Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(36)

“Whoa,” he said to Decorum. He brought the mare to a halt at the edge of the Serpentine, and stared out at the impressive, man-made lake. He remembered back to the day he’d waded in to rescue Abigail’s bit of lace. Those actions had belonged to the man he’d been, not the man he’d become.

Except, Geoffrey found the sanguine gentleman of his youth still lived inside him.

He continued to study the pristine, untouched surface of the lake.

His visit here, not mere happenstance.

It reminded him of her…

“Hullo.”

Geoffrey jerked, and his knees bit unexpectedly into Decorum’s flanks. In a desperate attempt to keep the horse from bolting, Geoffrey yanked hard on the reins. The suddenness of his movements startled the mare. Decorum reared on its legs, pawing at the air. Dust and gravel clouded around him.

“Bloody hell,” Geoffrey muttered, as Decorum tossed him sideways. He braced for the moment his body connected with the Earth, but couldn’t prepare for the jolting, jarring pain as his side collided with the ground. He rolled out of the way to keep from being trampled by Decorum’s hooves. All the air left his lungs.

Decorum bolted ahead several feet.

“Oh my goodness!” Abigail cried and raced the remaining distance until she reached his side. Her skirts whipped wildly about her legs, as she skidded to a stop in front of him. She sank to her knees. “Are you hurt?” Her worried gaze ran up and down his prone form.

“I’m…” Sore and embarrassed.

Abigail ran her hands over his person. Her fingers traveled down his forearms and along his back and over his side as she searched him for injury.

The gods surely tested him. Geoffrey groaned.

“Oh goodness, you’re hurt.” Abigail paused. “I’m so sorry.” She momentarily raised her eyes to meet his. ”I...I’m so sorry,” she repeated. She resumed her tender ministrations.

Her fingers graced his hip.

Geoffrey’s body hardened as she came entirely too close to that part of him that longed to lay her down, pull the pins free of her serviceable chignon, and allow her midnight curls to fall about them in a silken cascade. “Madam,” he bit out. His gaze searched the surrounding area and then settled upon Abigail’s pink cheeks. “Where is your maid?”

Abigail’s eyes went wide as she seemed to realize all at once the impropriety of her actions. “I-ah…forgive me.” She struggled to her feet, her gaze skirting his. She glanced down at her toes and scuffed the tip of her slipper along the pebbled path. “I left Sally some time to herself in the gardens.”

He dropped his voice. “You ventured through Hyde Park, alone, madam? Even knowing the perils of being unchaperoned?” There were all manners of cowardly bastards like Lord Carmichael who would gladly shred the young lady’s reputation without a by your leave.

She waved her hand. “What harm could come to me?”

Geoffrey closed his eyes briefly and prayed for patience. When he opened them, he found her studying him, head tilted at an endearing little angle. “I believe you’ve already learned the dangers to be found, even amidst fashionable Society.”

The color drained from her cheeks at his unspoken reminder of Lord Carmichael’s attack. Most women would have dropped their modest gazes to the ground. Abigail Stone, however, was no conventional young lady. Her eyes blazed with emotion. “I merely sought to help, my lord. I’ve helped my brothers and sister after many mishaps.”

He stiffened at her innocent comparison. Even as he sat there lusting after her like an untried youth, Abigail looked to him the way she might one of her siblings. Geoffrey stood slowly.

She must have seen something dark and menacing in his eyes for her hand flew to her breast, and she took, one step, then another, and another, backward.

“Do you believe I’d hurt you?” he snapped.

His words brought her up short. Her chin went up a notch, as he continued to advance.

Geoffrey stopped so close that his boots kissed the tips of her ivory, satin slippers. He looked down at her; his eyes fixed on the tempting red, flesh of her full lips. His breath grew ragged. If he dipped his head down, even just a bit, their lips would brush.

“No.”

God help him, he wanted her.

“What?” That single-word question ripped harshly from his throat.

Abigail reached for his hand. “I do not believe you’d hurt me. I do not believe you’re capable of hurting anyone.”

He remembered back to his father’s broken body, and swallowed. Abigail could not be more mistaken.

“Oh, dear. You are hurt,” Abigail said, mistaking whatever emotion she saw in his ravaged eyes for a physical pain.

She took his hand and turned it over, studying it for a moment. The distant cry of a kestrel, echoed overhead, and blended with the heavy beat of his heart. With the tip of her index finger, she dusted bits of gravel and rock from his palm. “You’re bleeding,” she murmured.

She released him and reached into the front of her pocket.

He said nothing as she removed that familiar scrap of lace and touched it to his hand. “No,” he protested, too late. The thin thread of blood that ran a crimson path from the intersecting lines of his palm to his wrist soaked into the stark white fabric of her lace. “Abigail,” he said, hoarsely.