Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(53)

A footman rushed to pull out her chair, and Abigail slid into it. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Abigail picked up the still warm piece of bread and broke it in half. Crumbs fell onto her chintz plate, and she studied those small bits, content to bury focus into the dish until the conclusion of the meal.

She nibbled at the corner of her bread, and feeling eyes upon her, looked up.

The duke and Beatrice studied her in silence.

Abigail choked, and dropped the bread in her hands. She reached for the glass of water and took a tentative sip, and then another.

“I understand Lord Redbrooke brought flowers,” her uncle said at last.

Abigail set her glass down and folded her hands upon her lip, hiding them from sight. “He did,” she said. She returned her gaze to her nearly untouched plate.

Beatrice giggled.

Abigail’s gaze flew up.

Her cousin picked up a delicate tea cup and took a sip. “Never tell me you’d encourage Lord Redbrooke’s suit?”

“Beatrice,” her father chided. He folded his paper and set it down on the empty place beside him.

Beatrice ignored his unspoken admonition. “If he makes you happy, Abby, then there is nothing more I would want than for you to accept his suit.”

For one, too brief moment, her cousin’s blessing seemed the only boundary that prevented Abigail from grasping onto to the dream of Geoffrey as a serious suitor. Then, reality came crashing, careening down upon her. She reached for her bread, and chewed it; but it turned to dust inside her mouth.

“Lord Redbrooke is an honorable gentleman,” her uncle said, his tone quiet.

She nodded woodenly. How could an honorable gentleman ever take to wife such a dishonorable woman? She picked up her fork and shoved the baked egg around her plate.

“Abigail?” The duke’s sternly worded question, her name, brought her head up.

“He would make you an excellent match.”

Abigail’s gaze flitted off to the footmen stationed over by the sideboard. This place, she looked over to Beatrice, and with her innocent cousin here, was not the place in which to discuss an unlikely match between Abigail and Geoffrey.

The butler appeared and Abigail was saved from responding. “Lord Redbrooke to see Miss Stone. I’ve taken the liberty of showing the gentleman to the Chintz Parlor.”

Abigail’s fork clattered noisily upon her china flatware. “Forgive me,” she said hastily.

Beatrice’s smile grew. “Go, Abby,” she said gently.

Abigail rose so quickly her legs knocked the back of the chair, and it scraped noisily along the wood flooring. She began to pace beside the dining room table.

Geoffrey had called yesterday and stated his intentions to court her. At the time, she’d been besieged by a heady sense of joy. It had clouded her logic and the calm rationality she’d sworn to maintain after Alexander’s betrayal. For an all too brief moment she’d allowed herself to operate under the illusion of ‘what-ifs’: what if her lack of virtue didn’t matter to Geoffrey? What if word of her scandalous past never crossed the ocean? What if…what if…what if…?

Now, in the light of a new day, she could not deny the insurmountable boundaries that made a match between them—impossible.

“Abigail,” her uncle said quietly.

She jumped, and spun to face him.

“I believe Lord Redbrooke to be a fair man. He…” His gaze shifted momentarily to Beatrice, and then back to Abigail. “He is not one of clouded judgment. I’m certain of it.”

Abigail’s throat worked up and down.

“Go, Abby,” her cousin urged.

Abigail swallowed past the swell of emotion and managed a nod. “If you’ll excuse me?” She dipped a curtsy and hurried from the breakfast room.

As she made the long march to the Chintz Parlor she rehearsed everything she would say to Geoffrey. He was as her uncle said, a man of integrity and honor. As such, he deserved to know the truth…and he deserved to hear it from her. With each step, her resolve to confess the all, strengthened…

Abigail paused outside the parlor and smoothed her hands over the front of her day dress. She straightened her back and, taking a deep breath, entered the room.

Geoffrey stood with his back to her, one hand upon the fireplace mantle, his gaze fixed on the empty grate. Her eyes slid closed. He stood there six feet of towering masculine perfection, his muscle-hewn frame carved in a stone, giving him a look of the ancient Gods whose stories filled the skies. The breath left her on a whispery sigh. “Geoffrey.”

He spun around. His gaze, hotter than a physical touch, moved over her face. “Abigail.”

That was it. Abigail. Her name, and yet from that one utterance he conveyed masculine approval, possessiveness, desire.

God help her.

She’d imagined crossing the ocean and leaving behind her family the greatest trial she’d ever endured.

Looking at Geoffrey, wanting him as she did, she now knew there could be no greater trial than the one she now confronted.

He bowed. “Forgive me.”

Her eyes slid away from him. This is the kind of proper man he was. He begged pardon for failing to bow. She shook her head. “Geoffrey, I…”

He stalked across the room. “I’ve brought this.”

Abigail blinked down at the scrap of parchment he held out, and hesitated a moment. She took it in her fingers.