Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

by Christi Caldwell

  Lady Beatrice made a sound of protest and rushed to her cousin’s defense. “That isn’t true, Abby. Why you’re a lovely dancer.”

  Abigail smiled. “I’m remarkably fortunate to have you as a champion, Beatrice. However, I hold no false modesty. I’m truly deplorable.”

  Geoffrey was hard pressed to believe such a graceful, elegant woman would be deplorable at anything.

  Lord Sinclair sketched a deep bow. “Well, I insist that you allow me to at least make a determination for myself on your skill or,” he arched a single brow, “lack thereof, during the next waltz, Miss Stone.”

  And now he wanted to plant his fist in Sinclair’s far too-charming smile.

  Color flooded Miss Stone’s cheeks, and she fiddled with the card dangling from her wrist.

  “I’ll not take no for an answer, Miss Stone,” Sinclair pressed.

  The blush on Abigail’s cheeks deepened to a dark red hue that put Geoffrey in mind of a ripened strawberry in the heart of summer. And God, if he didn’t suddenly have a taste for the fruit.

  Abigail met Sinclair’s eyes with a direct boldness not suited for an innocent debutante. “Well, if you’ll not accept a rejection on my part and you’re willing to risk the well-being of your toes, than I’d be honored.”

  In that moment, Geoffrey who loathed dance as much as he loathed being an object of Society’s scrutiny, wanted to take Abigail in his arms and waltz her throughout an empty ballroom floor. It wasn’t practical. Or proper. Nor would dancing with her serve to advance his goal of marriage to Lady Beatrice, which, just then, didn’t seem as important as it had before he’d arrived at Lord and Lady Essex’s ball.

  A waltz.

  A waltz and a quadrille.

  Geoffrey squared his shoulders and looked to Lady Beatrice. “My lady, will you do me the honor of partnering me in the next set?”

  Lady Beatrice’s gaze flitted over to Abigail and Lord Sinclair, and Geoffrey frowned at the wistful longing he saw in her innocent blue eyes.

  When she looked back at Geoffrey, she smiled up at him and he assured himself that he’d merely imagined the brief flash of regret in Beatrice’s eyes. “Of course, my lord.”

  From the corner of his eye he detected the manner in which Abigail continued to fiddle with her dance card. In the past years, he’d come to consider himself an excellent read of character…which was rather fortunate, because prior to that, he’d been quite dismal at it.

  Miss Stone’s distracted movements suggested the young lady was nervous. Or troubled. Perhaps both.

  The tip of her nail inadvertently loosened the ivory ribbon and her dance card fell in a fluttery, spiral path toward the Italian marble floor.

  She gasped, and made a desperate reach for it but the satin ribbon slipped through her fingers and landed ignominiously at her feet.

  “Allow me,” Geoffrey murmured, and stooped to retrieve the item.

  “No. I have it!” she said far too quickly.

  He ignored her protestations and picked it up. As he stood, his eyes happened upon the names penciled in on the sparse card. It was wholly accidental. Yes, it hardly mattered to him which gentlemen lined Miss Stone’s dance card.

  Lord Sinclair. Waltz. Rogue.

  Lord Pemberly. Country reel. Reprobate.

  Lord Ashfield. Quadrille. Profligate gambler.

  Lord Masterson. Waltz. Six children. Far too many for a young lady…

  Four partners in total. He frowned. Surely Westfield, as her chaperone, knew that none of the gentlemen would make an acceptable match for any lady, and surely not for his own relative…?

  “Redbrooke?” The dry amusement in Lord Sinclair’s tone cut into Geoffrey’s musings.

  As though burned, Geoffrey relinquished Abigail’s dance card, and wordlessly handed it over to her. Heat flooded his neck at having been caught studying the names there. He stole a sideways glance at Lord Westfield, who had a black scowl trained on Geoffrey.

  It had been unintentional, his reading the names and all. Why, it hardly mattered to him that four wholly unacceptable, entirely too-roguish gentlemen had claimed her sets.

  Geoffrey extended his arm to Lady Beatrice. She placed her fingers upon his sleeve and allowed him to escort her onto the dance floor.

  Why did it feel like he lied to himself?

  ***

  Abigail schooled her expression so that Lord and Lady Essex’s guests didn’t note her untoward interest in Beatrice and Geoffrey, who now took their places amongst the other dances.

  Lord Redbrooke, she silently amended. Lord Redbrooke.

  Her fascination with the stoic gentleman merely stemmed from his rescue at last evening’s ball. There was nothing else for it. He was ever so serious, and seemed to wear a perpetual frown.

  However…she had learned from Alexander the perils in trusting a gentleman with a too-ready grin.

  “Miss Stone?”

  Abigail jumped, and turned back to the tall, grinning gentleman forgotten at her side. With his unfashionably long black curls, and sapphire eyes, he was more beautiful than a gentleman had a right to be. Yet, she found herself preferring the understated beauty of Geoffrey Winters’ tall, lean frame. Abigail made a show of retying the card around her wrist, all the while doing a quick inventory of names.

  It was the height of rudeness to forget the name of the gentleman one had spoken to for nearly a quarter of an hour. The orchestra plucked the opening strands of a waltz. She scanned the four names. Ah, yes, she had it! “Lord Sinclair—waltz!”

  She winced as the words echoed off the pillar and couples turned around to study her as though she were an insect that had crawled its way into Lord and Lady Essex’s ballroom.

  Lord Sinclair’s grin widened, displaying two perfect rows of even white teeth. He sketched a bow. “I do believe I’ve been insulted.”

  Not for the first time, Abigail gave thanks that her mother and father were not present, lest they witness her rather dismal failings at a London Season. There were four gentlemen who’d requested a set. Four gentlemen…and she couldn’t remember the name of the one man who’d been conversing with her for several minutes now? It was that blasted Geoffrey Winters.

  The Earl of Sinclair cleared his throat, and she jumped. He nodded toward the card at her wrist. “It doesn’t appear I’ve left much of an impression, Miss Stone, if you require the assistance of a card to remember my identity.”

  “I…” Abigail sighed. “Forgive me,” she muttered. She’d never mastered the art of dissembling.

  “Sinclair,” Robert drawled from where he stood alongside her. “The dance has begun.”

  Eternally grateful to Robert for rescuing her from her plight, she placed her fingers on Lord Sinclair’s arm and traded one embarrassment for another. Until this moment, she’d done a remarkably exceptional job of avoiding all dance at ton events. She’d feigned a turned ankle. That had allowed her a handful of dance-free evenings. Then they’d attended the theatre. The opera. A musicale. Oh, then there had been the dinner party at Lord and Lady Pembroke’s. She furrowed her brow. Or was it Pemberly?

  “Miss Stone, are you unwell?”

  She supposed she could lie to Lord Sinclair or pretend to swoon. Abigail sighed. Alas, the ability to feign a swoon had eluded her just as the ladylike arts of embroidery…and dancing…and watercolor…and…

  “I am merely warm, my lord,” she lied.

  After a fortnight of attending social functions, it would appear she would at last have to demonstrate for all English Society her shocking lack of grace.

  She was renowned for her extreme lack of dancing skills all over the state of Connecticut and well into parts of New York. She supposed she could now add London, England, to the expanding list.

  As Lord Sinclair led her onto the dance floor, she felt much like a thief being marched to the gallows. The last thing she desired was any more of Society’s undue attention.

  The dancers had already begun twirling in elegantly graceful circles a
bout the ballroom floor. Mayhap no one would notice. Mayhap the crush of dancers about them would obscure Abigail just enough that they’d fail to realize…

  She took a deep breath and…

  Lord Sinclair winced.

  “Forgive me,” she rushed. The tip of her slippers came down hard upon the top of his boot.

  He quickly righted her, sparing her from toppling over for all to see.

  Lord Sinclair smiled. “This is the most fun I’ve had this evening.”

  “Which is not saying a good deal about Lady Hughes’s festivities,” Abigail muttered beneath her breath, stumbling again.

  He tossed his head back and his laughter echoed throughout the crowd.

  Abigail peeked around the ballroom to ascertain whether Lord Sinclair’s bold laughter had earned the focus of nearby dancers. After all, her intentions in coming to London were to avoid any hint of untoward behavior.

  She caught a glimpse of Lord Redbrooke and Beatrice.

  Lord Redbrooke scowled at Abigail and Sinclair. Heat slapped her cheeks and she yanked her attention away from Geoffrey and stared at Lord Sinclair’s immaculately folded cravat.

  He winced as she stepped upon his toes yet again. “I’m sorry,” she said, automatically.

  “Think nothing of it, Miss Stone.”

  Abigail silently counted. One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three. If she focused on the rhythm of the orchestra then she’d not have to notice Geoffrey as he swept her graceful cousin about the floor while she, ungainly Abigail, tried not to destroy poor Lord Sinclair’s fine Hessian boots.

  “Ouch.”

  Tried and failed.

  “Forgive me.”

  Lord Sinclair adjusted her in his arms, shifting Abigail ever so subtly toward him, so that he bore the weight of their off-center movements. “Oh,” she said, her mouth falling open with surprise. “That is vastly better.”

  “For the both of us,” he drawled.

  “For…oh.” She clamped her lips tighter than a New England clam at the suggestiveness of his words; words that reminded her of Lord Carmichael’s ill-opinion and recent attack. She’d fled America in the hopes of escaping those suggestive glances.

  One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three.

  “Tell me, Miss Stone? Are you enjoying your time in England?”

  She faltered, and again he adjusted her in his arms. “Yes.” No. She yearned for the day she could return to her family. A pang struck her heart. That is, if she were ever able to return. She wondered not for the first time how long the scandal of being discovered in a man’s arms would be gossiped about by the prominent families of their Connecticut seaside town. Mother had said forever.

  Which would mean she’d never be welcomed home.

  “Are you counting?”

  She nodded.

  “I do believe I’ve never partnered with a young lady who counted.”

  Abigail glanced up. “Oh, I’m sure the young ladies you danced with can count, my lord. They most likely just do not do it aloud.”

  He blinked, and then again tossed his head back and laughed. “You’re a delight, Miss Stone.”

  You’re a delight.

  Alexander Powers had whispered those very words into her ear many a-time. Foolish. Foolish.

  Fortunately, the set concluded, and Lord Sinclair’s boots seemed to have survived the heavy trampling under her slippers. Wordlessly, he escorted her back to her cousin, Robert.

  “Miss Stone, it was a pleasure. May I be permitted to call upon you?”

  Abigail cocked her head. “Call on me?” Lord Sinclair wanted to call on her, which implied he wanted to court her, which would be utter madness—on his part. She was the ungraceful, too loud American woman with a scandalous past. He did not know that latter part, but nonetheless…

  Robert spoke for her. “That would be permissible.”

  Lord Sinclair bowed low at the waist, and with a last lingering look for Abigail, took his leave.

  “Sinclair is a decent enough gentleman,” Robert said in a hushed tone.

  Abigail wet her lips, not pretending to misunderstand him. “Robert…” They couldn’t have this discussion. Not here. Not with all English Society’s leading lords and ladies present. Her cousin did not know the full extent of what had brought her to London.

  Abigail had been sent to London in the hopes she would make a match. Yet, in spite of her family’s rather low opinion of her, Abigail possessed enough integrity to not trap an unsuspecting gentleman into marriage. Gentlemen had stringent expectations for a wife, and a lady who’d tossed away her virtue on an undeserving scoundrel would never make anyone a suitable bride.

  She’d come to reconcile that her mistake had merited her parents hastily packing her up and shipping her off to England.

  Only now, for the first time since she’d been discovered with Alexander, Abigail wished she’d made altogether different decisions, wished she was still the pure, unsullied lady worthy of an honorable and honest courtship.

  Unbidden, her gaze sought out Geoffrey. He and Beatrice cut an impressive figure as they took their leave of the dance floor and made their way back to Abigail and Robert.

  It hadn’t mattered that she was unfit for a gentleman—until now. Until Lord Redbrooke had tugged free her scrap of Italian lace from under Lord Carmichael’s boot and held it out to her.

  Now, it seemed to matter, too much.

  Geoffrey bowed over Beatrice’s hand, and then turned to Abigail. “May I have this dance?” Geoffrey asked curtly.

  His harsh, angry tone hardly belonged to a man who desired her company. Abigail inclined her head. “I fear with your seriousness, my lord, you’d only be appalled by my shocking lack of talent and grace.”

  The firm, square line of his jaw hardened. “Are you denying my request?” He spoke with the conviction of a man whose status had clearly grown him accustomed to having his wishes met.

  She tipped her chin up. “Is it a request, my lord?”

  Beatrice and Robert’s gazes moved from Abigail to Geoffrey.

  “Is that a reply, Miss Stone?”

  She felt the warm flush of color suffuse her cheeks. Goodness, with his directness, the man was unconscionable.

  She glanced down and quickly looked over her card. Of course he’d gathered from before that her next set was available.

  Why would the Lady Essex’s orchestra play a second waltz? Still considered scandalous, the dance would require Geoffrey to take her in his arms. Her eyes flew to his, and he arched a brow in unspoken challenge.

  Abigail tilted her chin back. She’d braved the cut direct from Connecticut’s leading families, been shamed before her family; she’d not be cowed by this man’s effrontery.

  He held his arm out, and as they were attracting the notice of those around him, Abigail placed her fingertips along his sleeve and allowed him to guide her onto the dance floor. They took their position among the other dancers.

  “I was not jesting when I said I am a deplorable dancer,” she murmured as the orchestra began to play.

  “No. I observed as much in your set with Lord Sinclair,” Geoffrey’s words dripped with a cool indifference. His gaze remained fixed upon the top of her head.

  Oh, the wretch.

  Abigail ground her heel atop his slipper. “Oh, pardon me.”

  With his veneer of icy coolness, Geoffrey made Abigail wonder whether she’d imagined the chivalrous gentleman who’d rescued her last evening.

  Some emotion, volatile and hot, blazed to life in his eyes.

  No. This was in fact, the same man.

  His firm lips, which seemed sculpted in a perpetual frown, deepened, and his chestnut brown eyebrows knitted into a single line, indicating that he’d accurately gathered her misstep had been intentional. “I must admit, Miss Stone, I believed you would have provided one excuse or another to avoid dancing with me.”

  His words sent her back upright, and she angled her head. Did he suppose she was intimidated by his churlish behavior “D
o you expect I should be embarrassed by my lack of skill?” She didn’t allow him to respond. “I’m neither a coward, nor a liar, my lord.” There was the matter of secrecy on her scandal with Alexander Powers, but that was entirely different. Her silence was no lie, but rather a desperate bid at survival. The world was not kind where fallen women were concerned. She didn’t expect this proud, proper man would be at all different.

  Geoffrey shifted her in his arms. “Tell me, Miss Stone, is dancing not an art perfected by American ladies?”

  She blinked innocently up at him. “Oh, yes, my lord, by rule American ladies do not dance. Nor do they embroider or paint.”

  He leveled her closer, and lowered his head so that his breath, a blend of mint and brandy, fanned her cheek. “Are you making light of me, Miss Stone?”

  Abigail suspected Geoffrey was not a man used to being insulted. “You are very serious.”

  “I am.”

  Her lips twitched at his succinct reply.

  “You find fault in a gentleman who values respectability.”

  She stumbled, and he expertly righted her. “Miss Stone?” he prodded.

  “I find fault in a gentleman incapable of humor,” she countered. Abigail trailed her gaze over the angular planes of his face. A muscle at the corner of his mouth twitched, an indication that he’d been affected by her subtle insult.

  His lip pulled back in a condescending sneer. “And are American gentlemen a humorous lot?”

  She again faltered as his words ripped through her already ravaged heart; his unknowing reminder of one American gentleman who had been quick to smile and had teased her mercilessly. “They are,” she said.

  Fortunately she was saved from further questioning. The music drew to a close, and Abigail and Geoffrey stopped amidst the dance floor, studying one another. Never before had Abigail been more grateful for the end of a set. She dropped a curtsy. “Good evening, my lord. Thank you for the dance.”

  And before he could reply, she turned on her heel and fled.

  Geoffrey Winters, Viscount Redbrooke posed a danger to her frayed emotions and she would be wise to avoid him.

  Abigail grasped the sides of her skirts and crushed the smooth, satin fabric within her fingers.