes.”

“No.”

Christ.

Abigail discreetly coughed. “Uh, that is to say, no, we have not.”

Westfield’s brows lowered, and rogue that he was, surely recognized his cousin wasn’t being altogether truthful.

Lord Sinclair used the opportunity to interject. “Perhaps, Miss Stone referred to her meeting at Lord Hughes’s ball?” He looked to Geoffrey and grinned. “I believe you knocked down Miss Stone? Or was it a servant?”

Geoffrey clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to point out that he hadn’t knocked down either Miss Stone or a servant. Considering the precariousness of the current exchange, he supposed he should be far more grateful for Sinclair’s intervention. Except, presenting him as a bumbling, graceless lord would hardly help him in his quest for Lady Beatrice’s hand.

Why did that possibility not alarm him as much as it should?

“Lord Redbrooke did not knock a servant down,” Abigail murmured. She angled her head. “Nor did he knock me down. He nearly knocked me down.”

Laughter moved throughout the group, but it served its purpose and Westfield dropped his questioning.

Geoffrey studied Abigail, so composed and seemingly unaffected by his presence. Geoffrey held her gaze. “Are you well, Miss Stone?”

Abigail appeared to understand his unspoken question. She inclined her head. The subtle movement only served to elongate the impossibly long neck. “I am, my lord. Thank you.”

“I am trying to convince Miss Stone to dance with me,” Sinclair said to the group. He held a hand to his chest. “Alas, it appears I’ve failed to appropriately charm the lady into partnering me.”

Good. He’d rather send Sinclair to the devil than out onto the dance floor with Abigail. Something tight, and wholly uncomfortable gripped Geoffrey’s chest. Something that felt very nearly like jealousy, which made very little sense considering Geoffrey’s intentions for Lady Beatrice. It shouldn’t matter to him if Abigail partnered with Lord Sinclair or the Prince Regent himself.

“I’ve told His Lordship that I’d hardly repay his kindness by trodding upon his toes,” Abigail said with a laugh.

“You do not dance, Miss Stone?” Geoffrey’s taciturn question killed the levity amongst the group.

She shook her head, and seemed the only person immune to his severity, for she smiled up at him. “To my mother’s chagrin, I’m rather deplorable.”

His attention should be reserved for the woman who would one day, if all went to plan, become his future viscountess. Instead, he fixed his gaze to Abigail. “Was it that you did not have suitable instructors in America?”