Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(49)

“She is a good woman.”

“Well, I imagine time will reveal whether or not that is accurate,” she said frostily.

With that, she opened the door, and closed it behind her.





When courting a young lady, a gentleman would be wise to provide the young lady with flowers from the hothouse.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



17

Seated at the small rose-inlaid mahogany writing desk, Abigail stared at the blank parchment in front of her. She’d intended to draft a note for her brothers and sister. Instead, she sat, considering last evening’s exchange with Geoffrey. She trailed the tip of her pen in a circle upon the parchment. Then, sighed, and tossed the pen down. There was no hope for it; Abigail could not concentrate. She glanced to the full floor-length terrace door that overlooked her uncle’s gardens, remembering back to her meeting with Geoffrey.

Her heart bled for the pain he’d been dealt by that viperous creature and for the guilt Geoffrey still carried. Abigail knew those sentiments all too-well, for she woke up with it every morning—the constant reminder of the disappointment she’d been to her family.

“Are you all right? You, seem distracted.”

Abigail started and looked at Beatrice, seated upon the sofa with her embroidery frame in her hands.

“I’m all right.”

Beatrice lowered her frame. “Are you certain?”

“I’m certain. Please, do not let me distract you from your efforts.”

Beatrice set the floral stitched cloth aside, a hurt expression on her lovely face. “You are no bother, Abby.”

Abigail stood and walked over to her cousin. She slid into the seat alongside Beatrice, and studied the purple, blue, and green threads that made up the immaculate piece. How very gifted her cousin was; gifted in all the ways young ladies were intended to be.

Gentlemen desired flawless ladies, such as Beatrice. No gentleman sought a blue-stocking with an inordinate amount of interest in Greek mythology and constellations.

Her heart twisted. Though in the end, it hadn’t been Abigail’s lack of ladylike talents that had destroyed all possible marital prospects.

Geoffrey’s visage flashed to her mind. The way he’d been two nights ago; raw pain, etched in the angular lines of his noble cheeks, the brittle twist of his hard lips.

Or mayhap it had been that her wounded soul had recognized a kindred spirit in him?

“You seem distracted again, Abby.”

She jumped. “I am,” she admitted, hearing the sheepish tone to her confession.

“Is it Lord Redbrooke?”

Abigail blinked. Surely she’d misheard her. “I…uh…” Oh, goodness. “Are you certain you don’t have feelings for the viscount, Beatrice? Because if you do, I swear I’ll never think of his name again.” It was a lie. For the remainder of her life, she’d remember the solemn gentleman who’d made her again dream of love.

Beatrice snorted. “Surely I’ve been rather clear in my feelings for Lord Redbrooke. Oh, he seems like a nice enough gentleman,” Beatrice hurried to assure her. Abigail released a breath she’d not even realized she’d been holding. “He is far too serious, Abby.” She wrinkled her nose. “I do not want a too-serious gentleman.”

Abigail did. That seriousness is what had first drawn her to Geoffrey—his sober, stoic honesty.

Her stomach tightened at the irony. She craved honesty even as she carried a secret shame. Those muscles in her belly contracted, and she had to fold her arms across her waist to drive back the pain of it.

“I was going to visit the shops today for some ribbon. Will you join me?” her cousin invited, seeming unaware of the tumultuous thoughts raging through Abigail.

Abigail managed a wan smile and waved her hand. “I wanted to finish writing a letter to my family.”

Beatrice stood in a flounce of skirts. “Letter writing?” She wrinkled her nose as though Abigail had stated her intentions to pay a visit to Newgate Prison. “Are you certain?”

“I am.”

Beatrice sighed. “Very well, then.”

Abigail stared after her cousin’s retreating figure. When the door closed, Abigail stood, and wandered over to the terrace windows. The gray sky, filled with large, dark, black clouds perfectly matched her mood. As if Zeus, Lord of the Sky, God of the Rain had taken offense at her promise to Geoffrey, a drop of rain fell upon the window pane. Then another. And another. Until a torrent opened, and water fell from the sky in great, streaming rivulets. Abigail studied two beads of rain and followed their downward race upon the windowpane, until they disappeared.

Anything to keep from thinking about Geoffrey’s confession. Her efforts proved futile. Not unlike her, Geoffrey had given his heart to an undeserving person. In Abigail’s case, however, she carried the shame of having given up her virtue. She closed her eyes. Geoffrey would think her no different than the deceitful Emma.

A man such as he, who’d come to value respectability above all else, could never take to wife a woman who by her actions, had demonstrated herself to be less than a lady. She managed a wry smile. Not that Geoffrey had any intentions, honorable or dishonorable, toward her.

Abigail opened her eyes and stared out at the grounds where they had stood two evenings ago.

Except…