Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(56)

Waxham pat him in a commiserative gesture upon his shoulder.

Geoffrey shook his head, and started toward Abigail. Yes. He’d fallen quite hard.

***

For the better part of the day, Abigail had wrested an impending sense of disaster. She’d credited the thundering skies for the odd apprehension that caused gooseflesh to dot her skin. The storm was the kind of storm that had shattered too many great ships at sea.

The carriage bearing the duke, Robert, Beatrice, and Abigail had arrived a short while ago at Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s ball. The torrents of streaming rain and the deep puddles throughout the London streets had made their carriage ride a long one. Then they’d had to wait in an endless row of carriages until they’d reached the entrance of the townhouse, as everyone made a desperate attempt to shorten the distance between their carriages and the front door.

Abigail’s gaze landed upon several ladies. They snapped their fans open, and over the rim of the satin accessories ran their eyes over Abigail in a manner that indicated they’d found her wanting. Then, they averted their stares with a pointed flourish.

Her stomach roiled at the cut direct that had been so very familiar at home. The ugly reminder of her past only intensified her earlier misgivings.

“Oh, my. I believe I was wrong,” her cousin murmured.

Abigail forced aside the portentous musings. “Hmm?”

“About Lord Redbrooke,” Beatrice clarified. “I never believed that particular gentleman capable of anything beyond stiff politeness.” Beatrice sighed. “I would trade my little finger to have a man look at me the way Lord Redbrooke is looking at you.”

Abigail’s heart tripped at a funny little pace as Geoffrey’s long-legged stride closed the space between them. He stood taller than most gentlemen in the ballroom, making it easy for Abigail to follow his path. He navigated through the throng of guests with a masculine grace.

In all the time Alexander Powers had courted her, he’d never looked at her in the hot, penetrating manner that Geoffrey now did. Geoffrey’s was the primeval gleam of a man who wanted to lay claim to her.

And all her earlier reservations, her unfounded fears lifted as he stopped in front of her. She tilted her head back and her breath caught. Geoffrey studied her through thick, lowered lashes. She curtsied. “My lord.” Did that breathless greeting belong to her?

He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. Even through the thin fabric of her glove, Geoffrey’s touch heated her skin, and sent warmth radiating out through her body.

Just then, a harsh, bold laugh cut into the charged exchange, and she froze. Pinpricks of unease ran along her spine. Her gaze collided with a gentleman who stood just beyond Geoffrey’s shoulder. The foppish dandy, garishly dressed in violet, satin breeches had his lascivious stare trained upon her bosom. Abigail’s apprehension grew.

“Miss Stone, may I have this dance?” Geoffrey’s request jolted her back to the moment.

“I…”

A shocked gasp cut into her reply, and yanked Abigail’s attention to a nearby stern-faced matron with a frown upon her fleshy cheeks. The woman raked a frigid gaze over Abigail’s person.

“Abigail?” Geoffrey’s question reached her, muffled and vague the way she’d used to hear her mother and father’s calls from when she’d been submerged beneath the ocean’s surface.

Oh, God. Abigail sent a prayer skyward.

“Abby?” Beatrice’s voice laced with concern blended with Geoffrey’s.

The pointed stares, and too-loud whispers carried her back to a different night, to the time she’d been discovered in Alexander’s arms, when her world had crumpled down around her. She shook her head.

“I’m all right.” Her protest sounded halfhearted to her own ears.

Of course no one knew. No one could know. This was not her shoreline home. This was a country of different people, an ocean apart from the shame of her past.

Then her gaze tripped upon her uncle and cousin Robert as they cut a determined swath through the crowd of people who peered down long, noble noses at Abigail. Purpose drove the steps of both the duke and his son.

Her eyes slid closed.

Not now. Not here.

She recognized their matched, hardened expressions.

Geoffrey frowned. “Abigail?”

Abigail opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Forgive me, Geoffrey,” she whispered.

He lowered his brows. “For…?”

Her uncle and cousin reached her side.

Geoffrey turned to greet the duke. He bowed. “Your Grace. I’d like to request an audience with you tomorrow morning.”

The duke’s lips flattened into a hard line. “Redbrooke.”

What matter of business could Geoffrey have with the duke? Then Geoffrey looked at her, his eyes warm, and gentle upon her face…and she knew. He intended to offer for her. She folded her hands around her waist and looked around, confronting the expressions of the ton who were taking great relish in her public fall. Agony formed like tight knots in her stomach until she wanted to twist and writhe to escape it.

Abigail took first one steadying breath. Then another. And another. Perhaps it was merely her own insecurities and memories of the past that drove cloying fear up her throat, and threatened to choke her.

Then she spied Lord Carmichael, the old bastard who’d put his hands all over her person; his fleshy lips were pulled back in a victorious smile. Her heart froze, and she knew. Oh God, how she knew. Somehow the old letch had discovered her scandalous past.