Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(28)

As he rode, he considered his recent meeting with Abigail Stone. For whatever reason, the young woman had slipped into the recesses of his mind and would not relinquish her hold. He supposed a good deal of his interest in the young woman stemmed largely from her exotic beauty, but with the clean spring air filling his lungs, he realized his fascination was a product of more than mere physical lust. Abigail possessed a bold spirit and unabashed candidness that he didn’t understand, and yet, oddly because he didn’t understand it, found himself intrigued by it. Since Father’s death, Geoffrey had taken great care to avoid passionate women such as Abigail.

Geoffrey guided Decorum down St. James Street, and drew on the reins, bringing his mount to a stop in front of the familiar white stone front of White’s. He dismounted, and handed the reins over to a waiting servant.

Intent on putting aside the memory of Abigail’s husky laugh and siren’s voice, he strode up the steps and entered his club.

“Redbrooke!” A booming voice called in greeting.

Geoffrey looked around, until his stare alighted upon Lord Alvanley in his place of honor at the bow window, alongside the Earl of Seaton.

Geoffrey raised his hand in greeting and wound his way through the club, nodding as he passed acquaintances, until he reached his table in the far back corner. He slid into the comfortable folds of his seat and motioned for a bottle of brandy.

A servant hurried over and placed the bottle and glass atop the table.

Geoffrey reached for it and proceeded to splash several fingerfuls into the glass. Raucous laughter caught his notice. He frowned around the rim of his drink, and took a long swallow. Several foppish young dandies stood around the infamous White’s betting book.

Lord Walsh, a reed-thin dandy in garish golden satin breeches, said something that made the three gentlemen around him howl with laughter.

“Bloody swains,” a deep voice drawled, jerking Geoffrey’s attention back from the indistinguishable words among the young dandies.

Geoffrey looked and frowned—Lord Sinclair. Bloody fantastic. He and Sinclair had moved in the same circles once upon a lifetime ago. Only, Sinclair still carried the reputation as something of a reckless rogue.

Sinclair had also secured one of Abigail’s waltzes last evening.

Geoffrey detested him even more.

“Might I join you, chap?” Sinclair didn’t wait for Geoffrey to confirm, but pulled out the chair across from Geoffrey and settled into the seat. “Mind if I help myself to a glass of brandy?” He glanced around and then held his hand up. A liveried servant came over with a glass, which he placed in front of Sinclair. The young man bowed and then took his leave.

Sinclair poured himself a glass and took a sip.

Geoffrey stared across the table at the other man. He and Lord Sinclair had attended Eton and Oxford in the same years, but beyond that, they tended to move in very different social circles.

Very different.

Which made Sinclair’s intrusion so very odd.

And unappreciated.

Sinclair cradled his glass in one hand and drummed the fingertips of his other along the edge of the table. The rhythmic tapping grated, and Geoffrey gritted his teeth until Sinclair suddenly stopped. He leaned over, placing his elbows upon the table. “Lady Beatrice, is it?”

Geoffrey blinked. “I beg your pardon?” It would certainly help if the other man spoke in complete sentences.

“Or is it the lovely, ever-intriguing Miss Abigail Stone who has snared your attention.”

Geoffrey’s mind went blank at the other man’s blunt questioning. He reached for his too-tight cravat, and then remembered himself. Clearing his throat, he clenched the edge of the table. “Of a sudden you are interested in my marital intentions?”

Sinclair’s eyes lit. “Ah, so you do have, how did you phrase it, marital intentions?” He arched a brow. “Hardly the romantic, are you, Redbrooke?”

Geoffrey silently cursed and downed the remaining contents of his glass. That hadn’t always been the case. Emma’s visage flashed behind his eyes. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another. “You’re worse than the bloody matrons at Almack’s.”

Sinclair grinned. “Who knew you had a sense of humor?”

Geoffrey sat back in his chair, and took another sip of brandy. He frowned. Geoffrey didn’t know why, or how to explain it, but this unfavorable opinion carried by Abigail and Lord Sinclair rankled. He had a sense of humor. That is, when something happened to be funny. Not crudely amusing. Or inappropriately amusing. But, well, amusing.

Another round of laughter rent the quiet conversations of White’s. Simultaneously Sinclair and Geoffrey stared off at the trio of dandies.

“You never answered my question, Redbrooke? Is it Lady Beatrice or Miss Stone you’ve set your marital cap at? If I was a wagering man,” he glanced toward the men clustered around the betting book. “And I am, a wagering man, I would venture it is Lady Beatrice you are poised to make your viscountess. Hmm, no word?” Sinclair said, leaning close. He took another sip of his brandy.

Geoffrey had sought out his clubs to rid himself of his mother’s barrage of questions. It would appear he’d merely traded one nuisance for another. “It’s none of your damned business, Sinclair.”

Sinclair arched a brow. “What if it is my business, Redbrooke? Or rather, what if I care to make it my business?”