Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(67)

“May I join you?” A deep voice murmured, interrupting his despondent musings.

Geoffrey continued to stare at the surface of his table, even as Lord Sinclair slid into the seat across from him. Geoffrey finished his brandy. No, he had no friends.

“May I?” Sinclair asked.

Wordlessly, Geoffrey poured himself another, and then shoved the bottle toward Sinclair.

Sinclair accepted a glass from a servant, and then waved the liveried waiter off and proceeded to pour his own glass. “You look like hell,” he said without preamble.

Geoffrey took another long swallow and grimaced around the burn of the liquor. “Go to hell, Sinclair.”

Sinclair sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs in front of him. He hooked one of his ankles over the other. “It looks like you yourself have already been there,” he drawled.

Geoffrey tossed back another brandy. He set the glass down hard upon the table. All Sinclair’s presence served to do was remind him of Abigail. Abigail as she’d waltzed with the too-affable gentleman. Abigail as she’d spoken candidly with Sinclair about her dreadful dancing skills. Would Sinclair have turned her away in shame as Geoffrey had done? No, he rather suspected the charming, roguish gentleman would have told the all of Society to go to hell with a wave and a smile, and done right by Abigail.

Not like Geoffrey. Selfish, cowardly bastard who couldn’t sort out which was of greater importance—his heart’s desire for Abigail Stone or his familial obligations. “What do you want?” he asked tersely.

The hard planes of Sinclair’s face settled into an uncharacteristically serious mask. “I thought you might need a friend.”

Geoffrey chuckled, the sound harsh and raw to his own ears. “And is that what you are? A friend?”

“Yes.”

That simple confirmation struck Geoffrey. “I don’t have any friends.”

An inelegant snort escaped Sinclair. “Probably because you’re such a pompous prig.”

Geoffrey managed his first half-grin since Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s ball two days past. Odd, he’d imagined he’d never be able to muster a hint of a smile again after Abigail had walked out of his life. The grin died on his lips. Geoffrey reached for the bottle and sloshed several fingerfuls into his glass.

He took a long swallow, no longer feeling the sharp burn of the brew.

“You loved her.”

Geoffrey’s fingers tightened hard about his glass at Sinclair’s statement. The faint tremor in his hands sent liquid drops spraying onto the table. He wanted to snap and snarl like a caged beast. How dare Sinclair come and force him to speak of her, in White’s, with his ragged spirit bared for all to see?

Geoffrey swirled his brandy. “I did.” The whisper tore from deep inside him. I do.

Sinclair raised his glass to his lips. He studied Geoffrey over the rim, took a sip, and then tugged his chair closer to the table. “Do you think any of this matters, Redbrooke?” He waved his hand, gesturing to the club. “Do you believe these heartless bastards were more important than your own happiness?”

Geoffrey’s throat worked up and down. “It is not that simple,” Geoffrey said hoarsely. “She lied. She deliberately deceived me.” He cleared his throat, squaring his jaw. “And, in her actions the lady had sneered in the face of propriety and I cannot in good conscience wed such a woman.”

“Surely you’re not so foolish as to believe those words.” He dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “What would you have had the lady do? Bandy her shame about the ton? Would you have had her share the fact that she’d been forced across the ocean because she’d been discovered with her lover?”

Oh, God. Geoffrey gripped the edge of the table, his nails bit hard into the hardwood surface. Sinclair’s words ate at him like poison that destroyed.

Sinclair sat his glass down with a loud thunk. He planted his elbows upon the table. “This isn’t about your title or propriety. This is about nothing more than your own jealousy, Redbrooke.”

Geoffrey froze, allowing that volatile charge to seep into his brandy-laden brain. He shook his head. “No.”

“Yes. I’m telling you this because I’m your friend.”

“I don’t have any friends,” Geoffrey said blankly.

“No, you don’t. With the exception of me, of course.” Sinclair took a sip of his drink. “Have you attempted to speak to the duke?”

Geoffrey shook his head jerkily. He’d intended to. At Lady Ainsworth’s he’d made plans to call on the duke and request Abigail’s hand in marriage. Had it been only two days since his world had fallen apart.

“I haven’t.” Nor would he. There was nothing left to say. He’d said everything and then some, on that thunderous night when he’d shoved Abigail into a hired hackney

Sinclair shook his head. “I never took you for a coward, Redbrooke.”

His life had been coldly empty and meaningless until her. She’d taught him to again laugh, had forced him to confront the feelings of guilt and shame he carried over his role in Father’s death. Could Geoffrey trade all that he valued, his mother’s stringent expectations, his own self-pride, for her?

I’m not unlike you. I loved and trusted…and was deceived.

And how had he repaid her love? He’d turned his back on her, treating her as nothing more than a common strumpet in the street.