Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(35)

She bit her lower lip and her gaze skirted his, so uncharacteristic of the woman who brazenly met his stare. “It is nothing,” she finished lamely. “I merely miss my family.”

He narrowed his eyes. Did she expect he could not perceive the lie in her stormy-gray eyes? “Has someone hurt you?”

A bitter little laugh spilled past her bow-shaped, red lips, and she shook her head too-emphatically, confirming his earlier supposition.

Odd, in a mere handful of days he’d come to know her enough to read even the most subtle nuances of her movements. “Who?” The word emerged as a silken whisper. He’d kill the bastard who’d reduced her to this downtrodden figure before him.

“No one. Truly,” she said at last. Her gaze locked with his. “You shouldn’t be here, Geoffrey. We shouldn’t.”

Ahh, so she’d be rid of him?

“No,” he agreed. But he remained.

And so did she.

When had propriety ceased to matter?

Geoffrey dropped his brow atop hers, inhaling the sweet fragrant lilacs that kissed her skin and tantalized his senses. “What have you done to me, Abby?” he whispered. She’d made him forget a pledge he’d taken nearly five years ago. She made him yearn for all manner of things he should no longer desire.

Geoffrey groaned.

I am lost.

His mouth closed over hers.

Abigail leaned up on tip toe and pressed her lean, lush body to his. The generous expanse of her breasts flattened against the wall of his chest.

His hands of their own volition went to her waist. He should set her away. He should turn on his heel and leave the bold young lady who made him forget.

He should do all manner of things proper.

Instead, he tugged her closer, and moved his hands along the curve of her hips, the base of her buttocks, until a little moan escaped her. Geoffrey parted her lips and swallowed that breathy sound of desire, his shaft hardening against her belly.

“Geoffrey,” she whispered into his mouth.

His tongue danced an age old rhythm with hers. Parry and thrust. Thrust and parry. Her head fell back, and his lips left hers.

“No,” she protested, tugging on the strands of his hair.

Geoffrey ignored her urging and used his lips to trail a hot path along the sensitive spot behind her ear, down to the rapidly fluttering pulse in her neck, and ever lower, to the exposed satiny flesh of her décolletage.

Abigail moaned.

“Now, by heaven, my blood begins my safer guides to rule, and passion, having my best judgment collied, assays to lead the way."

Othello’s mocking words infiltrated the haze of passion. Geoffrey wrenched his head back. He released Abigail with such alacrity, she stumbled against him. He eyed her there with something akin to horror creeping around his mind with tentacle-like fingers.

Abigail looked at him. “Geoffrey,” she whispered.

He shook his head hard enough to yank the muscles in his neck. He welcomed the stiff pain, embraced it for penance. Geoffrey spun on his heel, presenting Abigail with his back. All the while, he struggled to draw in steady, even breaths.

Christ. After Emma’s betrayal and his father’s death, he’d believed himself free of irrational, impassioned responses. And yet, here he stood, a stone’s throw from Polite Society, lusting after Lady Beatrice’s cousin. His eyes slid closed on a wave of guilt.

He’d failed in his responsibilities now, just as he had five years ago.

“Geoffrey,” Abigail repeated softly.

He gave his head a curt shake and when he trusted himself not to cross over to Abigail and take her into his arms yet again, he turned to face her. “Go, Miss Stone.” Or I will not be responsible for what I do next. “Go!” he repeated, his tone harsh and cold.

A flash of hurt filled her eyes.

Abigail stepped behind him and fled.





A gentleman recognizes the value in rising early as beneficial to a healthy constitution.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



12

Geoffrey guided Decorum through the empty grounds of Hyde Park, giving the mount free rein to stretch his legs. Even as he galloped along the empty riding path, he longed for the open expanse of land in his country seat. Only there could he be free of Society’s focus.

He hadn’t always desired solitude.

At one time, he’d loathed the country and craved the balls and soirees of the Season. It seemed a lifetime since he’d been that man; a lifetime since Miss Emma Marsh.

He tugged on the reins of his horse, and brought it to a trot. He prided himself on the orderly manner in which he’d lived his life these past years. He’d reformed himself from careless rogue into sensible, responsible lord. No living soul; not his mother, nor Sophie, knew of the secret shame and guilt he carried. They didn’t know that there had been a time when Geoffrey had placed his own selfish desires before everything that truly mattered; family, responsibility, his title as viscount—and that decision had proven a costly one.

Last night, he’d exhibited a shocking lack of honor in kissing Abigail.

Geoffrey swiped his hand over his face. Abigail had wrought havoc upon the carefully crafted life he’d built for himself after his father’s tragic death.

Perhaps on this, his thirtieth birthday he was reminded that he still remained unwed and heir-less. Or perhaps the unconventional, bold-spirited Abigail Stone had woven a sorceress’ spell upon him. But, the dream of her had kicked down the wall he’d carefully constructed around his heart.