Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(25)

Abigail took a step away from him. Then another. And another. She pressed her palm to her breast, noting the way his gaze fell to the slight swell of bosom revealed by her modest sapphire blue muslin dress.

“Ahh, so that is it.”

He was as relentless as a hunter stalking its prey.

“You’re wrong.” She’d braved the scorn of her American compatriots. She could not countenance having to weather the very same scandal. Abigail willed strength back into her spine. She tipped her chin up, and took a step toward him so the mere span of a hand separated their bodies. “I’m merely here visiting my uncle.”

Geoffrey inclined his head. “Do you know, Miss Stone, I find I don’t believe you. You seem to me a woman of many secrets.”

Warning bells went off at the accuracy of his supposition.

Not many secrets. Rather one secret. One very shameful, damning, and damaging secret. She should be filled with terror at how very close Geoffrey had come to the truth. Abigail wet her lips. Instead, she was nothing more than a shameful creature unable to take her eyes from the broad width of his shoulders, the thick corded muscles of his arms, the sun-kissed, olive hue of his skin.

He lowered his head, his breath fanned her cheeks.

Another breeze wafted over them. It caught the strand of lace woven through her hair and the fabric danced to the ground, mocking her shameful wantonness.

The magical pull between them shattered, Abigail dashed ahead, reaching for the precious lace, but the wind caught it and carried it further down the walking path. She hurried after it, but Mother Nature seemed to be playing a cruel kind of game. The fabric slipped through Abigail’s fingers. The wind continued to carry it along. She gasped as another breeze carried the precious gift from home out onto the lake.

“No,” she cried, and took a step toward the edge of the water. Water touched the tips of her satin slippers.

Geoffrey came to stop alongside her. His gaze moved from her to the lace atop the smooth surface of the water. “It is just a piece of fabric, Miss Stone.”

“It’s not,” she said. She’d not expect him to understand.

“It appears as though it is,” he drawled.

“My sister gave it to me,” she blurted. “She told me to touch it whenever I was lonely and missing my family. She…” Abigail took a deep breath, knowing how silly she must sound waxing on about the seemingly insignificant piece.

Geoffrey was indeed correct; it was nothing more than a small piece of fabric, but to Abigail it represented the fragile thread that connected her to the family she’d been forced to leave behind. “I know it seems utterly fool…”

Geoffrey cursed. He bent down and tugged at his black Hessian boot.

She gasped. “What are you doing?”

He tossed the boot aside, and reached for his other foot. “Retrieving the blasted thing,” he muttered. “Can’t have you crying in public. People will assume I’ve reduced you to tears. Gossip will spread,” he mumbled, and waded into the water.

Abigail swallowed back the laughter that bubbled in her throat as Geoffrey picked his way through the water.

He glared over his shoulder, back at her. His foot slid out from under him and he flung his arms out in a futile attempt to stop his fall. “Bloody hell.”

Abigail clamped her hands over lips, horrification and humor blended as one. Nearby lords and ladies gasped and halted to observe Lord Redbrooke’s display.

He rose out of the shallow depths. Water ran in rivulets from his soaked chestnut locks, down his rugged cheeks. His coat, hopelessly beyond repair, hung open, displaying the translucent water-dampened fabric of his white cambric shirt.

He glowered at the voyeurs witnesses to this great spectacle and they had the good sense to scurry off.

Abigail rushed over. “My lord, I don’t know what to say. I…”

He held out his dripping hand and displayed the slip of lace, clasped between his thumb and forefinger, more precious than the crown of diamonds Dionysus had given his Ariadne. “Here.” Geoffrey waved it about.

Abigail grasped it with her fingers. Her throat moved up and down as she fought back a swell of emotion. Geoffrey had rescued her first from certain ruin and now, he’d sacrificed his fine attire and braved the censure of passing members of Society, all to save her piece of lace.

“Thank you.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You can simply say thank you.”

A giggle burst past her lips. She tried desperately to quell the inappropriate expression of mirth. After all, considering his scandalous actions it hardly conveyed suitable appreciation.

Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed, apparently of like mind.

“Th-th…thank you,” she managed between deep gasping breaths of laughter. She clutched the Italian lace to her chest, all amusement dying at the hard-indecipherable expression he leveled upon her.

Her toes curled in the soles of her slippers. In America, she’d become accustomed to the gentleman’s gentle smiles and the teasing light in their eyes. There was nothing soft, or teasing about Geoffrey. He was as different from Alexander as the day sky was from the night.

Perhaps that explained the tug of unwarranted and unwanted interest in Lord Redbrooke…the gentleman who’d been quite clear in his intentions for her cousin, Beatrice. Beatrice, however, had been equally clear that she’d little interest in making a match with the viscount.