Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(17)

Lady Beatrice gasped, and it occurred to him, too late, the pomposity of such a question. Even before his most jaded days, he’d never been capable of the effortless charm as exhibited by rogues like Sinclair.

Geoffrey shook his head. “Forgive me. I…”

Abigail waved off his apology. “I assure you, Papa hired some of the most proficient instructors from Europe. I however, proved a remarkably poor study.”

Lady Beatrice made a sound of protest and rushed to her cousin’s defense. “That isn’t true, Abby. Why you’re a lovely dancer.”



Abigail smiled. “I’m remarkably fortunate to have you as a champion, Beatrice. However, I hold no false modesty. I’m truly deplorable.”

Geoffrey was hard pressed to believe such a graceful, elegant woman would be deplorable at anything.

Lord Sinclair sketched a deep bow. “Well, I insist that you allow me to at least make a determination for myself on your skill or,” he arched a single brow, “lack thereof, during the next waltz, Miss Stone.”

And now he wanted to plant his fist in Sinclair’s far too-charming smile.

Color flooded Miss Stone’s cheeks, and she fiddled with the card dangling from her wrist.

“I’ll not take no for an answer, Miss Stone,” Sinclair pressed.

The blush on Abigail’s cheeks deepened to a dark red hue that put Geoffrey in mind of a ripened strawberry in the heart of summer. And God, if he didn’t suddenly have a taste for the fruit.

Abigail met Sinclair’s eyes with a direct boldness not suited for an innocent debutante. “Well, if you’ll not accept a rejection on my part and you’re willing to risk the well-being of your toes, than I’d be honored.”

In that moment, Geoffrey who loathed dance as much as he loathed being an object of Society’s scrutiny, wanted to take Abigail in his arms and waltz her throughout an empty ballroom floor. It wasn’t practical. Or proper. Nor would dancing with her serve to advance his goal of marriage to Lady Beatrice, which, just then, didn’t seem as important as it had before he’d arrived at Lord and Lady Essex’s ball.

A waltz.

A waltz and a quadrille.

Geoffrey squared his shoulders and looked to Lady Beatrice. “My lady, will you do me the honor of partnering me in the next set?”

Lady Beatrice’s gaze flitted over to Abigail and Lord Sinclair, and Geoffrey frowned at the wistful longing he saw in her innocent blue eyes.

When she looked back at Geoffrey, she smiled up at him and he assured himself that he’d merely imagined the brief flash of regret in Beatrice’s eyes. “Of course, my lord.”

From the corner of his eye he detected the manner in which Abigail continued to fiddle with her dance card. In the past years, he’d come to consider himself an excellent read of character…which was rather fortunate, because prior to that, he’d been quite dismal at it.

Miss Stone’s distracted movements suggested the young lady was nervous. Or troubled. Perhaps both.

The tip of her nail inadvertently loosened the ivory ribbon and her dance card fell in a fluttery, spiral path toward the Italian marble floor.

She gasped, and made a desperate reach for it but the satin ribbon slipped through her fingers and landed ignominiously at her feet.

“Allow me,” Geoffrey murmured, and stooped to retrieve the item.

“No. I have it!” she said far too quickly.

He ignored her protestations and picked it up. As he stood, his eyes happened upon the names penciled in on the sparse card. It was wholly accidental. Yes, it hardly mattered to him which gentlemen lined Miss Stone’s dance card.

Lord Sinclair. Waltz. Rogue.

Lord Pemberly. Country reel. Reprobate.

Lord Ashfield. Quadrille. Profligate gambler.

Lord Masterson. Waltz. Six children. Far too many for a young lady…

Four partners in total. He frowned. Surely Westfield, as her chaperone, knew that none of the gentlemen would make an acceptable match for any lady, and surely not for his own relative…?

“Redbrooke?” The dry amusement in Lord Sinclair’s tone cut into Geoffrey’s musings.

As though burned, Geoffrey relinquished Abigail’s dance card, and wordlessly handed it over to her. Heat flooded his neck at having been caught studying the names there. He stole a sideways glance at Lord Westfield, who had a black scowl trained on Geoffrey.

It had been unintentional, his reading the names and all. Why, it hardly mattered to him that four wholly unacceptable, entirely too-roguish gentlemen had claimed her sets.

Geoffrey extended his arm to Lady Beatrice. She placed her fingers upon his sleeve and allowed him to escort her onto the dance floor.

Why did it feel like he lied to himself?

***

Abigail schooled her expression so that Lord and Lady Essex’s guests didn’t note her untoward interest in Beatrice and Geoffrey, who now took their places amongst the other dances.

Lord Redbrooke, she silently amended. Lord Redbrooke.

Her fascination with the stoic gentleman merely stemmed from his rescue at last evening’s ball. There was nothing else for it. He was ever so serious, and seemed to wear a perpetual frown.

However…she had learned from Alexander the perils in trusting a gentleman with a too-ready grin.

“Miss Stone?”

Abigail jumped, and turned back to the tall, grinning gentleman forgotten at her side. With his unfashionably long black curls, and sapphire eyes, he was more beautiful than a gentleman had a right to be. Yet, she found herself preferring the understated beauty of Geoffrey Winters’ tall, lean frame. Abigail made a show of retying the card around her wrist, all the while doing a quick inventory of names.