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

“I do not require any assistance on your part.”

Mother pressed a hand to her breast. “My goodness,” she said, with hurt flashing in her eyes. “Do you imagine I would be unable to assist you?”

“I don’t imagine I’ll need anyone’s help securing the young lady’s hand,” he said, dryly.

She leaned over and patted him on the knee. “Why, every gentleman requires the help of one’s mother, dear boy…” Her words cut off abruptly. A glimmer flicked to life in her eyes. “Ahh, so there is a particular young lady.”

Geoffrey bit back a curse. With his mother’s ability to ferret out secrets, she’d be better served working for the Home Office.

The carriage drew to a blessed stop.

Mother sat back in the red velvet squabs with a huff. “Very well,” she groused.

A servant rapped on the door.

“Just a moment, Geoffrey. Won’t you tell…?”

“No.”

Her lips turned down at the corners. “I shouldn’t have to gather it from gossips and newspapers.”

He jumped out of the carriage and made his way up the steps of the townhouse awash in the soft glow of candlelight. As his mother fell into step alongside him, she grumbled under her breath.

They sailed through the doors, into a wall of heat from the crush of bodies that filled Lord and Lady Hughes’s ballroom. From his place in the receiving line, he scanned the room in search of the woman he’d decided to make his wife.

As he sought her out, he contemplated his very deliberate courtship. If he were to secure a waltz and a quadrille this evening, and a waltz and some country reel at the next event they attended, it would send a very clear message that…

He froze.

That…

Geoffrey’s body went taut, and the breath left him. His stare fixed on a tall, lithe young woman, a veritable Spartan warrior princess amidst a room of lesser English ladies. With midnight black locks arranged in an artful design, and elegantly high-cheekbones, she possessed the kind of beauty that made a man do foolish things, like forget to breathe, or what was worse, caused a man to forget responsibility.

Remembrances of past transgressions teased his mind, but the woman, a stranger to him, was like a siren, silently calling, beckoning him. Two loose strands hung down her creamy white shoulders. Another toppled from the butterfly comb that held back those magnificent tresses, ending all such illusion that the flyaway locks were at all deliberate. He ached to capture one between his fingers and ascertain whether the strands were as silken as they appeared in the glow emitted by the chandelier’s gentle flame.

As if being mocked by the gods, Lady Beatrice Dennington’s brother, the Marquess of Westfield, walked up to the young woman, a glass of ratafia in his hands. He held it out to the unfamiliar young lady, and whispered something close to her ear. Even from across the ballroom, the husky quality of her full laugh reached Geoffrey’s ears. Nearby lords and ladies looked on, their lips pulled back in a sneer at her unladylike expression of mirth.

And god help him, for the first time in nearly five years, he wanted to send propriety to the devil with a bow and a parting wave, and forever hear that fulsome sound.

The lady must possess delicate sensibilities, a polite laugh, and not be given to great displays of emotion.

Westfield’s presence, combined with the words Geoffrey had dashed upon his list served as a taunting reminder of his intentions for Lady Beatrice.

“Geoffrey,” his mother murmured, giving him a sharp look. “Are you well?”

“Oh-uh, yes, very well.” Geoffrey stroked his palms along the front of his waistcoat and awaited their introduction.

“The Viscount Redbrooke and the Viscountess Redbrooke,” the servant called.

From his vantage point, Geoffrey sought the tall beauty who’d so captivated him. He frowned. Gone. She’d disappeared from her spot alongside the pillar like an apparition he’d only conjured in his great imaginings.

His chest tightened with inexplicable disappointment.

“I see Lady Tisdale,” his mother said, calling him back to the moment.

Geoffrey managed a faint nod as his mother took her leave, and he returned his search for the temptress. For four years, he’d managed to convince himself that he craved a placid, calm, poised young lady for a wife. Great beauties roused grand passions and wrought all manner of heartache. In the span of a heartbeat, the winsome creature in the crowd made mockery of his efforts at atonement.

Christ, what in hell is wrong with me?

The sole purpose of his being at Lord and Lady Hughes's ball was to partner Lady Beatrice in two sets; a waltz and a quadrille, and indicate his interest in the young lady. It would not do to be observed standing like a foppish gent just out of university with his mouth agape over an altogether different young lady.

Except…his mind was filled with images of too red lips, and a tall, lean frame, and…he gave his head a shake. Standing here, lusting after some unknown lady would not help him accomplish his goal of marriage to Lady Beatrice.

In desperate need of a drink, Geoffrey took a step toward a liveried servant bearing a tray full of champagne when his black Hessian boot suddenly snagged the hem of a young lady’s skirt.

The tear of fabric ripping blended with the din of conversation around them.

The lady gasped, and pitched forward. Even as the glass of ratafia in her hand fell to the floor, her hip collided with the passing servant who teetered on his feet. The young man’s serving tray tilted precariously, and for an infinitesimal moment Geoffrey believed the servant had steadied his burden.