Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(20)

Geoffrey shifted her in his arms. “Tell me, Miss Stone, is dancing not an art perfected by American ladies?”

She blinked innocently up at him. “Oh, yes, my lord, by rule American ladies do not dance. Nor do they embroider or paint.”

He leveled her closer, and lowered his head so that his breath, a blend of mint and brandy, fanned her cheek. “Are you making light of me, Miss Stone?”

Abigail suspected Geoffrey was not a man used to being insulted. “You are very serious.”

“I am.”

Her lips twitched at his succinct reply.

“You find fault in a gentleman who values respectability.”

She stumbled, and he expertly righted her. “Miss Stone?” he prodded.

“I find fault in a gentleman incapable of humor,” she countered. Abigail trailed her gaze over the angular planes of his face. A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched, an indication that he’d been affected by her subtle insult.

His lip pulled back in a condescending sneer. “And are American gentlemen a humorous lot?”

She again faltered as his words ripped through her already ravaged heart; his unknowing reminder of one American gentleman who had been quick to smile and had teased her mercilessly. “They are,” she said.

Fortunately she was saved from further questioning. The music drew to a close, and Abigail and Geoffrey stopped amidst the dance floor, studying one another. Never before had Abigail been more grateful for the end of a set. She dropped a curtsy. “Good evening, my lord. Thank you for the dance.”

And before he could reply, she turned on her heel and fled.

Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke posed a danger to her frayed emotions and she would be wise to avoid him.

Abigail grasped the sides of her skirts and crushed the smooth, satin fabric within her fingers.

Then, she’d never been wise were gentlemen were concerned.





A gentleman should rise at a respectable hour and be fruitful with his time.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



7

Geoffrey stepped out of his carriage, his gaze trained on the Duke of Somerset’s townhouse. Following Lord and Lady Essex’s ball, he’d taken his leave with a renewed sense of commitment to his plans of wedding Lady Beatrice Dennington. One sole dance with Abigail Stone had served to remind him of the perils of a headstrong miss with cheeky retorts.

So then, why did he relish the possibility of again seeing the winsome beauty? As he strode up the duke’s steps, he gave his head a hard shake. His reaction to the lady was utter madness.

He’d been unable to rid himself of the memory of her; the pale glow of moonlight kissing the generous crest of her décolletage, or her laugh better suited to bedroom games and naughty deeds.

Geoffrey cursed, and climbed the handful of steps to the threshold of the Duke of Somerset’s door. He shifted the bouquet of hothouse flowers he held, over to his other hand, and knocked on the front doors of the impressive smooth-finished, cream-colored stucco townhouse.

His back fairly prickled with the fascinated eyes of those lords and ladies out at this fashionable hour. The news of his courtship of Lady Beatrice had surely already found its way into the scandal sheets. Geoffrey frowned, detesting the scrutiny.

The door opened. A butler in fine red livery apparel and a powdered wig greeted him.

Geoffrey held out his card. “To see Lady Beatrice Dennington.”

The butler looked down at the card, and inclined his head. “If you’ll follow me, Lady Beatrice is receiving callers.”

Geoffrey’s frown grew as he followed the butler. He liked the idea of competing for Lady Beatrice’s affection even less than he cared for the unwanted attention he’d received on the duke’s front steps. Geoffrey would rather not compete for the lady’s affections. After all, it would only serve to complicate his courtship and interfere with the strict timeline he’d set to have his marital affairs in order.

The butler paused beside a door. “The Viscount Redbrooke, my lady.”

Seated upon a chintz sofa at the center of the room, Lady Beatrice looked up from her needlework, a perfectly acceptable ladylike talent. She stood so quickly her embroidery frame toppled to the floor. A flash of something akin to disappointment flared in her eyes.

“My lord,” she murmured.

Geoffrey entered the room, and stopped beside her. He bowed, holding the artfully arranged flowers out to her. “My lady.”

She accepted them with a quiet thanks and motioned for him to sit.

Geoffrey claimed the seat nearest her, and proceeded to study her.

His mind turned over all manner of appropriate discourse. He beat his hand along the side of his leg. “We’ve been enjoying lovely weather.” He winced inwardly at his paltry attempt at discourse.

Lady Beatrice nodded. Her gaze flickered over to the window and then back to him. “Yes. Yes we have,” she said softly.

Silence fell.

It stretched on, thick and unending, punctuated by the tick-tock-tick-tock of the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantle. Lady Beatrice’s fingers plucked at the upholstery of the velvet sofa she occupied, a telltale indication of her discomfort.

Well, surely most matches amongst the ton began with such discomfiture. Geoffrey supposed it should take several more visits before they were comfortable in one another’s presence.