Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(54)

Ices at Gunter’s.

A walk in Hyde Park.

Several waltzes.

A trip to the theatre…

Abigail glanced from the list, up at Geoffrey. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eying her expectantly.

She smoothed her fingers along the thick, ivory velum. “Uh…”

“It is a list,” Geoffrey interrupted.

Abigail looked down blankly at the parchment again. “Yes. Yes it is.”

Geoffrey held out his hand.

Wordlessly, she turned it over and contemplated him. A small frown tilted the corners of his lips downward as he examined the meticulously written scrawl.

Geoffrey cleared his throat. “I created this list of proper events and activities for a gentleman courting a suitable young lady.”

Her mouth went dry. There it was again—a suitable young lady.

He continued, seeming oblivious to her inner turmoil. “We’ve walked in Hyde Park. Granted it was before I’d settled on you as a match.”

A desperate laugh bubbled up in her throat. Oh, Geoffrey. Sweet, wonderful Geoffrey. How carefully he plotted out every aspect of his life. Her nervous amusement died as she wondered how much of his devotion to order stemmed from the pain of Emma Marsh’s betrayal. “It is…very romantic.”

He held the paper up and closed it in his fist; the crackle of the wrinkled parchment filled the space like a dry log of wood being tossed into a fiery hearth. “You’re right. It seems I’m rubbish at this.” He took a step away from her.

Abigail rushed over to him, realizing he’d interpreted her words as mocking. “Oh, no. You aren’t rubbish at all.” You’re good, and kind, and valiant.

A half grin formed on his lips. “I’d written this list before you. I had every detail for the rest of my life carefully plotted and planned, Abby.”

That sounded remarkably like the proper man she’d first come to know with his somber frown, and his seeming difficulty in managing a smile. Such a man would do something as practical as create a list to help secure a match in a most expeditious manner.

Geoffrey claimed her hand. “Will you accompany me?”

She studied their interlocked fingers. Anywhere. “Where?” she murmured. “I’ve not been to Gunter’s. Lord Sinclair mentioned it and it sounds divine.”



Geoffrey growled and lowered his head so his brow nearly rested upon hers. “I don’t want to hear you mention Lord Sinclair’s name.”

At the possessive note in that strongly uttered demand, warmth fanned out and filled Abigail. “To Hyde Park?”

Geoffrey flicked her nose with the tip of his finger, and grinned. “We’ve already been to Hyde Park. Twice.”

“Well, you must cross that off the list, then,” she said with a smile.

He took her by the hand and led her to the terrace doors. “Come,” he murmured, and pushed the doors open, he led her outside.

Abigail’s skin burned from the feel of his hand, strong, and hard in her own delicate palm.

“I was an absolute wretch to you, Abby.”

She blinked and looked up at him. A cloud shifted above the sun and cast half of his angular face in shadows. Then the cloud passed, and bathed him in sunlight. “When?” she blurted.

A wry half-grin turned the right corner of his lips. “I rather think on a number of occasions.” He settled his hand upon her waist, and pulled her close.

Abigail’s breath caught in her chest, and she tipped her chin up. He is going to kiss me, here amidst the fragrant blooms and sun-filled sky, and, I am shameful and improper because I want that so very desperately.

“The evening I first danced with you,” he continued, seeming unaware of the heady effect his presence had upon her.

She blinked back the thick haze of desire.

“I was a boorish lout. I was rude and condescending, and arrogant. Until you, Abby, I hadn’t realized what life had turned me into. You’ve reminded me how to laugh.”

Unable to bear the heated intensity radiating from his eyes, Abigail dropped her gaze to the immaculate lines of his white cravat. Tell him. She could not allow him to harbor these false views about the kind of woman she was.

She wet her lips.

He guided her hand upon his shoulder.

“What…?”

“I’m dancing with you. Again. I want to start anew with you, Abby.”

And then he proceeded to waltz her through the clusters of roses and crocuses up from the ground. He hummed a discordant tune.

Her body stiffened. “Oh, Geoffrey, I’m truly a dreadful dancer.” She stepped upon his foot, her graceless body seemed desperate to confirm the truth of her words. “I’m forever falling all over myself.”

He dropped his brow to hers, and tightened his hold about her. “Well, then. It seems I must be there to catch you should you fall.”

Amidst the sun-filled garden, with the chirping coy and Geoffrey’s humming as their symphony, Abigail fell in love.

Abigail had given her girlish heart to the handsome Alexander Powers. But there, in the duke’s parlor, Abigail fell in love with a woman’s heart.

Panic warred with joy, two very competing emotions within her breast. She could not love him. It was not to be countenanced. After Alexander’s betrayal she’d thought herself incapable of ever again trusting the fickle emotion called love. But God help her—she loved Geoffrey.