Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(69)

“Is dead,” Westfield spat, and with a curt nod to the butler, spun on his heel and marched purposefully back up the stairs.

Geoffrey stared up after him, unblinking. His heart thudded to a slow halt.

Dead.

Dead.

He took his head in his hands, and shook it wildly back and forth. Surely he’d heard Westfield wrong. Surely he’d know if Abigail had died because his heart would have known, and would have ceased to beat. Geoffrey dug his fingers into his temples and searched the foyer.

“Oh, God,” the agonized entreaty tore from deep inside him. The crimson stained handkerchief fell to the floor.

Geoffrey searched for purchase, and found none as the life drained from his legs. He collapsed to his knees. He dimly registered the butler speaking to someone, but the voices came as if down a long hall. Geoffrey sucked in deep, gasping breaths as his past and present blurred together with a dreadfully remarkable likeness.

Someone touched a hand to Geoffrey’s shoulder, and he snarled feeling like a caged beast set free.

“Lord Redbrooke?” The delicate, gentle female tone broke through the cloud of madness that gripped him.

He blinked. “Lady Beatrice,” he said, his voice hoarse.

Lady Beatrice glanced around, and said something to the butler. The servant nodded and with a bow took his leave. “I overheard your conversation with my brother. I do not approve of your treatment of Abby last evening, but my brother’s actions were unforgiveable.”

Geoffrey struggled to put her words into some semblance of order that made sense.

“Abigail is not dead,” she said.

Geoffrey’s eyes slid closed, as a prayer slipped from his lips. He grabbed Lady Beatrice’s hands in his. “Thank you.”

Lady Beatrice tugged him to his feet. “Hurry. My brother and father mustn’t find out. Come, I’ll take you to her.”

Energy filled his strides. “How is she?” he rasped.

Lady Beatrice shot a pointed look over her shoulder, and touched a finger to her lips. “Hush.” She guided him abovestairs and down the hall, past several wide-eyed servants. She stopped in front of a door, and looked up at him. “Abigail injured her arm. She suffered a head injury, and has not awakened since the accident. Now, you must be quick, my lord.” She reached for the door handle, and then hesitated. “She is…not well, my lord.”

Geoffrey reached past her, and pressed the handle. He entered the room.

Beatrice closed the door behind him.

His eyes struggled to adjust to Abigail’s dark chambers. He took a tentative step toward the massive, feather-down four poster bed at the center of the room.

“Abby,” he called quietly.

The popping of the embers within the fireplace hearth made the only sound in the ominously quiet chambers.

Geoffrey took several tentative steps toward the bed, and stopped when his knees knocked the white coverlet. He sucked in an anguished breath, and sank onto the stark white coverlet. “Abby,” he breathed.

Her face looked an artist’s palate of green, purple, and blue hues. A large, ugly, distended knot marred the center of her forehead. “Oh, Abby,” he whispered. He reached for her hand, and froze at the sight of a sling that had been fashioned to stabilize her arm. He wanted to toss his head back and hurl vile epithets at the heavens. And yet, he had no one to blame except himself. He’d done this. Just as he’d sent his father away, he’d sent Abby fleeing. An odd gurgling rumbled deep in his chest. Geoffrey’s vision blurred, as he realized the great, gasping sobs came from him. “What have I done?” he rasped.

The cruel emptiness of silence, his only answer.

Through tear-filled eyes, he studied Abigail’s injured arm and his stomach churned as he imagined the pain she’d suffered when the dislocated limb had been popped back into place.

Geoffrey reached for her other, uninjured hand. He picked up her delicate palm and turned it over in his hand, studying her long, elegant fingers.

His mind tripped back to the night she’d interlocked their hands and held them up to the star-studded skies.

That is Lyra.

He raised her hand to his mouth, and brushed his lips along the inner portion of her wrist. “Oh, Abby, I love you.” He studied her blackened eyes for any sign of awareness but she remained in the thick haze of slumber that had stolen her from the now, and kept her in the darkened world at the edge of death. “I have loved you since the moment I knocked over Lord and Lady Hughes’s servant’s tray of champagne and nearly toppled you to the floor.” He dropped to his knees beside her bed. “I am nothing without you.” His words broke. “Do you know Abby, I thought the greatest crime I’d committed against my father lie in failing to honor my responsibilities. Only now,” too late, “do I realize, how very wrong I’ve been. My greatest offence lies in not listening to him, and now…you. Forgive me.”

The door opened and closed.

Geoffrey didn’t take blurry gaze from Abigail’s swollen, bruised eyes.

“Lord Redbrooke. You must go,” Lady Beatrice whispered.

He managed a jerky nod. Except, he could not make his legs move. “I can’t leave her.”

The soft pad of her slippered feet upon the hardwood floor filled the quiet. She stopped next to Abigail’s bed. “You must, my lord. I promise I’ll send word.”