Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(7)

Abigail sighed. After her fall from respectable society, she’d learned rather quickly that aloof condescension was not reserved for a single continent. Since her uncle had introduced her to London’s Polite Society, Abigail had braved soirees and dinner parties and visits to the theatre, amongst lords and ladies who peered down their long noses at her—the curl of their lips indicating that, without even knowing her, they’d found her wanting, simply because of her birthright.

“Where did you take yourself off to?”

Abigail jumped at the sudden appearance of her cousin, Robert Dennington, the Marquess of Westfield. She climbed to her feet. “I merely desired a rest from dancing.”

Robert folded his arms across his broad chest, and arched a golden brow. He looked down the row of young ladies behind her. “A rest? You’ve not danced once this entire evening.”

Abigail frowned. Nor did she intend to. She was trying to spare herself that humiliation as long as possible. She’d not expected her roguish young cousin to note as much. She sighed. “Yes. That is true. I wanted to sit.”

He glanced down at her ripped hem. “Ahh, yes…Redbrooke and your hem.”

She furrowed her brow. “Redbrooke?”

Robert reached for a champagne flute from a passing servant and took a sip. “The gentleman who nearly toppled you into Lady Hughes’s servant.

Redbrooke. It was a strong name that bespoke power and seemed to perfectly suit the square-jawed, thickly muscled gentleman.

Robert spoke in a quiet whisper. “You do not have to sit here, Abby.”

Her back went up. “I want to, Robert.” After her scandal in America she’d found she rather preferred obscurity to notoriety. She had received enough attention to last the remainder of her life and then well into the hereafter. No, wallflowers were most times spared from undue notice and dancing and Abigail was quite content to join their ranks. “You needn’t feel like you must watch over me, Robert,” she hurried to assure him. He’d already spent the better part of the evening at her side. “Your sister—”

“Is still otherwise engaged with Lord Redbrooke,” Robert interrupted. He tipped his chin across the ballroom, and Abigail followed the gesture.

Her heart’s rhythm did the oddest little sputter.

Lord Redbrooke stood alongside Beatrice and a trio of other unfamiliar individuals.

Even with the length of the ballroom between them, Abigail detected the pink blush on Beatrice’s cheeks.

They struck quite a pair; Lord Redbrooke’s tall, lean, muscle-hewn frame and olive coloring, next to Beatrice’s petite frame and flawless cream-white skin and golden ringlets.

Something the gentleman said raised a dimpled smile in Beatrice’s cheeks and Abigail would wager her father’s entire line of ships he’d said something perfectly gentlemanly, perfectly charming to her cousin.

“I do not see you as a burden, Abby.”

Abigail wrenched her gaze away from Lord Redbrooke and returned her attention to her cousin.

His brotherly concern warmed her through. With his more than six-foot-tall frame and fair coloring, he so reminded her of her elder brothers, Nathaniel and George. “I’m all right. Truly. I’m sure there is a game of cards somewhere you’d rather see to.”

His frown deepened. “Are you trying to be rid of me?”

She winked at him. “Yes.”

A chuckle rumbled up from his chest, and he shook his head. “If you’re certain…”

“I’m very certain.”

“I’ll return in a short while and partner you in a set.”

A little shudder wracked her frame. “Only if you’re determined to punish both me and your feet.” Her papa had always used to say Abigail could accomplish anything and everything…with the exception of dancing and embroidering. With Abigail’s lack of ladylike talents, Mother had despaired of Abigail ever making a match. In the end, Mother had been all too right.

Robert ran his eyes over her face, and must have seen something written there. “What is it?”

She waved her hand. “It is nothing.”

“Would you rather I stay and dance?”

Abigail laughed and swatted at his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

With a wink, he excused himself.

Abigail embraced the momentary solitude.

For the better part of the evening she’d battled tedium, which had lifted the moment Lord Redbrooke had shredded her hem with the heel of his boot. Something in his sea-green eyes had reflected the haunted look of one who knew pain and heartache.

Abigail knew. Because she, too, had known both those wrenching emotions.

Loud, yet muffled whispers interrupted her musings.

From the corner of her eye Abigail noted the nearby lords and ladies who eyed her, an American oddity in their glittering, perfectly ordered world. Her toes curled inside her ivory slippers and yet, she jutted her chin out, and boldly met the stares of the nobles around her with a frankness her mother would have deplored. It had the desired effect and the nosy peers directed their attention on some poor other unfortunate miss.

Abigail’s gaze collided with Lord Carmichael. Old and rotund, the gentleman had requested one of her later sets. The lecherous reprobate ogled her exposed décolletage a moment, and winked at her.

Shivers of distaste ran down her spine. She yanked her stare away from Lord Carmichael’s and instead directed her attention toward the crowd of shifting figures, who performed the intricate steps of a quadrille. A wistful smile played about Abigail’s lips at the sight of her cousin moving so gracefully, so elegantly, through the movements of the dance. Not like Abigail, who bumbled through every set and whose own dance tutors had deemed her unteachable.