Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(21)

Her cousin, the lovely Abigail, danced through his mind. He imagined the bold-spirited young lady would fill such a void with lively chatter and unrestrained laughter.

A sound of impatience rumbled up from in his chest.

“My lord?” Lady Beatrice’s halting question jerked him back to the moment.

“Uh-I beg your pardon?”

Silence.

His mind drifted back to his first meeting with Abigail Stone.

Dionysus.

What had she meant with that single utterance?

Perhaps he should revisit the Greek classics and reacquaint himself with the details of that particular myth. Not because it mattered per se, but because a gentleman should be versed in…

“My lord, are you all right?” Lady Beatrice asked, her head tilted at a small angle.

“Yes. Fine.” He resisted the urge to pull out his watch fob and consult the time. Now that he’d launched his courtship of Lady Beatrice, he could see to his other matters for the day. There were the ledgers that needed going over. A trip to Gentleman Jackson’s. Except a round with the legendary Jackson only put him in mind of Carmichael’s attack on Abigail; the panicked light in her eyes, the exposed flesh of her full, cream-white breasts, the…He gripped the edges of the seat so tight he left crescent marks upon the gold velvet fabric of the King Louis chair he occupied.

Geoffrey took a deep breath filled with the sudden urge to hunt down Lord Carmichael and bloody the reprobate bastard senseless.

Lady Beatrice leaned down and retrieved her embroidery frame. She longingly studied the vibrant threaded floral arrangement upon the fabric and it occurred to him that the young lady would rather be seeing to her needlework than keeping company with him.

The realization should chafe. He frowned. Yet, oddly her indifference left him wholly unaffected.

“You embroider,” he said, in a desperate bid to engage the woman he’d selected for his future Viscountess Redbrooke.

“I do.”

Well, the young lady certainly wasn’t making this visit any more comfortable.

A sharp burst of laughter followed by a deep chuckle from outside the parlor interrupted their stilted exchange.

Geoffrey’s gaze shot to the doorway where Miss Stone stood alongside her cousin, the Marquess Westfield.

“I say, Abby. I find all that rather hard to…” The marquess registered Geoffrey’s presence. His amusement died, only to be replaced by an inscrutable expression that conveyed neither approval nor disdain. “We have company. Or, Beatrice has company. Redbrooke,” he greeted.

In a frantic attempt to keep from tracing each line of Abigail’s face, Geoffrey rose, his gaze trained on Westfield.

When Geoffrey managed to convince himself that his interest in Miss Stone was that of the same curiosity reserved for an act at Piccadilly Square, and not of any real masculine interest, he allowed himself to look at her.

God punish him as a liar.

Abigail Stone smiled, as if she knew he lied to himself.

And to Lady Beatrice.

Lady Beatrice rose in a flurry of ivory skirts, and rushed over to Miss Stone. “Dearest, Abigail, you remember Lord Redbrooke from last evening, don’t you?”

Abigail dipped a curtsy. “I do.”

He expected her to drop her gaze as Lady Beatrice and any respectable young English miss might. Instead, she unflinchingly met his stare, a fiery glitter in her eyes; eyes that put him in mind of a summer storm.

“Miss Stone.”

She curtsied. “My lord.”

“You must regale Lord Redbrooke and me with your story,” Lady Beatrice insisted. She took Abigail by the hands and guided her over to the sofa she’d occupied mere moments ago, all but dismissing Geoffrey.

“Abigail has the most brilliant stories,” Westfield said, sinking into the seat across from Geoffrey. He waved over to Abigail. “You must finish, Abby.”

“Oh, please do,” Lady Beatrice said, scooting to the edge of her seat and with the light in her eyes, she was more animated than she’d been since Geoffrey had entered the Duke of Somerset’s parlor.

Abigail looked to Geoffrey. “I’m sure Lord Redbrooke doesn’t want to hear a story about a squirrel.”

Yes, at any other time, told by any other person, he imagined that would be an accurate statement. Not here. Not now. Not with this woman. “I would care to hear your tale.” Three pairs of eyes swung in his direction, all filled with varying degrees of shock. “I would,” he said, a touch defensively. Not normally one for storytelling; especially potentially improper stories about foreign creatures, told by engaging young ladies, Geoffrey found this time, he cared to hear her particular tale.

She smiled at him and it transformed her from stunning goddess to ethereal creature memorialized in songs and sonnets by great poets.

“Well, you see, the summer months in Connecticut are quite unbearable. Mother insists we adhere to propriety and leave the doors and windows closed, even if it means we all nearly swelter to our deaths. Last year, Mama was visiting a neighbor one afternoon and Papa instructed the servants to open all the windows and doors.”

Lord Westfield grinned. “And?”

“And,” she continued. “A squirrel darted through the front door and ran the servants on a ragged chase through the house. Papa’s dogs, two, more than slightly overweight sheepdogs, believed the squirrel to be some form of sheep or another and ran the poor little creature around the house.” She gesticulated wildly. “He climbed up Mama’s curtains and tore the lace beyond repair.” Abigail caught Geoffrey’s eye and bold as you please, winked. “Needless to say, that was the last time Papa had the doors and windows open.”