Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(78)

Geoffrey had caught her as she’d fainted and he would cherish every last one of the thirty-seconds or so when he’d cradled her close.

He’d handed her off to her brother, and fled faster than Abby’s fabled Hermes.

Ever since, Geoffrey had been foxed.

“Please, speak to him. It is that…” woman.

“Abigail,” Geoffrey whispered. “Her name is Abigail.”

Waxham spoke. “I…” But his words were muted.

The door opened.

Geoffrey swiped the back of his hand across bloodshot eyes. “Get the hell out, Waxham. I’m not accepting company.”

The door closed. “I should hope not. You smell horrid.”

Geoffrey’s eyes shot open. His sister stood near the door, gazing at him with far more concern than he deserved. He’d been a bastard to her.

“Mother asked Christopher try to reason with you. I assured her I would speak to you, Geoffrey.” Her lips twitched. “I don’t believe she found any comfort in that.” Sophie wandered over to the full floor-length windows, and threw the curtains wide. “Mustn’t have you sitting here alone in the dark.”

He flinched at the sharp burst of sunlight that streamed through the windowpanes.

Whatever words she cared to utter about Abigail would be a futile waste of her energies. The devil with his silver tongue couldn’t convince Geoffrey that Abigail had been anything but the most perfect thing to have ever happened to him. For a brief moment, the gods had seemed to think him worthy of happiness, and sent Abigail into his life.

And he’d spit in the face of his fate.

Sophie advanced further into the room and claimed the leather winged back chair at the foot of his desk. “I told her I’d speak to you about Miss Stone.”

“And?” Geoffrey slurred. He reached for the decanter of brandy, but Sophie leaned over with far more speed than he imagined her capable of, and yanked the bottle off his desk.

She set it down on the floor beside her. “And, as a young lady, I have it on good authority that other ladies do not admire a gentleman who wallows in self-pity.”

He growled. “I’m not wallowing.” Pause. “Perhaps I am,” he conceded. “May I have my bottle?”

Sophie wagged a finger at him. “No more of that,” she murmured. “You will not win back your Miss Stone if you’re…” she wrinkled her nose, “smelling like a hot pig in a summer sun?”

There would be no winning Abigail back. He’d lost her before he’d ever had her.

He sat back in his chair and swiped his arm across his eyes. “Please, leave,” he said.

Sophie drummed her fingertips along the arms of her leather seat; the grating sound echoed around his mind. “You know, I don’t think I will. You need a friend.”

A harsh chuckle escaped him, and his arm fell back to his side. It appeared Sophie and Sinclair were of like opinions. “I don’t need a friend.”

I need Abigail.

His sister went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “For years, Geoffrey, I’ve believed you to be a pompous ass.”

At one time Sophie’s vulgar language would have appalled him more than the charge she now leveled at him. It had been Abigail who’d forced Geoffrey to confront the weaker aspects of his character and aspire to be a better, more honorable person.

“That is because I am a pompous ass.”

Sophie smiled. “Yes. There is truth there. But you weren’t always that way.” She scooted to the edge of her seat.

No. His life had been irrevocably changed when he’d come upon his father’s body that stormy night five years ago. Geoffrey appeared to be the same cowardly bastard he’d always been, because even after all this time, he couldn’t find the courage to tell Sophie of the events that had precipitated their father’s death.

Sophie continued on, seeming unaware of the inner turmoil roiling through him. “And you haven’t been that way since you met your Miss Stone.”

“She isn’t my Miss Stone,” he said, tiredly.

For a mere flicker in time, Geoffrey had been fortunate to have her in his life but she had always belonged to Powers.

Sophie’s smile dipped. “Oh, dear.”

He glanced past her shoulder, toward the gold brocade curtains.

She sighed. “You are supposed to ask, ‘what, Sophie?’”

“What is it, Sophie?” He wanted nothing more than his half-drunk bottle of brandy.

“You love her rather desperately, don’t you?”

The vise about his heart tightened, and he rubbed his chest, to dull the steady, throbbing ache, to no effect. “I do,” he breathed the word into existence. And he’d uttered them, too late. In the end, she’d not believed him.

Alexander Powers’ tall, powerful visage flashed to mind and Geoffrey buried his head into his hands. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes in a desperate attempt to rid himself of the image of Abigail and Alexander together. She would leave. She would board a ship with the man who had in fact been faithful to her…and exist as nothing more than a memory in Geoffrey’s heart.

The crackle of leather, followed by the flutter of muslin fabric registered.

Sophie knelt down at his feet and took one of his hands between her own. “Geoffrey, she is not lost to you.” She gave a faint squeeze.