Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(46)

For her.

Instead, he said, “I was taking my leave for the evening.”

She touched the tip of her fingers to his lips. “But you didn’t leave. You stole away into my uncle’s parlor, and allowed me to lead you outside. Do you know why that is?”

Because he’d gone mad. There was no other answer that made rationale sense.

Abigail continued. “Because you are not this cold, commanding figure you present to Society.” A gentle breeze ruffled his hair, and a strand fell across his brow. She reached up and brushed it back. “You can’t punish yourself the rest of your life. I, of course, never knew your father, but I do not believe he would want that of you.”

Her words swirled about him. All the muscles in his body tightened, until he feared the slightest night breeze would shatter him. He took a step away from Abigail, and closed his eyes. For nearly five years, he’d believed he’d known exactly what his father had wanted of him. And yet…Father had merely wanted to spare him the pain of wedding a pernicious woman. His father had set out on horseback that long ago, thunderous night to save his son, not to punish him.

It had been Geoffrey who’d felt the need to flagellate himself over the loss of his father. Geoffrey opened his eyes and stared up at the twinkling starlight above. Abigail’s words, they were the benediction he’d needed for so very long. Geoffrey’s throat worked up and down reflexively. “Thank you, Abby.”

Her brow wrinkled. “I’ve not done anything, Geoffrey.”

This woman, who’d been a mere stranger a short while ago, seemed to somehow know him better than anyone else. She’d allowed him to look inside himself and confront all the ugliest darkest things he’d done in life.

“Abigail! Whatever are you doing?”

Abigail dropped her hand like she’d been burned, and spun to face Lady Beatrice who stood at the gaping parlor doors.

All the color leeched from Abigail’s cheeks. He settled a hand on hers, a paltry attempt at calming the panicked glint in her wide eyes.

“I…”

Lady Beatrice looked disapprovingly at Geoffrey a moment, and then returned her attention to Abigail. She held out a hand. “Come along. Father is looking for you. I insisted you were abovestairs, but we must return at once, lest you’re discovered out here. Alone. With Lord Redbrooke,” she said, with a pointed frown for Geoffrey.

Abigail nodded, and with a final glance in Geoffrey’s direction, hurried off with Lady Beatrice.

Geoffrey stood stock still for so long, the muscles in his neck and back began to ache.

In the moment they’d been discovered, he should have been beset with guilt and regret that Lady Beatrice had discovered him and Abigail together. Except, all he’d felt was the searing loss of Abigail’s departure. For in the too brief time they’d stolen in the garden, gazing up at the stars, his entire world had been upended with the staggering realization—he wanted her. In spite of his duties and obligations and the promises he’d made after his father’s death, he wanted Abigail with an intensity that frightened him. He’d prided himself on having become a resilient, unrelenting gentleman; one who wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of his youth.

But he was powerless to resist it any longer.

He expected he should feel some sense of panic at throwing over the oath he’d taken five years ago, but with Abigail’s spirit and her beauty and her boldness, his world had been toppled like Boney’s troops on their winter march through Russia.

His gaze climbed up to the sky as he studied the glimmering stars of Lyra. Orpheus had braved the underworld to reclaim his Eurydice. Geoffrey’s lips twitched with mirth.

He supposed he could brave his mother’s disapproval when he shared his intentions to court and wed the American, Abigail Stone.





A gentleman should speak in calming, modulated tones when dealing with a distressed female.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



16

“Are you mad? Utterly mad? The kind of mad to rival King George himself?”

Mother’s high-pitched screech pierced Geoffrey’s ears and he shifted in his seat. Leaning back, he studied her as she frantically paced the Aubusson carpet at the center of his office. She occasionally paused, glanced up, and then shook her head, as she continued her pacing.

“You are handling this remarkably well,” he said dryly.

She glowered at him. “You dare to make a jest of this? You, Geoffrey? You do not make jests.”

He had at one time.

He attempted to placate her. “Mother,” he began.

She held a hand up. “Not a word,” she muttered, more to herself. “Marriage to that, to that…American. Your sister, why she scandalized Society with…with…” She colored. “I needn’t repeat what happened. But she had the decency to capture the Earl of Waxham. This…” she slashed the air with her hand, “why, this is unpardonable. You’d wed that…that…”

“American,” he supplied sardonically.

“Exactly!” she agreed, and punched the air with her fist. Apparently her fury over Geoffrey’s aims to wed Abigail Stone prevented her from detecting his intended sarcasm.

Geoffrey sat back in his chair, and folded his arms across his chest. “That American as you refer to her, is in fact the Duke of Somerset’s niece.”