Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(23)

Abigail breathed a small sigh of envy, and then remembered herself. Goodness, she was daft as a ninny. “Beatrice! Are you all right?” She rushed over to her cousin’s side.

The viscount cradled Beatrice close to his chest.

Thick, ugly tendrils of guilt wrapped their cloying hooks about Abigail’s heart, which she shoved aside, shamed at the petty sentiments.

Tears filled Beatrice’s pretty blue eyes. “How silly I am. I believe I turned my ankle.”

“Not silly at all,” the viscount murmured. He seemed to waver, alternating his gaze between Beatrice and the marquess. It occurred to Abigail he wanted to inspect Beatrice for injury but hesitated to do so, probably out of fear of the impropriety of touching her cousin.

Again, Abigail’s stomach tightened at the idea of Lord Redbrooke learning of her scandalous actions in America.

Robert scooped up his sister. “Rather careless of you, Bea,” he muttered.

Ever the model of ladylike decorum, Beatrice dropped her gaze to her brother’s cravat.

“Don’t be silly,” Abigail hurried to assure them. “I’m sure you stepped upon a rabbit hole or…” She glanced down at the untouched earth. Her gaze collided with Beatrice, who gave her a desperate look. Abigail’s eyes widened as she realized her cousin had feigned an injury. “Or perhaps a large rock, or some such, that caused you to fall.” Beatrice mouthed a silent thank you.

“Abigail, why don’t you continue walking? It is ever so beautiful out and it would hardly be fair to require you to abandon your outing,” Beatrice said.

Geoffrey blanched.

Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure the viscount has more important matters to see to than walking with me around Hyde Park.”

She expected him to offer at least a haphazard protestation. When it became apparent he didn’t intend to say anything on the matter, she wrinkled her brow. Oh, the ninnyhammer. He appeared incapable of even feigning polite interest in escorting her on the remainder of the stroll.

Not that she wanted him to pretend, per se.

She did, however, not care to be made to feel less than an afterthought.

“Now, you’re being silly. The viscount would be glad to accompany you. Isn’t that right, my lord?” Beatrice directed her question to Geoffrey, who stood, arms clasped behind his back, his face a stoic mask. Beatrice didn’t wait for him to respond, but motioned to the servant who’d accompanied them. “Please remain with my cousin Miss Stone and Lord Redbrooke. My brother will see me home.”

“That really isn’t necessary.” Abigail’s words sounded a touch too-pleading to her own ears.

“Oh, I insist.” Beatrice tapped her brother on the arm.

Abigail folded her arms across her chest, tapping her foot upon the ground as Beatrice and Robert took their leave.

In the distance, Beatrice peeked out from behind her brother’s shoulder, and winked.

Abigail let out a beleaguered sigh.

It would appear she was to be alone with Lord Proper…whether either of them wished it or not.

A breeze tugged at her skirts, and freed a strand of her hair from the Italian lace woven through her hair by her maid. Abigail surveyed the swans and pelicans that flitted about the wide, man-made lake. Abigail touched her fingers to the delicate strip of fabric and forced herself to look at Lord Redbrooke.

He stood, his large frame immobile, as if he feared any movement would cause him to splinter into a thousand million pieces.

He glanced back toward the direction Beatrice and Robert had disappeared.

“Are you afraid of me, my lord?”

Geoffrey’s gaze snapped back to her. Annoyance glittered in his eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

She smiled up at him, and then dipped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I assure you, you need not fear being alone with me. I’ll not bite.” Abigail held out her arm.

Geoffrey stared at her like she was the mythical sea monster, Ketos. He stared so long she began to feel rather foolish standing there with her arm out to him, for all the passing English lords and ladies to see. She lowered her arm but met his gaze directly. She’d not be cowed or humiliated by an English lord. Not when she’d come here for an attempt at a fresh start for past transgressions.

“I didn’t think you would,” he said at last. And closed the small distance between them. This time, he extended his arm.

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t think you would bite,” he clarified.

Her lips twitched. She hesitated a moment, and then placed her fingertips along the sleeves of his coat. “I was merely jesting,” she murmured. “Are you always so serious, Geoffrey?” she asked, when they began strolling along the walking path.

“Yes.”

She stole a peek up at him. “And laconic?”

“Yes.” Pause. “And it wouldn’t do for you to be overheard calling me by my Christian name.”

The crunch of gravel beneath his booted feet and her slippers filled the quiet.

“That might be true.” She winked up at him. “But I plan to do so, just the same.” This man had saved her from Lord Carmichael’s unwanted attention. He’d seen her shamed and humbled at his feet. It seemed odd to think of him by any name other than his Christian name.

Abigail stopped, and forced Lord Redbrooke to either halt, or drag her down to the ground. “I wanted to thank you for your intervention at Lord Hughes’s ball.”