Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(70)

“Why would you help me in this way?” Why, when I am the contemptible bastard who treated Abigail like the refuse upon my boots?

“Because you love her. And she loves you.”

Or she had. His eyes fixed on her too-still form. She had to get well. Because the alternative would break him down until he was nothing more than an empty shell of a human-being. There was no life worth living if she were not part of it and when she opened her eyes, he would spend the rest of his days proving himself worthy of her, proving himself different than the bastard who’d stolen her innocence and viciously betrayed her. And she would open her eyes. He willed the words to truth.

Geoffrey stood on shaky legs. “Thank you, my lady.”

She nodded. “Now, follow me.” Lady Beatrice started for the door.

“And you’ll send word?” Geoffrey asked, as he walked beside her.

“Every day,” she promised.

As Geoffrey slipped from the duke’s townhouse like a silent thief absconding with the Crown’s jewels, Geoffrey resolved to become the man Abigail deserved.

And propriety and respectability could both go to the devil.





A gentleman should recognize when he errs, and is not too proud to then make his apologies.

4th Viscount Redbrooke



26

Abigail lived in a world where reality blended with dream; where pain blended with terror. She thrashed upon her pillow as fingers poked at her person. A cry gurgled up her throat and spilled past her lips as large, sure hands prodded at her shoulder.

She registered the Duke of Somerset conversing with another man. The tormentor; the prodder whose excruciating touch filled her with agony, murmured something to the duke.

Head injury.

Accident.

Dire.

Unlikely she’ll live.

Who did they speak of? Pity filled her for the poor, unfortunate soul who fought for her life. Abigail struggled to open her eyes and form words…as with a mounting horror, hideous memories crept in.

Geoffrey.

The numbing throb behind her eyes, intensified until nausea boiled in her stomach and she remembered.

Geoffrey’s derision.

His rejection.

The accident.

Oh, God. The poor soul they spoke of…

It is me.

I hear you. I can’t die. But the fingers of unconsciousness tugged her back into its inky black folds, and this time she gladly sank into the slumberous state.

She wavered in and out of a murky consciousness, filled with a desperation to see her family and assure them she would survive. In the deepest yearnings of her suffering, Geoffrey came to her, knelt at her side, pleaded forgiveness. And then, the soft, loving gentleman would transform into a derisive, sneering figure she didn’t recognize. Through it all, Abigail remained trapped in the silent state.

Until at last, she blinked her eyes open.

A guttural groan wrenched from deep inside and increased the throbbing pressure behind her eyes. She turned her head slightly, taking in the darkness of the still room.

Abigail closed her eyes again in attempt to rid herself of the piercing pain that pounded at her skull.

Someone gasped.

Abigail tried to look toward the frantic patter of footsteps. The click of the door echoed around her aching head, and she forced back nausea. Abigail rested her head upon the pillow and stared up at the cherubs dancing on the mural above her bed.

Then…the door opened again.

“Abigail.”

She sorted through muddied thoughts as she tried to place the voice. Then, taking a slow breath she turned her head on the pillow.

Her uncle strode over to the bed and sat in the empty chair beside her, his somber gaze moving over her. “Thank God, Abigail. We had feared you would not recover.”

The memory of that thunderous night went ripping through her thoughts, and she gasped as she recalled the horror of Geoffrey’s rejection, the mind-numbing terror of the carriage accident, then the unbearable soreness of her head and body.

She wet her lips.

“Would you care for water?” He reached for a pitcher that sat beside her bed.

Her stomach churned at the thought of filling her belly with anything. “No,” she said, that one word hoarse, and near unrecognizable as belonging to her.

He froze, and sat back in his seat.

“How long have I been asleep?” she whispered.

“Nearly three days, Abigail.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Do you recall what happened that evening?”

God, she wished with the pain the accident had brought her, it could have managed to somehow shake loose the all too familiar sting of Society’s rejection, and worse, Geoffrey’s disdain.

For the remainder of her days she would recall the precise moment when the warm, caring look in Geoffrey’s eyes had been replaced with the cool, flinty ice of a man who’d found her actions unforgiveable. Her heart twisted with a bitter resentment. “I remember.” Until she drew her last breath she would love him, but she would not, could not forget how easily he had turned her out.

“You injured your arm quite badly.”

She touched her fingers to the sling over her left shoulder that restricted her use of the limb. The screams of horror as the arm had been tended to by some faceless doctor filtered through her remembrance.

“You suffered a very serious injury to your head. The doctor feared you’d not recover.” He leaned over and touched the fingers of her uninjured hand. “You have too much of your mother’s strength and courage to die that way,” he said, his words gruff.