Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(48)

His mother made an impatient sound. “Regardless, Sophie is now wed to Waxham. It is your marital circumstances I wish to discuss. I do not want you to wed that American woman.”

“Abigail,” he corrected automatically.

“Bah,” she cried. “What manner of name is Abigail? Even her name is wholly inappropriate for the next Viscountess Redbrooke.”

He’d had enough. Geoffrey clenched his jaw and squeezed his next words out past tight lips. “Mother, I intend to wed Abigail. There are no great scandals…”

“How can you be sure?” his mother cried.

He continued, ignoring her interruption. “She has noble bloodlines and her family is well-connected.” Those things mattered to his mother…and just a short while ago had mattered very much to Geoffrey. Until Abigail. “And she makes me happy,” he added, not expecting those last words to hold any real weight with his mother.

Her next words proved him correct. “Then take a mistress, Geoffrey. But please, I implore you, do not dilute your noble bloodlines with that American woman and her common family.” Tears filled his mother’s eyes.

Guilt twisted around his stomach. He had no intentions of deviating in his plans to wed Abigail, but that didn’t lessen the guilt of causing his mother pain. Not, when he’d already caused her the greatest agony with his father’s death. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said quietly. The least of what he was sorry for, however, was Abigail Stone.

She held her palms outward, in supplication. “Please, Geoffrey. You know so very little about the lady and yet you’d offer her your name and all that goes with the distinguished Redbrooke title.”

He frowned. Odd, how in so short a time Abigail had tossed his life into such an upheaval he’d brave Mother’s disapproval for the opportunity to again laugh and smile. It was, as mother said, sheer madness to forget himself for the sake of a woman. However, Abigail was a siren, and Geoffrey had been lured by her effervescent spirit; a spirit that had only served to remind him that he himself was very much alive.

Mother studied him. She seemed to use the time to compose herself, for when she spoke, her tone was more steady, the look in her eyes less desperate. “Very well, Geoffrey. If you intend to wed this…”

“Abigail,” he interjected, sternly. The sooner she accepted his intentions to wed Abigail, and acknowledged that Abigail would be the future Viscountess Redbrooke, then the easier it would be.

“If you insist on wedding Abigail,” she amended. “Then I would put a favor to you.”

He eyed her warily. “What is it?”

“I would ask you to act with more prudence than you did with Miss Emma Marsh. Court her. But there is no reason to move hastily in this regard.”

Geoffrey reclaimed his seat. He drummed his fingertips along the arm of his chair. His mother was indeed correct. His urgency stemmed from nothing more than a desire to make Abigail Stone his. He remembered Sinclair, last evening. The bold, bastard’s roguish stare fixed upon Abigail. The other man had barely uttered a word to the guests around him, his focus reserved solely for Abigail. Geoffrey knew as much. Because he’d studied Abigail and Sinclair’s every interaction. Sinclair’s head bent close to her ear, the teasing grin on the other man’s lips, the delicate pink of Abigail’s blush.

He shook his head forcefully. “No. I’ll not wait to make her my wife.”

“Geoffrey!” his mother cried out. “Have you not learned from your mistakes? Your father…”

She must have seen something horrible written on Geoffrey’s face, because her words died.

Geoffrey gripped the wood arms of his chair so tight, his nails left indents into the hard surface. He studied the opened ledgers upon his mahogany desk, the same desk his father had used to see to his business affairs.

“A fortnight,” he said at last.

“And the three consecutive Sundays for the banns,” his mother insisted, a determined edge had replaced the plaintive tone she’d employed for their discourse, up to that point.

Geoffrey inclined his head. “I’ll not request a special license from the archbishop.” The scandal created by his sister and brother-in-law, the Earl of Waxham had necessitated a special license. In Geoffrey’s case, there was no scandal, merely impatience on his part.

He did not allow himself to consider the possibility Abigail might reject his suit. Any marriage between them would require she forsake all she’d known and begin a new life, in a new country.

Geoffrey shoved the thought aside. Abigail would say yes. The alternative…he shook his head. There really was no alternative.

His mother clasped her hands in front of her. “Are you certain there is nothing I can say that will make you see reason?”

“There is not.”

She said nothing for a long moment. Then, nodded slowly. “Very well, then, Geoffrey. I hope you will not be hurt.”

Again.

He set his jaw at a stony angle. “I don’t intend to be, Mother.”

She shook her head with infinite slowness. “Mark my words, Geoffrey. You are acting rashly. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve a visit with Lady Davenport.” Mother gave a flounce of her hair, and spun on her heel.

“Mother,” he called, when she reached the door.

She paused with her hand on the handle but didn’t turn to face him.