Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(38)

Gravel crunched beneath Geoffrey’s boot, indicating he’d strode over toward the edge of the lake. “Do you find American Society very different than English Society?”

A bitter laugh bubbled up her throat, and she hugged her arms close to her chest. Regardless, of American Society or English Society, all respectable people would find her wanting. Instead, she said, “No.”

“Do you,” he paused, “long to return?”

Abigail tilted her head and studied a graceful white swan as it dunked its long neck beneath the surface and come up a moment later, empty.

She yearned for the life she’d known before she’d given up her good name. “I…” in returning to America, however, she would only be returning to scorn and ridicule, forced to live with the constant reminder of her mistake.

Geoffrey’s fingers brushed the side of her cheek, and gently turned her head to face him. “Is it a very complicated question?”

For all the pain of Alexander’s betrayal, Abigail had never grieved the loss of what her foolish decision had cost her—a respectable husband who loved her—until now. Now, the most she could aspire to was an advantageous match with a gentleman willing to forgive her past transgression.

Geoffrey ran his knuckles along her cheek. “Abigail?” he prodded.

For the first time since she’d boarded her father’s ship, she longed to share the great burden she carried. Of course, she could never tell this proud, proper English nobleman, even if he had saved her from Lord Carmichael.

No, Geoffrey could not save her in all the ways she desperately needed saving.

“I miss my family,” she said after a pregnant stretch of silence. She gestured to the lake. “I miss the pure, clean sea air. Do you know they say there are so many trees across the whole of North America that a single squirrel could cross the entire continent upon the tops of the trees?”

His face may have been carved from stone as hard and unyielding was his expression. Geoffrey’s green-blue eyes bore into her, and she wondered that he couldn’t read every deepest, darkest secret she kept from him. “But do you long to return?”

Staring up at him, Abigail came to a staggering realization. “No, I do not,” she whispered. She ached for the loss of her family but beyond that, there was nothing left for her there but shame, regret, and broken promises.

Her eyes slid closed.

God help her.

She longed for him.

Abigail took a staggering step away from him. She stepped so close to the lake, her pale yellow skirts brushed the mouth of the water. Geoffrey may as well be as unattainable as one of the stars in the sky.

She drew in a shuddery breath.

Geoffrey reached for her, and pulled her back from the water’s edge. He dropped his brow to hers. “If you are seen here like this, alone with me, there will be a scandal.”

Her eyes slid closed. The scandal of being alone with him would be tantamount to ruination. She knew that. He knew that.

It appeared she’d not learned the folly of her past. Her lids fluttered closed, as she prepared for his kiss.

That didn’t come.

Abigail opened her eyes to find him watching her, with emotionless eyes.

“Abigail, I took a vow upon my father’s death to honor my title and all the responsibilities that go with that.”

An odd little pit formed in her stomach. Those words were enough. She silently begged him to cease talking, enumerating all the reasons she would never be a suitable bride.

Alas, he appeared immune to the stinging lash each word of his left upon her heart.

“If I were free to choose, I would—” He glanced off to a distant point over her shoulder. “That is neither here nor there. I’m not free to choose. There was one time when I would have, one time I did, set aside my personal obligations and responsibilities for my selfish desires. I cannot do that again.”

The pit grew, to the size of a boulder and she pressed her palms along the front of her skirts to smooth that pain. Her efforts proved futile.

“I’m wholly unsuitable as a wife.” Her words sounded flat to her own ears.

Geoffrey raked a hand through his hair. “No. Abigail you are…”

She held her hand up to silence him. Abigail didn’t need him to wax on with false praise. Not when she knew the truth, and not when he, even if he were unwilling to acknowledge it, also knew that truth. “Don’t. Please, don’t.” She squared her shoulders and dug deep for the pride that had allowed her to walk out of Mr. and Mrs. Van Buren’s home with her head held high, even after being discovered en dishabille by all the leading members of society. “I see my maid, Sally. She is waiting for me.” She dipped a curtsy. “If you’ll excuse me.”

A muscle throbbed in the corner of Geoffrey’s eye. He gave a curt nod, and stepped aside so she could pass.

Abigail hesitated. “And Geoffrey,” she said, softly. “Beatrice will make you a good wife.”

Geoffrey tugged free the Italian lace wrapped around his hand, now stained with blood, and held it out to her.

She shook her head. “No. Please. Consider it a birthday gift.”

Before he could say another word, she turned on her heel and fled.





It’s both gauche and unwise for a gentleman to consume spirits before twelve o’clock in the afternoon.