Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(19)

Which would mean she’d never be welcomed home.

“Are you counting?”

She nodded.

“I do believe I’ve never partnered with a young lady who counted.”

Abigail glanced up. “Oh, I’m sure the young ladies you danced with can count, my lord. They most likely just do not do it aloud.”

He blinked, and then again tossed his head back and laughed. “You’re a delight, Miss Stone.”

You’re a delight.

Alexander Powers had whispered those very words into her ear many a-time. Foolish. Foolish.

Fortunately, the set concluded, and Lord Sinclair’s boots seemed to have survived the heavy trampling under her slippers. Wordlessly, he escorted her back to her cousin, Robert.

“Miss Stone, it was a pleasure. May I be permitted to call upon you?”

Abigail cocked her head. “Call on me?” Lord Sinclair wanted to call on her, which implied he wanted to court her, which would be utter madness—on his part. She was the ungraceful, too loud American woman with a scandalous past. He did not know that latter part, but nonetheless…

Robert spoke for her. “That would be permissible.”

Lord Sinclair bowed low at the waist, and with a last lingering look for Abigail, took his leave.

“Sinclair is a decent enough gentleman,” Robert said in a hushed tone.

Abigail wet her lips, not pretending to misunderstand him. “Robert…” They couldn’t have this discussion. Not here. Not with all English Society’s leading lords and ladies present. Her cousin did not know the full extent of what had brought her to London.

Abigail had been sent to London in the hopes she would make a match. Yet, in spite of her family’s rather low opinion of her, Abigail possessed enough integrity to not trap an unsuspecting gentleman into marriage. Gentlemen had stringent expectations for a wife, and a lady who’d tossed away her virtue on an undeserving scoundrel would never make anyone a suitable bride.

She’d come to reconcile that her mistake had merited her parents hastily packing her up and shipping her off to England.

Only now, for the first time since she’d been discovered with Alexander, Abigail wished she’d made altogether different decisions, wished she was still the pure, unsullied lady worthy of an honorable and honest courtship.

Unbidden, her gaze sought out Geoffrey. He and Beatrice cut an impressive figure as they took their leave of the dance floor and made their way back to Abigail and Robert.

It hadn’t mattered that she was unfit for a gentleman—until now. Until Lord Redbrooke had tugged free her scrap of Italian lace from under Lord Carmichael’s boot and held it out to her.

Now, it seemed to matter, too much.

Geoffrey bowed over Beatrice’s hand, and then turned to Abigail. “May I have this dance?” Geoffrey asked curtly.

His harsh, angry tone hardly belonged to a man who desired her company. Abigail inclined her head. “I fear with your seriousness, my lord, you’d only be appalled by my shocking lack of talent and grace.”

The firm, square line of his jaw hardened. “Are you denying my request?” He spoke with the conviction of a man whose status had clearly grown him accustomed to having his wishes met.

She tipped her chin up. “Is it a request, my lord?”

Beatrice and Robert’s gazes moved from Abigail to Geoffrey.

“Is that a reply, Miss Stone?”

She felt the warm flush of color suffuse her cheeks. Goodness, with his directness, the man was unconscionable.

She glanced down and quickly looked over her card. Of course he’d gathered from before that her next set was available.

Why would the Lady Essex’s orchestra play a second waltz? Still considered scandalous, the dance would require Geoffrey to take her in his arms. Her eyes flew to his, and he arched a brow in unspoken challenge.

Abigail tilted her chin back. She’d braved the cut direct from Connecticut’s leading families, been shamed before her family; she’d not be cowed by this man’s effrontery.

He held his arm out, and as they were attracting the notice of those around him, Abigail placed her fingertips along his sleeve and allowed him to guide her onto the dance floor. They took their position among the other dancers.

“I was not jesting when I said I am a deplorable dancer,” she murmured as the orchestra began to play.

“No. I observed as much in your set with Lord Sinclair,” Geoffrey’s words dripped with a cool indifference. His gaze remained fixed upon the top of her head.

Oh, the wretch.

Abigail ground her heel atop his slipper. “Oh, pardon me.”

With his veneer of icy coolness, Geoffrey made Abigail wonder whether she’d imagined the chivalrous gentleman who’d rescued her last evening.

Some emotion, volatile and hot, blazed to life in his eyes.

No. This was in fact, the same man.

His firm lips, which seemed sculpted in a perpetual frown, deepened, and his chestnut brown eyebrows knitted into a single line, indicating that he’d accurately gathered her misstep had been intentional. “I must admit, Miss Stone, I believed you would have provided one excuse or another to avoid dancing with me.”

His words sent her back upright, and she angled her head. Did he suppose she was intimidated by his churlish behavior “Do you expect I should be embarrassed by my lack of skill?” She didn’t allow him to respond. “I’m neither a coward, nor a liar, my lord.” There was the matter of secrecy on her scandal with Alexander Powers, but that was entirely different. Her silence was no lie, but rather a desperate bid at survival. The world was not kind where fallen women were concerned. She didn’t expect this proud, proper man would be at all different.