Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(39)

4th Viscount Redbrooke



13

Geoffrey sailed through the front doors of his townhouse, and froze at the sight of his mother.

She stood in the foyer, arms akimbo. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you since last evening, Geoffrey.”

He silently cursed. Following his meeting with Abigail, all he wanted was to nurse his regret with too much brandy in the confines of his office. “Mother,” he greeted. He glanced pointedly at Ralston, who was good enough to keep his eyes averted from the private exchange.

His mother ignored his attempt at discretion. “What are you thinking, dear boy?”

He’d always detested when she called him dear boy, as though he were some kind of recalcitrant child…and she tended to use it when she was most disappointed. “This is neither the time nor the place.”

She opened her mouth as if to protest. Then closed it. “Very well. Then I’d like to speak with you in your office.” With a final glower, she stomped off.

Geoffrey followed after her. He hadn’t even closed the door when his mother, who stood at the center of the room, threw her arms wide. “Whatever are you thinking, Geoffrey?”

He hesitated. His mother was a notorious gossip, but surely she’d not learned of his chance meeting with Abigail that morning. Not for the first time, Geoffrey began to feel a greater connection to his sister, Sophie, who’d had to endure untold scrutiny and gossip.

Geoffrey strolled over to the tray of crystal decanters. He poured himself a brandy.

His mother’s eyes widened. “Brandy? Geoffrey, it is not even eight o’clock in the morning.”

Which begged the question of why the viscountess was up at such an uncharacteristic hour and interrupting one of his stolen moments of quiet. He knew better than to ask as much. Geoffrey took a sip. “There’s little harm in a brandy to celebrate my thirtieth year.”

She blinked. “Is it…?”

“Yes.”

Hi mother wrinkled her brow. “Hmph. Happy Birthday,” And then… “You are causing a scandal with that American...”

“Abigail Stone.”

“Woman.”

“I observed you at the theater last evening, Geoffrey. You did not take your eyes off one another once.”

“Mother—”

She jabbed a finger in his direction. “You made a promise after your father’s death.”

Guilt ripped through him. “And I intend to honor those promises.” He downed the brandy. He reached for the bottle and poured another, to the rim. He had every intention of getting fully soused.

His mother took a deep breath. She held her hands up. “Geoffrey, I do want you to be happy.”

Geoffrey looked down into the amber contents of his glass. He’d forfeited all right to happiness when he’d chosen Emma over his father and family. He took a long swallow, and set the glass down hard on the mahogany table. Liquid sloshed over the rim. “I have already stated my intentions, Mother. I’ve chosen Lady Beatrice as my future wife.” If she’ll have me.

His mother studied him intently as if to determine the veracity of his words. She seemed to find truth in his promise for she nodded. “Forgive me, Geoffrey. After that situation with Miss Marsh, I sometimes still fear you’ll be driven by your passions.”



And here he’d believed he’d done a masterful job of handling himself with a suitable level of decorum the past four, nearly five years. It appeared his mother awaited the moment he would make his next, great misstep. Geoffrey looped his hands behind his back and walked over to the floor-length windows that overlooked the quiet street below. “This topic grows tedious, Mother.”

From the smooth, clear surface of the windowpane his mother’s reflection stared back at him. She rang her fingers together. “I’ve seen the way you look at that w…Miss Stone,” she corrected. “No good can come of it, Geoffrey.”

“I understand that.”

But why can’t it, a voice niggled somewhere deep inside. Abigail was the granddaughter of one of the oldest and most respected titles in the realm. Her father, though a former servant, had amassed a small fortune and established a flourishing shipping enterprise.

Abigail was not Emma. Abigail was incapable of the deceit and trickery that had filled Emma Marsh’s black heart.

His mother touched his shoulder.

He stiffened.

“Geoffrey, I know you think me cold and unfeeling, but aside from the death of your father, nothing has caused me greater pain than seeing how Emma Marsh hurt you.”

The agony of guilt robbed him of breath. For years he’d withheld the details of that night from his mother, knowing the truth would destroy her. Or mayhap he was merely a coward. In sharing the truth, he would always be the recipient of his mother and sister’s deserved scorn.

“We’ve been invited to attend a dinner party at the Duke of Somerset’s. I suspect he’s gathered the nature of your intentions, Geoffrey. You are so very close to securing one of the most coveted matches of the Season.”

He nodded.

His mother removed her hand from his shoulder. “Happy Birthday, Geoffrey.”

Geoffrey touched a hand to the front of his jacket, where Abigail’s stained lace rested against his heart. “Mother,” he said, his voice tried to his own ears. “I’ve letters to see to.”