Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(50)

If that were true…

Why had he shared the pained remembrance of his past; truths, that by his own admission, he’d not shared with any other?

Abigail shook her head back and forth against the smooth surface of the cool windowpane. Why, hadn’t she merely confessed to him the reason for her journey to London? It had been a night of shared truths…and yet, she’d withheld the shameful pieces of her past. The truth was, she was a coward.

Geoffrey’s sole mistake had been in loving a woman, a woman who’d wronged him.

In Abigail’s case, her mistake had been loving a man, and acting on that love. She would forever remember her mother’s bitter, agonized tears of despair, her shouted protestations that Abigail did not know what she’d done.

And until she’d come to know and care for Geoffrey, Abigail hadn’t truly grasped the extent of her actions.

“Fool, fool, fool.”

“If you’re counting fools, you will never run shy of names in London.”

Abigail screeched, at the unexpected intrusion, and spun around.

Her cousin Robert sat upon the yellow sofa, eyeing her with an inscrutable expression, and a gentle smile on his lips.

Her skin warmed, not realizing she’d spoken aloud. “I did not hear you enter. Forgive me,” she said, lamely, wondering how long he’d been there, privy to her silent humiliation. She dropped her gaze to the floor.

“You’re not a fool, Abby,” he said quietly.

Abigail wrenched her gaze back to his. Apparently he’d been present even longer than she’d hoped.

“You’re not a fool,” he repeated.

“I…” She folded her hands in front of her, clasping them tightly.

“I know why you came to London, Abby, and if there wasn’t an ocean between me and that bastard, I swear on God himself, I would gladly put a bullet through the blackguard’s heart.”

Her throat bobbed up and down. She hadn’t realized Robert had known about the reason for her visit. Of course, it was foolish to imagine the duke hadn’t shared the details with his only son and heir.

“And I don’t believe Redbrooke is worthy of you, either.”

She jerked her head up so quickly, the muscles in her neck wrenched painfully. Abigail ignored the ache. “Beatrice told you.”

Robert hooked his ankle across his knee. “Come, do you believe I’d be so blind as to fail to note your notice of Redbrooke?” He arched a brow, and then grinned sheepishly. “And yes, Bea might have mentioned it.”

Abigail managed a laugh. She walked over, and took the seat alongside him on the yellow-velvet sofa. “He’s very proper.”

“And quite stodgy,” Robert added.

She frowned at Robert’s words so very similar to Beatrice’s…and not at all flattering. He’s not stodgy.” She felt the need to defend.

He scratched his head. “You do know I’m speaking of Redbrooke. Not Sinclair?”

“I do.”

Robert swiped a hand across his eyes and shook his head.

“What?” Abigail said, shifting in her seat.

“You’ve gone and fallen for him.” A protest sprung to her lips, but Robert continued. “My father said Lord Sinclair was interested in a match.”

Abigail fisted the fabric of her skirts.

“Sinclair smiles a good deal more than Redbrooke,” Robert said.

Abigail remembered Alexander’s quick smile. Yes, grinning gentlemen were not to be trusted. “He does.”

“He’d make you a better husband than Redbrooke.”

Perhaps. But not in the ways that mattered. “On what do you base your opinion?”

Robert draped his arms along the back of the chair, a contemplative gleam in his sapphire blue eyes. “Well,” he began at last, “Sinclair will make you laugh.” Alexander had used to make her laugh. “And Sinclair is an earl.”

An earl, a viscount, a bread-maker. It was all the same to Abigail. Robert must have seen as much in her expression for he said, “And Sinclair will likely care a deal less about the fact that you’re not,” he colored. “That you’re not…” A virgin. He tugged at his cravat. “English by birth,” he finished lamely.

“My mother is English,” she said.

“Uh, yes, that’s right…”

She took pity on him, returning the conversation he’d begun. “I’m sure Lord Sinclair will make some young lady a very nice husband.”

“But you don’t want to wed him,” Robert interjected.

She nodded. “But I don’t want to wed him.”

“And you do want to wed Redbrooke?”

She jerked at his words, taken aback. She blinked several times. Did she want to wed Geoffrey? She cared for him. Admired him. Understood the pain he’d known, and respected the convictions he carried after the hurts life had dealt him.

But did she want to wed him?

“I shall take your silence as confirmation,” Robert drawled.

“No. No,” she said a touch too hurriedly. She took a slow breath. “No, I don’t want to wed him.”

“Because he’s stodgy?”

Robert didn’t know the great heartache Geoffrey lived with. Geoffrey had done a masterful job in presenting himself as an aloof, unfeeling lord. Her cousins, just like the rest of the world, saw the hard-edged, always-proper figure Geoffrey presented to Polite Society. No. No one delved deeper to see the man he truly was; a man so honorable and good and loyal. “He’s not stodgy.”