Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(68)

Oh, god, what have I done?

Geoffrey’s shoulders stiffened, as a steely resolve filled him. “I love her,” he said into the quiet. He shoved his chair back. “I need to see her.”

Sinclair’s eyes went wide. All the color drained from his olive-hued cheeks. “Christ,” he hissed. He reached for the decanter and poured a glass full of brandy. He proceeded to down the contents in a long, steady swallow.

Something in the man’s horrified expression, the blend of shock and pity in his blue eyes gave Geoffrey pause. His heart thudded in his breast.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Sinclair set his glass down hard, and shoved it away. He leaned across the table; his eyes seemed to search Geoffrey’s face. “You do not know,” he said, the spoken words a statement, not a question, said more to himself.

The odd thumping of his heart increased its rhythm, pounding hard, and painful, threatening to shatter his chest. “Know what?” He reached across the table and gripped Sinclair by the lapels of his double-breasted jacket.

Shocked gasps and loud whispers filled White’s. Geoffrey ignored them. “Know what?” he asked, giving a shake.

Sinclair turned his palms up. “There was an accident.”

And Geoffrey’s world stopped.

***

Geoffrey rode at a maddening speed through the streets of London. He kneed his horse Decorum onward toward the Duke of Somerset’s townhouse.

The pounding of Decorum’s hooves echoed around his mind.

There was an accident.

There was an accident.

Oh, Christ.

A carriage accident. Head injuries. Injured arm. Possibly broken. Unlikely she’ll survive.

Bile burned like acid at the back of his throat, and his stomach churned until he nearly cast the contents of his stomach onto the muddied London streets.

As he came to the duke’s townhouse, Geoffrey jerked on Decorum’s reins with such force, the horse reared and pawed the air with its front legs. Geoffrey leapt down, and tossed the reins over to a nearby street urchin. He tossed the boy a sovereign. “Wait for me. There will be more,” he said, his words harsh and hard.

He raced up the steps, and pounded upon the front of the door.

I sent her away.

I put her in that carriage and sent her off.

The butler pulled the door open and Geoffrey shoved past the butler.

“My lord, the family is not receiving callers,” the servant said, his flinty eyes as hard as the edge to his words.

Geoffrey swept a circle about the foyer. He scraped a hand through his hair, and glanced up the stairway. He considered storming the bloody townhouse until he located her. “Abigail,” he forced out. And then remembered himself, “Miss Stone. I’m here to see Miss Stone.”

Mayhap Sinclair had been mistaken. Mayhap a gossipy ton had merely circulated a story fashioned on hideous rumors.

Something flashed in the other man’s eyes and Geoffrey knew with all the intuitiveness of a man who’d suffered great loss, that the rumors were indeed true. “Miss Stone is indisposed.” The butler motioned to the door. “Now if you will, my lord.”

Geoffrey stepped around the butler and made for the stairs.

The butler gasped. “My lord,” he planted himself in front of Geoffrey halting his advance.

“Get the hell out of my way,” he seethed. He knew how he must look; like a madman escaped Bedlam and for the first time in his life, he didn’t give a damn for propriety.

“What is the meaning of this?” A sharp voice barked from the top of the stairs.

Geoffrey looked up as the Marquess Westfield stomped down the stairs.

“You?” Westfield growled. His lip pulled back in a sneer.

Geoffrey didn’t anticipate the other man’s right handed jab to his cheek.

The air left Geoffrey as the force of Westfield’s unexpected blow knocked him to his knees.

“You bloody bastard,” Westfield seethed. Westfield dragged him up by the front of his jacket, and gave him a solid shake. “You dare come here?”

Geoffrey staggered to his feet. He pressed the back of his coat sleeve to staunch his bleeding nose. He winced, certain Westfield had broken it which was no less than Geoffrey deserved. “I…Abigail…I heard…Is it true…?”

Westfield’s eyes narrowed to impenetrable slits. “What do you want?” he finally said. “It is my understanding that you were very clear in your feelings for Abigail.”

His mind raced. “She told you.” That I sent her away. That I handed her up into the carriage. That I said she was unworthy of me. When in actuality, Geoffrey had never deserved her. Abigail had always been entirely too good for him.

Westfield’s eyes blazed with fury. “The bloody servant who escorted her to your townhouse was very informative.” He stuck his finger out, pointing to the door. “Now get the hell out.” He clasped Geoffrey by the forearm.

Geoffrey jerked his arm free. He pulled a kerchief from his jacket and held it to his nose. “I’m not leaving, Westfield.”

“By god, I’ll summon a team of servants to have you removed from this foyer if you do not leave immediately.” As if he’d been waiting in the wings for his master’s orders, the butler reappeared.

Geoffrey ignored the stocky servant. “Abigail…”