Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(62)

The carriage rocked and swayed. Abigail gasped as her hip bit painfully into the side of the carriage.

“Whoa,” the driver shouted against the roaring wind.

The carriage righted itself and a sigh of relief escaped her as it continued down the streets, until it came to an abrupt stop directly in front of a white stucco townhouse.

Abigail gripped the side of the seat to keep from careening forward.

Suddenly the brashness of her actions just now, the boldness in coming here, and worse the fear of Geoffrey’s response, turned her to stone.

The driver pulled open the door, and there was no turning back. Rain poured inside the carriage as he extended his arm to help hand her down.

Abigail pulled her cloak close, and sucked in a breath, accepting the driver’s assistance. The pads of her slippers sank into a cold puddle upon the cobbled road, and she trembled from the chill of it.

The driver nodded up at the only townhouse with candlelight blazing in the windows.

She raced the short distance to Geoffrey’s home; her feet splashed and sprayed water as she ran.

Abigail came to a jerky halt at the front door. She raised her hand and knocked just as a bolt of lightning crashed around her, drowning her efforts. Abigail pounded again.

The fury of the storm was her only response.

She turned out and peered through the torrents of rain at the hackney that had driven a short way up the street.

The door opened, and she spun around to face an older gentleman. The servant’s gaze took in her thoroughly rumpled cloak and his eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

She tipped her chin up a notch. “I must see Lord Redbrooke.”

The servant’s nostrils flared in surprise. He hesitated and for a long moment she thought he might turner her away like some street urchin who’d tried to infringe upon the viscount’s palatial townhouse. But then, he nodded and held the door open.

Abigail swept inside.

***

From where he sat in his library, a half-drunk decanter of brandy at his feet, Geoffrey stared blankly down at the box in his hands. His jacket lay in an untidy heap alongside the bottle.

With one hand, Geoffrey reached for the bottle and took a swig. He’d ceased to feel the burn of the alcohol long ago. Vision blurred from too-much drink, Geoffrey set his drink down on the table next to him and passed the small package back and forth between his hands. He absently studied it, and then set it down.

Geoffrey’s gaze fell on the leather book of Greek mythology that sat beside him. He picked it up and fanned the pages. He’d foolishly invested time in reacquainting himself with all those puerile stories of Dionysus, Ariadne, and Theseus. What an imprudent fool he’d been. And for what purpose?

For her.

It had been for her.

All of it.

Geoffrey stood and hurled the volume across the room. It hit the solid plaster hard, and then landed with a quiet thump upon the floor.

An ugly laugh built in his chest, half-demonic to his own ears. The close rumble of thunder, followed by the crack of lightning fueled his pained fury.

Since he’d learned the truth of Abigail’s deception last evening, he’d expected he should feel a sense of relief at being spared her scheming machinations. Yet, the jagged agony and humiliated hurt of her betrayal had not lessened. He suspected it never would.

Rather, it had seemed to intensify with the raging storm outside.

His butler Ralston’s cry of shock from somewhere within the house, penetrated Geoffrey’s stupor, and he furrowed his brow.

What the hell had ruffled his normally unflappable butler? Geoffrey yanked the door open hard enough it threatened the hinges, and strode from the room.

As he stormed down the hall toward the foyer, Ralston’s insistent tone grew increasingly in volume.

“What the hell is the meaning of this?” Geoffrey bellowed from the top of the stairs. If it was his bloody brother-in-law again, by God he would toss him out into the street.

“If you’ll wait here. I’ll see if His Lordship is receiving callers,” Ralston said in a stiffly disapproving tone.

“Ralston…” He staggered to a halt. The air left Geoffrey on a hiss.

Abigail shoved back the hood of her black muslin cloak. She glanced up the long, winding marble staircase and held her palms up as if in supplication. “Geoffrey.” Even with the space between them, her whisper reached him.

And for the tortured pain she’d brought him, Geoffrey ached to close the distance between them and take her into his arms and make her forget there was ever another man who’d known her body and held her heart.

His bleary gaze fixed on those outstretched hands and he tortured himself with the insidious thoughts of her with another, and all warmth died inside him.

Geoffrey gripped the rail and stood there, unable to move. All the while, Abigail studied him with wide, wounded eyes.

A growl worked its way up his throat. As though you have a right to be wounded, Abigail.

Geoffrey folded his arms across his chest. “Well, madam? What is the meaning of this improper visit?”





A gentleman should be sensible, and avoid impassioned decisions.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



23

Abigail’s heart thumped to a stop inside her breast.

Geoffrey stood at the top of the stairs, but he may as well have stood on the opposite side of the world. The white cambric shirt, opened at the collar, revealed the stiff tension within his muscle-hewn frame. He remained frozen, as though he’d been turned to stone by the serpent-headed Medusa.