Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(52)

Abigail followed his gesture, and realized he referenced the unfamiliar bloom in her hands. “Oh,” she said. Her lips twitched. Not the most romantic of tales, still Geoffrey’s gesture remained a beautiful one.

He nodded at the bouquet yet again. “The ivy I’m told was a symbol of immortality associated with Dionysus.”

Abigail cocked her head.

Geoffrey cleared his throat. “It seemed fitting that the green of Dionysus be placed amidst the flower of Theseus as a reminder of his folly in giving up Ariadne.” He took a step toward her. “I’ll not be Theseus. Do you understand what I’m saying, Abby.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, because well, she really didn’t know what he was saying. Abigail only knew what she wanted those words to mean.

Geoffrey strode over to her with a power and strength the God Kratos would admire. He stopped in front of her. He brushed his knuckle along her cheek. “I don’t want to lose you.” He spoke with the bold, assurance of a man who knew what he wanted. “The day I nearly toppled you over, you tossed my world into utter chaos.”

She leaned into his touch. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. Sorry for so very much. For transgressions she was too much a coward to put into words.

He smiled, and opened his fingers to cradle her cheek as though she was more precious than Blackbeard’s treasure. Gone was the trace of bitter cynicism which usually accompanied his grin. “Abby, until you, I’d thought myself incapable of ever smiling again. You made me yearn for things I’d kept buried for so long, I’d thought they’d died inside me.” Geoffrey glanced away a moment. “I do not expect you to understand those sentiments,” he murmured. “You are innocent. Untouched of the ugly things I’ve borne witness to in my life.”

Her heart went careening, crashing back down to the reality of her foibles. She stiffened. Geoffrey had constructed an image of her as one who was without flaws, when in reality, there surely was not a more perfect, imperfect individual.

“Geoffrey,” she said quietly. She touched her palm to his hand, staying his movement. “I fear you carry an undeserving opinion of me.”

He turned his lips into her palm, caressing her skin with the gentlest contact. “You’re wrong,” he insisted.

Abigail could not think. She needed distance between them. Abigail disentangled herself from his touch and stepped away.

Bile burned like acid at the back of her throat, and she wished it would singe the words she’d rather never have to speak. She knew the moment she confessed the truth, all the warmth in his eyes would die faster than a shooting star that blazed a path across the sky. She could not, however allow him to maintain this paragon-like vision he’d associated with her.

“Geoffrey—”

“I want to court you, Abby,” he interjected. He reached for her hand, but she gripped the sides of her skirts to keep from reaching out and grasping the dream he dangled before her. “I want to marry you.”

Oh, God. She closed her eyes, and shook her head back and forth. “You don’t truly know me, Geoffrey.” If you did, then you’d not look at me with such warmth.

A roguish half-grin tipped the right corner of his mouth, so very different than the stranger she’d first met at Lady Hughes’s who’d looked upon her with stern disapproval. “I want to know everything about you, Abby.”

A hysterical giggle worked its way up her throat, and spilled past her lips. No, he’d assuredly not want to know everything about her—certainly not the great shame she concealed. The proper, and propriety-driven viscount did not want to know the sordid details that had precipitated her voyage to London.

Geoffrey’s brow furrowed, and his smile dipped. The regal, austere viscount was back in place. “What is it?”

Abigail opened her mouth and closed it, several times. She could not wed Geoffrey. Not without him knowing all the details, and yet…hope, stirred in her breast. Perhaps her secret would not matter to him. He had known the agony of betrayal, and regrets for past mistakes. A man of his reason and logic would surely recognize that they were not unlike one another.

So, why didn’t she fully trust that?

“It is nothing.” The denial emerged as a halting whisper.

“You don’t want me to court you,” he stated, his voice, curiously flat.

Her head jerked up. “No, no. Never that. Not that at all,” she rushed to assure him.

Geoffrey nodded. “Then it is settled. I will court you.”

Abigail closed her eyes. So it was settled.

She was nothing more than a coward.





A gentleman should rely on a well-written list to maintain a well-ordered life.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



18

The next morning, Abigail entered the breakfast room. Her uncle glanced out from behind the paper in his hands. “Abigail,” he murmured.

She smiled. “Uncle.”

Beatrice’s eyes lit upon seeing Abigail. She paused in spreading butter onto a flaky piece of white bread. “Abby! There you are. Why, you’ve slept quite long this morning.”

Abigail’s skin warmed under their scrutiny. She rushed over to the sideboard and placed several strips of bacon, a baked egg, and a piece of bread onto her plate. With her gaze trained upon her fare, she walked over to the table.