Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(66)

And yet, knowing that, and accepting it did nothing to lessen the agonizing pain that ripped at her insides.

Abigail pressed her forehead against the carriage window, and closed her eyes. Because in her heart, she’d held onto the fragile thread of hope that mayhap she mattered more to him than even his sense of propriety. She had allowed herself to believe he would recognize she, like him, had been betrayed.

In the end, he’d likened her to the heartless woman who’d attempted to trap him into marriage.

She dropped the curtain and settled back into her seat, acknowledging the hideous, horrid truth—with her silence, she’d not been different than his Emma Marsh. Abigail had allowed Geoffrey to court her with the most honorable of intentions all the while, knowing, she could never be an acceptable match.

A bead of rain trickled down her cheek. Followed by another. She wiped it away but another drop swiftly replaced it. Then another. And another.

She started, realizing they were in fact tears.

Abigail sank the back of her head onto the hard squabs of the rented hack. Sharp laughter worked its way up her throat. After Alexander’s betrayal, she’d thought herself incapable of ever shedding another of the salty droplets. It turned out she’d been wrong.

Lightning lit a crisscross pattern across the sky, followed by a sharp crash.

She gasped as the carriage jolted sideways. It tipped on its side. The loud, frantic whinny of the horses broke through the fury of the storm.

She closed her eyes on a silent prayer as the conveyance seemed to right itself.

Crack.

Abigail’s stomach lurched; she gripped the sides of the seat, and pressed tight against the corner. She braced herself as the carriage tipped, and swayed, and her heart froze inside her chest. A scream worked its way out of her throat, as the conveyance bobbed and swayed like a ship at sea. It tossed Abigail against the opposite seat.

“Oomph!” Her shoulder struck the side of the carriage, and the window exploded into a shower of glass. She screamed, as the carriage jolted to a slow, sideways halt. The velocity of the movement whipped her neck back. She struck her head, even as the wood splintered and shards of glass sprayed the inside of the hackney.

From where she lay amidst glass and broken wood, Abigail stared sightless at the now opened roof over head. Her shoulders and back throbbed from where she’d been flung. She blinked seeing bright light dot the sky ahead. It couldn’t be stars. Not on this cold, vile night.

She touched her hand to the rain that streamed a salty path into her eyes, her breathing came in slow, shallow spurts. She raised trembling fingers and stared at her crimson stained fingers, and then slipped into the blessed painlessness of unconsciousness.





A gentleman should be able to name one or two gentlemen as close friends and confidantes.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



25

In the light of a new day, with the rains passed, and nothing but his own mournful thoughts and pained regrets, Geoffrey Winters, 5th Viscount Redbrooke, came to a staggering, if humbling revelation—he didn’t have a friend in the world.

The harsh truth of it flashed never more clear than now, as he sat alone with his misery at White’s. After an infernally long night, he’d resolved to confront the shame and pained humiliation of the scandal boldly, with his head held high.

Except as he sat at his private table, he felt no calming peace. He felt…oddly…empty.

Geoffrey stared down at the scrap of blood-stained lace in his hands, passing it back and forth between his fingers. He should burn the blasted piece of fabric, a memento that should mean nothing to him. Well, Happy Birthday, Geoffrey. Now, you must certainly keep the scrap of lace from Lizzie

After Abigail had left last evening… His heart convulsed— no, after he’d sent her away, sleep had proven a fickle friend, indeed. He’d stared blankly out the window at the torrents of rain that fell from the sky until it faded to a slow stream, and then a steady trickle—until it stopped altogether.

Since he’d arrived at White’s nearly an hour past, he’d resolved to get himself well and thoroughly foxed.

Only, alcohol had little effect in helping him to forget Abigail.

With a curse, Geoffrey stuffed the lace back into the front pocket of his coat, and reached for his brandy.

Sunshine spilled through the front windows of White’s, and Geoffrey squinted at the nauseating brightness. He glared into the amber contents of the glass, silently cursing the sunlight that seemed to mock his foul temper and dark thoughts.

But then, following two days of violent storms, there couldn’t possibly be another drop of rain left in the sky.

He made the mistake of glancing up, and noted the cluster of dandies eyeing him with morbid fascination. Geoffrey growled, and they hastily averted their gazes. He downed the contents of his glass and reached for the crystal decanter. To those dandified fops, and all of the ton, Geoffrey happened to be nothing more than a juicy morsel of gossip passed about parlors, and bandied about through the pages of gossip columns.

But this was his life, and his pain.

And it was the kind of pain that haunted men until they lay, feeble and old at the end of their days.

Geoffrey took a small sip, and grimaced at the fiery, but welcome path the brandy trailed down his throat. He embraced even the small sting, and looked forward to getting himself completely and thoroughly soused. Only then could he drive back the memory of the pain that bled through the storm-gray of Abigail’s eyes as he’d escorted her from his home like a thief from Newgate.