Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(51)

Robert sighed. “You care for him, then?”

Abigail studied the folds of her emerald green skirts. “I do,” she uttered quietly, the words oddly freeing. She cared about Geoffrey. This man who’d rescued her from the unwanted advances of a lecherous old nobleman, and saved her scrap of lace from Lizzie. He’d not looked down upon her fascination of the Greek constellations as Alexander and her brothers had been wont to do. And he’d confided in her, as if seeking an absolution of sorts, from her—regular, Abigail Stone from America.

Robert said nothing for a long moment. When at last he spoke, all traces of humor were gone from his expression and words. “Redbrooke values propriety above all else. All of Society knows that.”

In other words, she, Abigail Stone, scandalous miss from America was no match for Lord Redbrooke.

“Perhaps no one will ever learn of what I’ve done,” she murmured, hating the desperate hopefulness threading her words. She continued to pluck at the fabric of her skirts.

Robert placed his hand on hers, staying her movements. “Look at me, Abby.”

She raised her gaze to his.

“It will matter to Redbrooke. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Geoffrey would care that she’d thrown her virginity away as though it were nothing more than a smattered piece of parchment paper.

“It might not,” Abigail insisted. Even as she spoke, she doubted the veracity of her own words.

Still, Geoffrey had made mistakes in matters of the heart. Surely he would understand that Abigail had done the same.

“You’re wrong, Abby. I wish you weren’t. But for some men, well, these things matter. And I strongly suspect Redbrooke will be one of those for whom it matters.”

A knock sounded at the door and they looked up in unison.

The butler cleared his throat. He bore a silver tray with a card upon it. “The Viscount Redbrooke.”

Abigail’s heart lifted in her chest, buoyed with a lightness that sent her rising to her feet with embarrassing speed.

Geoffrey’s tall, powerful frame filled the doorway.

“Lord Redbrooke,” Robert drawled.

“Westfield,” Geoffrey returned, never taking his gaze from Abigail.

She felt herself coloring under the heated intensity of his scrutiny.

“Well,” Robert cleared his throat. “Allow me to leave you two to your visit.”

Geoffrey entered the room, thus allowing Robert to take his leave.

Abigail and Geoffrey stood there with only the echo of rain hitting the windowpanes to fill the quiet. “Geoffrey,” she said.

“Abby.”

Her heart warmed at her name as it tumbled so intimately and effortlessly off his lips. He advanced deeper into the parlor; a predator stalking its prey, and by god she wished to lay herself at his feet in supplication.

Abigail swallowed, her eyes going to the bouquet of striking violet buds interspersed with sprigs of ivy. Geoffrey appeared dogged in his intentions to court and wed Beatrice. For even after Beatrice had rejected his suit, he should continue to visit with such a beautiful offering. Abigail eyed the unfamiliar flowers that in their vibrancy put her in mind of the purpling sunset across the wide-expanse of ocean in her Connecticut home.

A hideous yearning crept around her heart like the relentless ivy growing along the duke’s garden walls. The model of ladylike perfection, Beatrice would surely know the genus of each flower, and master the art of floral arrangements with the same excellence she showed for dancing and embroidering. “Allow me to get Beatrice.” Then, Abigail could make her escape and spare herself the pain of Geoffrey’s determined courtship of her more deserving cousin.

Abigail took a step toward him, and he held his hand up.

She stopped.

He said nothing, and the moment of silence lengthened.

Geoffrey beat his open-palm over the side of his leg in a distracted manner.

“Excuse me,” Abigail said, and made to step around him.

He stepped into her path, yet again.

“They are for you,” he blurted.

Her gaze fell to the flowers he held in his free hand. Abigail glanced around for her cousin Beatrice.

Geoffrey’s fingers grazed her chin, and he gently turned her face toward his. “They are for you, Abby.”

He held them out.

Her fingers closed around the bouquet wrapped in a violet-satin ribbon and hers and Geoffrey’s fingers brushed. She closed her eyes remembering back to the feel of his hands upon her person. Oh god, he’d brought her flowers. “I…” Do not know what to make of this gesture. Abigail raised them to her nose and inhaled the sweet, delicate fragrance. “Thank you. They are beautiful.” Why? Why would he do something like this? Why would he come calling with the stunning arrangement and wreak havoc upon her heart in this manner?

Geoffrey clasped his hands behind his back and looked toward the small crackling fire within the hearth. Abigail followed his gaze, unable to read the unfathomable expression in his eyes; the blue-green hue reminiscent of the Caribbean waters she’d sailed upon with Papa and Mama long, long ago. “My lord?”

“Geoffrey,” he corrected. He wandered over to the terrace doors, and with hands still clasped behind his back, stared outside. “Do you know they say Theseus once travelled to Athens to present himself to his long lost father, King Aegeas.” Geoffrey at last turned to face her. “The king’s wife, Medea tried to give Theseus a glass of wine poisoned with the aconite flower.” He motioned to the flowers in her hands.