Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(72)

“His Grace is not receiving guests, either,” the butler said through the small opening.

Geoffrey wedged his hip inside the door, and he’d wager his family seat in Kent that the usually stoic servant cursed. “Will you tell him I’m not leaving? I’ve every intention of remaining right on the steps of his townhouse until he grants me an audience.”

The butler sighed. “I will again remind His Grace. Good day, my lord.” He shoved his hip into the door.

Geoffrey stumbled backwards. With a black curse, he took his all too familiar seat upon the top step and set down the bouquet in his hands. His lower back ached from sitting on the hard stone but the discomfort seemed so very insignificant when compared to the bruises and injuries Abigail had sustained.

His stomach clenched in a familiar knot, as he once again imagined Abigail’s terror the night of the accident. He tortured himself with image of her lifeless body being flung about the hired hack.

Geoffrey glanced up at the thick blanket of gray and black clouds that rolled over the sky. A single raindrop landed on of the bridge of his nose.

Then the skies opened up.

Bloody wonderful.

***

From where she stood in the drawing room, Abigail parted the thick curtains just enough to peer down into the streets below. A steady stream of rain pounded the pavement. Geoffrey stood, and drops of water sprayed from the fabric of his cloak as it swirled about his feet. Moisture ran in rivulets down his collar and soaked the finely tailored russet garment.

He awkwardly brushed an elbow across his brow but the movement upset his equally drenched beaver hat. A chestnut lock tumbled over his eye and oh, how she longed to brush it back.

She was a fool.

He banged the door.

Her love for him should have died a swift death on that dark, threatening night.

He banged again.

His rejection would forever haunt her.

And again.

But she loved him; hopelessly and helplessly, in a manner that defied all sensible logic.

His pounding increased.

She closed her eyes.

Why would he not go away?

He’d been very clear when he’d turned her away that he found her unworthy, and yet, he now created no small scandal by visiting the duke’s townhouse, seeming to enact a kind of penance.

Surely, nothing more than a sense of misguided guilt drove Geoffrey’s impulsive actions.

The moment she’d awakened from her unconscious state, she’d embraced the animosity and fury she felt over Geoffrey’s treatment. It had served as a kind of protection against further sorrow. But with each knock of that blasted door, he rattled her carefully crafted defenses.

Abigail dropped the curtain back into place and leaned into the wall. She groaned as her injured shoulder collided with the hard surface.

“Abigail, you must sit,” the duke called from the King Louis chair he occupied. He folded his arms across his chest. A scowl formed on his austere cheeks. “If I’d imagined you would be up as you are, I’d have never agreed to you being down here. The doctor said—”

“I cannot lay in bed any longer, Uncle.” She would go mad with nothing but her pained regrets to keep her company.

“Do you suppose he’ll go away soon?” Beatrice asked. She set aside her embroidery frame. He’s been out there for nearly an hour.” Her eyes took on a faraway expression, and a sigh escaped her. “I think it is so very romantic.”

Robert came up beside Abigail and pulled the curtains back enough to look outside into the growing rainstorm, and down at Geoffrey. He growled. “I think it is bloody foolish.” A rumble of thunder punctuated his words.

A tremor went through Abigail’s body, and she closed her eyes in a desperate bid to fight back this new, irrational fear she had of storms. Memory of that night, the sting of the rain, the bite of the wind, the shattering carriage, haunted her.

Abigail swayed on her feet.

Robert cursed and carefully caught her against him.

“Abby!” Beatrice cried out, and jumped to her feet.

“I’m all right,” Abigail whispered. Except she didn’t think she would ever be all right, again. The ache of Geoffrey’s abandonment, the cold, icy disdain that had fairly dripped from his hardened eyes, all of it so at odds with this resolute gentleman who continued to request an audience.

“He’s bloody mad,” Robert bit out as the steady rain picked up in intensity.

Beatrice wandered over to the window and peeked outside. “He’s brought flowers.” Her brow wrinkled. “That poor bouquet is nearly ruined.” She leaned closer to the window.

“Beatrice,” the duke called pointedly from across the room. “Come away from the window.”

She waved her father off. Her brow screwed up. “Whatever kind of flowers are they? I do say they are lovely. But they are not at all familiar.”

“Ivy and aconite,” Abigail whispered. She remembered back to the flowers he’d brought before he’d discovered the truth about her, before her world had crashed down upon her.

“Aconite? I’ve never heard of it. What an odd flower to pick out. One would think he’d select roses, or lavender…” Her cousin continued to prattle on, as Abigail sank into a nearby sofa.

“I’ll have one of the servants remove him,” the duke muttered.