Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(60)

He’d been honest with her in every regard, and how had she repaid that honesty? With lies.

And with her betrayal, he, who valued his privacy, had been opened up to Society’s scorn and ridicule.

Geoffrey shook his head. He wished he’d never scratched Lady Beatrice Dennington’s name upon his bloody list, because then he wouldn’t know there was a winsome American named Miss Abigail Stone with a fulsome laugh and a penchant for studying the stars.

He bowed his head, and embraced the soothing hiss and snap of the flames.

Damn you, Abigail.





A gentleman must maintain a calm, collected demeanor…even when under duress.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



22

For two days, it rained.

Abigail stood in the corner of her chambers. She tugged back the sapphire blue silk curtains and peered out into the ravaging storm. A bolt of lightning lit the sky. She touched the windowpane, and with the tip of her finger, followed the swift path of a raindrop down the side of the glass.

The sky had not lessened the torrential wrath it had unleashed upon the earth, since her hasty flight from Lady Ainsworth’s ballroom last evening.

She closed her eyes.

Like a coward, she’d once again fled.

Only this time, she’d fled and left Geoffrey to discover the truth there in front of all polite English Society.

Her stomach churned.

By now, Geoffrey, like all of the ton, would know the truth of her—she had left America in shame.

By now he would know she didn’t carry the most important commodity required of a lady upon the marriage mart—her virginity.

And he would know she was nothing more than…than…

A fallen woman.

A harlot.

A whore.

How many times had those vile words been hurled at her by people who’d found her wanting. Only Geoffrey had been different. Not once had he looked at her with condescension and ridicule.

When she’d been discovered in Alexander’s arms, she’d imagined there could be no greater pain than what she’d felt upon seeing the shocked hurt reflected in her parents’ eyes. In the days that followed, when it had become clear Alexander had little intention of offering for her, pain had blossomed into an aching despair.

She dropped the curtain and gripped the edge of the window sill so tight her nails left crescent indents upon the wood.

She’d been wrong on both scores. Her heart spasmed. The inevitable loss of Geoffrey would destroy her. Tears, blasted tears, filled her eyes, but the salty mementos would not fall. She blinked them back. She’d come to London, convinced there could be no future for her in the foreign land. She’d resolved never to trust again.

Geoffrey had shaken the walls she’d constructed around her broken heart; he’d unknowingly mended the wounded organ, and breathed life into her, so that it beat at last with a love for him. Foolishly she’d dared to hold onto the dream he represented; of a family, of a gentleman who’d love and protect and cherish her. She hugged her arms tight to herself.

The door opened and the soft thread of slippers upon the hard wood of the floor echoed in the quiet. “Abby, we missed you at supper.”

Abigail’s stomach roiled at the mere mention of food.

“You’ve not left your rooms since last evening. You cannot remain in here forever.” Her cousin’s hesitant words slashed into Abigail’s private agony.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. The gods angry at her silent deception, mocked her.

“Oh, Abby,” Beatrice whispered. She settled her hands upon Abigail’s shoulders, and rested her cheek against her shoulder. “Lord Redbrooke loves you. I’m certain of it.”

The words twisted the knife inside her breast. “He doesn’t, Beatrice.” Her voice broke.

He’d loved his Emma Marsh. Abigail, why she’d never been anything more than an impudent American who’d teased her way into his affection. He cared for her, but love? No, he had not loved her before, and most certainly not after, this.

“He does.” Beatrice’s tone shook with earnest insistence. She forced Abigail around. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, Abby. He’s always been a stodgy, pompous bore. Now, he smiles. That is because of you.”

Abigail stared blankly at a point beyond Beatrice’s shoulder. If Geoffrey had loved her, that had been before he’d known he was carrying on with a fallen woman. The proper gentleman she’d first known would never have sullied his presence with her wicked self.

She swallowed. “A man such as Lord Redbrooke can never wed me. I…” Her words died on her lips. Beatrice was innocent, unsullied, and Abigail could not share the shame of what she’d done.

“You need to speak to him.”

Abigail again folded her arms to her chest. “I can’t,” she said brokenly. She squeezed herself tight. “I can’t bear to witness his derision.”

Beatrice slashed the air with her hand. “Bahh, you are no coward, Abby. He loves you. And you love him. And if you do not speak to him, you’ll forever regret your cowardice.”

Her cousin’s words penetrated the thick fog of despair that shrouded her thoughts. What if Beatrice were right? What if none of it mattered to Geoffrey? Perhaps he cared for her more than he cared about the gossip that clung to her name.