Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(9)

An indignant gasp escaped her. She slapped him so hard his head whipped back. The sound of her hand connecting with his flesh reverberated around the still of the night. Momentary satisfaction filled her at the stark, white imprint her palm had left upon his fleshy cheeks.

Abigail took advantage of his distraction and hurried around him but her satisfaction was short lived. The tip of her slipper caught upon the blasted torn hem, and she stumbled to her knees. She bit the inside of her cheek. Why hadn’t she tended the ripped garment instead of seeking out a moment’s solitude?

She stifled a cry as Lord Carmichael’s fleshy fingers closed around the delicate flesh of her forearm. He jerked her upright and pulled her against his frame. “I’ve heard stories about you,” he rasped.

“Stories?” Her voice sounded hollow to her own ears. She struggled against him and managed to free herself from his hold. Panic hummed in her ears. Good God, had word of her scandal already reached English soil?

Carmichael used her distraction to tug her close with a strength better suited to a man thirty years his junior. “So you like it rough, do you?” He chuckled. “Very well.”

Abigail jammed the heel of her slipper down upon his booted foot. Her ineffectual efforts only raised the old letch’s amusement. She wrestled against him. “Release me.” She detested the quiver of her high-pitched command.

“I will.” His lips caressed her neck. “Just as soon as I get a sample of your charms, lovie.”

Terror surged through her. She struggled against him but he pawed and grabbed at her like a determined animal. She’d come to London in desperate hope of setting aside the shame of her scandal. Instead, it would seem she’d merely traded one scandal for another.

Lord Carmichael tugged the décolletage of her satin ball gown lower, and fury gave strength to her fight.

By God, she would not allow him to further ruin her already tattered reputation. She jabbed him in the side with her elbow.

He grunted, but only shifted his attention to her breast.

God help her.





With the exception of rigorous practice in Gentleman Jackson’s ring, a gentleman should never engage in fisticuffs.

4th Viscount Redbrooke





4





Geoffrey drained the contents of his champagne flute and passed the empty glass onto the tray of a nearby, liveried servant.

He’d had his quadrille with Lady Beatrice. If his memory served, there were two country reels and a waltz in between their next set.

The evening had been productive in terms of advancing his courtship.

Except…

His gaze scanned the bodies, searching for a too-tall young lady, with fire in her eyes. Guilt had filled him the moment the young lady had taken her leave of the ballroom, surely hurrying off to see to her torn gown.

It had been nearly a quarter of an hour and the young lady had not returned. Geoffrey tapped his finger along the side of his thigh considering her absence. He didn’t expect a young lady, an American should understand the possible scandal of disappearing, unchaperoned in her host’s home. Or worse, the bold creature was meeting with some young swain.

Rage clutched at him. He squared his jaw. It was merely his strict appreciation for propriety that accounted for the need to find the young lady and redirect her to the ball. After all, considering his actions had resulted in her departure from the soiree, it would only be the gentlemanly thing to do to make sure she’d not come to any further trouble because of his actions. Geoffrey set out in search of the American lady.

His quickened step had nothing to do with a desire to see the alluring beauty.

Nothing at all.

Geoffrey strode down Lord Hughes’s halls and followed it to the old earl’s balcony and gardens.

He stared down the corridor. The bright glint of moonlight cast shadows through the crystal windows and reflected off the walls.

Geoffrey froze. The lady wouldn’t have gone outside to repair her torn skirt. He turned around when a soft cry split the quiet.

Disregarding the fact that gentleman did not run, amidst their host’s home, no less, Geoffrey sprinted toward the double doors. He threw them open, and froze.

The young lady hissed and clawed like a cat cornered in Cook’s kitchens. She raked her nails over the side of Lord Carmichael’s cheek, leaving a streak of bloody tracks down his fleshy cheeks.

“You bitch,” Lord Carmichael spat, and shook her hard.

Some kind of savage beast stirred to life within Geoffrey’s chest. A primitive growl worked its way up his throat and spilled past his lips. He raced forward and ripped Carmichael off the woman’s struggling form.

She clawed at Geoffrey’s arms, a wild, haunted look in her eyes. Her chest heaved from the exertions of her struggles.

Geoffrey knew the moment logic replaced the horrified panic inside her. She blinked several times, and then sank to her knees, inching backwards, until her back borrowed support from the stone wall that overlooked the grounds.

“Redbrooke,” Carmichael wheedled. “What are you about? I’m just having a good time with the American girl. She invited me out here.”

“I didn’t,” the young lady said, her voice flat.

“She did. She motioned to the windows and led me a merry little chase out here. Now she’d have you believe she’s some innocent young miss. What proper lady would be out here unchaperoned, Redbrooke? Only a wh—”