Then, she’d never been wise were gentlemen were concerned.
A gentleman should rise at a respectable hour and be fruitful with his time.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~7~
Geoffrey stepped out of his carriage, his gaze trained on the Duke of Somerset’s townhouse. Following Lord and Lady Essex’s ball, he’d taken his leave with a renewed sense of commitment to his plans of wedding Lady Beatrice Dennington. One sole dance with Abigail Stone had served to remind him of the perils of a headstrong miss with cheeky retorts.
So then, why did he relish the possibility of again seeing the winsome beauty? As he strode up the duke’s steps, he gave his head a hard shake. His reaction to the lady was utter madness.
He’d been unable to rid himself of the memory of her; the pale glow of moonlight kissing the generous crest of her décolletage, or her laugh better suited to bedroom games and naughty deeds.
Geoffrey cursed, and climbed the handful of steps to the threshold of the Duke of Somerset’s door. He shifted the bouquet of hothouse flowers he held, over to his other hand, and knocked on the front doors of the impressive smooth-finished, cream-colored stucco townhouse.
His back fairly prickled with the fascinated eyes of those lords and ladies out at this fashionable hour. The news of his courtship of Lady Beatrice had surely already found its way into the scandal sheets. Geoffrey frowned, detesting the scrutiny.
The door opened. A butler in fine red livery apparel and a powdered wig greeted him.
Geoffrey held out his card. “To see Lady Beatrice Dennington.”
The butler looked down at the card, and inclined his head. “If you’ll follow me, Lady Beatrice is receiving callers.”
Geoffrey’s frown grew as he followed the butler. He liked the idea of competing for Lady Beatrice’s affection even less than he cared for the unwanted attention he’d received on the duke’s front steps. Geoffrey would rather not compete for the lady’s affections. After all, it would only serve to complicate his courtship and interfere with the strict timeline he’d set to have his marital affairs in order.
The butler paused beside a door. “The Viscount Redbrooke, my lady.”
Seated upon a chintz sofa at the center of the room, Lady Beatrice looked up from her needlework, a perfectly acceptable ladylike talent. She stood so quickly her embroidery frame toppled to the floor. A flash of something akin to disappointment flared in her eyes.
“My lord,” she murmured.
Geoffrey entered the room, and stopped beside her. He bowed, holding the artfully arranged flowers out to her. “My lady.”
She accepted them with a quiet thanks and motioned for him to sit.
Geoffrey claimed the seat nearest her, and proceeded to study her.
His mind turned over all manner of appropriate discourse. He beat his hand along the side of his leg. “We’ve been enjoying lovely weather.” He winced inwardly at his paltry attempt at discourse.
Lady Beatrice nodded. Her gaze flickered over to the window and then back to him. “Yes. Yes we have,” she said softly.
Silence fell.
It stretched on, thick and unending, punctuated by the tick-tock-tick-tock of the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantle. Lady Beatrice’s fingers plucked at the upholstery of the velvet sofa she occupied, a telltale indication of her discomfort.
Well, surely most matches amongst the ton began with such discomfiture. Geoffrey supposed it should take several more visits before they were comfortable in one another’s presence.
Her cousin, the lovely Abigail, danced through his mind. He imagined the bold-spirited young lady would fill such a void with lively chatter and unrestrained laughter.
A sound of impatience rumbled up from in his chest.
“My lord?” Lady Beatrice’s halting question jerked him back to the moment.
“Uh-I beg your pardon?”
Silence.
His mind drifted back to his first meeting with Abigail Stone.
Dionysus.
What had she meant with that single utterance?
Perhaps he should revisit the Greek classics and reacquaint himself with the details of that particular myth. Not because it mattered per se, but because a gentleman should be versed in…
“My lord, are you all right?” Lady Beatrice asked, her head tilted at a small angle.
“Yes. Fine.” He resisted the urge to pull out his watch fob and consult the time. Now that he’d launched his courtship of Lady Beatrice, he could see to his other matters for the day. There were the ledgers that needed going over. A trip to Gentleman Jackson’s. Except a round with the legendary Jackson only put him in mind of Carmichael’s attack on Abigail; the panicked light in her eyes, the exposed flesh of her full, cream-white breasts, the…He gripped the edges of the seat so tight he left crescent marks upon the gold velvet fabric of the King Louis chair he occupied.
Geoffrey took a deep breath filled with the sudden urge to hunt down Lord Carmichael and bloody the reprobate bastard senseless.
Lady Beatrice leaned down and retrieved her embroidery frame. She longingly studied the vibrant threaded floral arrangement upon the fabric and it occurred to him that the young lady would rather be seeing to her needlework than keeping company with him.
The realization should chafe. He frowned. Yet, oddly her indifference left him wholly unaffected.
“You embroider,” he said, in a desperate bid to engage the woman he’d selected for his future Viscountess Redbrooke.
“I do.”
Well, the young lady certainly wasn’t making this visit any more comfortable.
A sharp burst of laughter followed by a deep chuckle from outside the parlor interrupted their stilted exchange.
Geoffrey’s gaze shot to the doorway where Miss Stone stood alongside her cousin, the Marquess Westfield.
“I say, Abby. I find all that rather hard to…” The marquess registered Geoffrey’s presence. His amusement died, only to be replaced by an inscrutable expression that conveyed neither approval nor disdain. “We have company. Or, Beatrice has company. Redbrooke,” he greeted.
In a frantic attempt to keep from tracing each line of Abigail’s face, Geoffrey rose, his gaze trained on Westfield.
When Geoffrey managed to convince himself that his interest in Miss Stone was that of the same curiosity reserved for an act at Piccadilly Square, and not of any real masculine interest, he allowed himself to look at her.
God punish him as a liar.
Abigail Stone smiled, as if she knew he lied to himself.
And to Lady Beatrice.
Lady Beatrice rose in a flurry of ivory skirts, and rushed over to Miss Stone. “Dearest, Abigail, you remember Lord Redbrooke from last evening, don’t you?”
Abigail dipped a curtsy. “I do.”
He expected her to drop her gaze as Lady Beatrice and any respectable young English miss might. Instead, she unflinchingly met his stare, a fiery glitter in her eyes; eyes that put him in mind of a summer storm.
“Miss Stone.”
She curtsied. “My lord.”
“You must regale Lord Redbrooke and me with your story,” Lady Beatrice insisted. She took Abigail by the hands and guided her over to the sofa she’d occupied mere moments ago, all but dismissing Geoffrey.
“Abigail has the most brilliant stories,” Westfield said, sinking into the seat across from Geoffrey. He waved over to Abigail. “You must finish, Abby.”
“Oh, please do,” Lady Beatrice said, scooting to the edge of her seat and with the light in her eyes, she was more animated than she’d been since Geoffrey had entered the Duke of Somerset’s parlor.
Abigail looked to Geoffrey. “I’m sure Lord Redbrooke doesn’t want to hear a story about a squirrel.”
Yes, at any other time, told by any other person, he imagined that would be an accurate statement. Not here. Not now. Not with this woman. “I would care to hear your tale.” Three pairs of eyes swung in his direction, all filled with
varying degrees of shock. “I would,” he said, a touch defensively. Not normally one for storytelling; especially potentially improper stories about foreign creatures, told by engaging young ladies, Geoffrey found this time, he cared to hear her particular tale.
She smiled at him and it transformed her from stunning goddess to ethereal creature memorialized in songs and sonnets by great poets.
“Well, you see, the summer months in Connecticut are quite unbearable. Mother insists we adhere to propriety and leave the doors and windows closed, even if it means we all nearly swelter to our deaths. Last year, Mama was visiting a neighbor one afternoon and Papa instructed the servants to open all the windows and doors.”
Lord Westfield grinned. “And?”
“And,” she continued. “A squirrel darted through the front door and ran the servants on a ragged chase through the house. Papa’s dogs, two, more than slightly overweight sheepdogs, believed the squirrel to be some form of sheep or another and ran the poor little creature around the house.” She gesticulated wildly. “He climbed up Mama’s curtains and tore the lace beyond repair.” Abigail caught Geoffrey’s eye and bold as you please, winked. “Needless to say, that was the last time Papa had the doors and windows open.”
Geoffrey frowned.
Abigail arched a brow. “Is there a problem, my lord?”
Boldness must be a character trait reserved for Americans.
“It would seem if your father had left the windows and doors closed, that your mother’s lace curtains would be intact.”
She waggled a brow at him. “I do believe that is what makes the story amusing, my lord.” There was no mistaking the reproachful note threading her thinly veiled admonition. “You are rather serious, my lord.”
Lady Beatrice gasped, the delicate sound drowned out by her brother’s sharp bark of laughter.
“There is something unseemly in being proper and respectable, Miss Stone?” Geoffrey challenged.
She sat forward on the edge of her seat. “If you say so, my lord.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“There is no need to apologize. I agree.”
Geoffrey folded his arms across his chest. “I meant my words as a question. Not a statement.”
Abigail leaned back in her seat. “Ahh.”
“Ahh?”
She smiled. “Is that another question? Or another statement, my lord?”
“Do behave, Abby,” Lady Beatrice said, gently.
Abigail glanced over at Beatrice. “Even if it is very fun teasing Lord Redbrooke?”
Lady Beatrice’s eyes went even rounder in her face.
It took a long moment for Geoffrey’s head to cease spinning.
Westfield, who up to that point, seemed to entertain the possibility of tossing Geoffrey out on his arse, gave him a commiserative look.
Suddenly, filled with a desperate urgency to place much needed space between himself and Abigail Stone, Geoffrey turned to Lady Beatrice. “My lady, will you accompany me for a walk in Hyde Park?”
Silence met his terse request. Bloody hell, he must apply a bit more romanticism to his courtship. Ladies required romanticism. He silently added that to the list he’d compiled for courting a very marriageable miss.
“It is lovely out,” she murmured, and damn if it didn’t sound as though the young lady were trying to work up the resolve to join him. Her eyes lit up, suddenly. “Abby you must accompany us. And you, as well, Robert.”
Hell. That most certainly hadn’t been part of Geoffrey’s plans for the afternoon. He expected in any moment she’d begin issuing invites to the chambermaids and footmen to spare her from his solitary company.
Geoffrey couldn’t imagine anything more disastrous than the tempting Abigail Stone joining them on their outing.
“That would be lovely,” Abigail said, with far greater conviction than her cousin, the distinguished Lady Beatrice had exhibited mere moments ago.
And damn if his blasted heart didn’t lift at the prospect of her joining them.
A gentleman must demonstrate restraint and calm in all matters.
4th Viscount Redbrooke.
~8~
Abigail, Beatrice, her cousin Robert, and the Viscount Redbrooke strolled along a walking path in Hyde Park that overlooked the wide man-made lake filled with pink pelicans and elegant white swans.
With the tip of her finger, Abigail tapped her chin.
There were fourteen men. Seven women. She wrinkled her brow and mentally tabulated figures again. No, there were eight women. She’d forgotten Cassiopeia. Mustn’t forget the vain beauty who’d been forced to sacrifice her only daughter to atone for that vanity. Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen land animals. “Nineteen,” she amended.
“Nineteen what?” Robert asked, shooting her a sideways glance.
“Land animals,” she murmured.
Robert glanced around, as if searching for the nineteen creatures she’d mentioned.
Abigail smiled, grateful he didn’t ask further questions about her odd tendency of cataloguing the mythical creatures that made up part of the Greek constellations.
Robert leaned down the several inches separating them in height. “It appears Redbrooke would like to make a match with Beatrice.”
Abigail stumbled a bit and her cousin steadied her.
“Beatrice won’t have Lord Redbrooke, not if he were the last titled gentleman in all the kingdom,” he whispered.
As though Lord Redbrooke sensed he were the subject of discussion, he glanced over his shoulder. That familiar, dark frown lined the harsh planes of his face before he redirected his attention on the path in front of them. With his somberness and stern demeanor, Geoffrey could not be more different than Alexander Powers. Alexander had possessed a light sense of humor, so vastly different than the often grave viscount.
“Are you very familiar with Lord Redbrooke?” she asked, unable to quell the urge to know more about the hardened young lord.
Robert lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “He’s a stodgy fellow. But he wasn’t always that way. We attended Oxford in the same years.” He grinned. “Many considered him something of a rogue, then.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper. “There were rumors of a young woman who’d captured his affection, but I’m not privy to the details. No one is.”
Robert fell silent, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from pressing him for further details.
Just then, Beatrice let loose a startled shriek and stumbled. She pitched forward with a small cry but before she collapsed amid the rocks and gravel of the path, Geoffrey caught her.
Abigail breathed a small sigh of envy, and then remembered herself. Goodness, she was daft as a ninny. “Beatrice! Are you all right?” She rushed over to her cousin’s side.
The viscount cradled Beatrice close to his chest.
Thick, ugly tendrils of guilt wrapped their cloying hooks about Abigail’s heart, which she shoved aside, shamed at the petty sentiments.
Tears filled Beatrice’s pretty blue eyes. “How silly I am. I believe I turned my ankle.”
“Not silly at all,” the viscount murmured. He seemed to waver, alternating his gaze between Beatrice and the marquess. It occurred to Abigail he wanted to inspect Beatrice for injury but hesitated to do so, probably out of fear of the impropriety of touching her cousin.
Again, Abigail’s stomach tightened at the idea of Lord Redbrooke learning of her scandalous actions in America.
Robert scooped up his sister. “Rather careless of you, Bea,” he muttered.
Ever the model of ladylike decorum, Beatrice dropped her gaze to her brother’s cravat.
“Don’t be silly,” Abigail hurried to assure them. “I’m sure you stepped upon a rabbit hole or…” She glanced down at the untouched earth. Her gaze collided with Beatrice, who gave her a desperate look. Abigail’s eyes widened as she realized her cousin had feigned an injury. “Or perhaps a large rock, or some such, that caused you to fall.” Beatrice mouthed a silent thank y
ou.
“Abigail, why don’t you continue walking? It is ever so beautiful out and it would hardly be fair to require you to abandon your outing,” Beatrice said.
Geoffrey blanched.
Abigail’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sure the viscount has more important matters to see to than walking with me around Hyde Park.”
She expected him to offer at least a haphazard protestation. When it became apparent he didn’t intend to say anything on the matter, she wrinkled her brow. Oh, the ninnyhammer. He appeared incapable of even feigning polite interest in escorting her on the remainder of the stroll.
Not that she wanted him to pretend, per se.
She did, however, not care to be made to feel less than an afterthought.
“Now, you’re being silly. The viscount would be glad to accompany you. Isn’t that right, my lord?” Beatrice directed her question to Geoffrey, who stood, arms clasped behind his back, his face a stoic mask. Beatrice didn’t wait for him to respond, but motioned to the servant who’d accompanied them. “Please remain with my cousin Miss Stone and Lord Redbrooke. My brother will see me home.”
“That really isn’t necessary.” Abigail’s words sounded a touch too-pleading to her own ears.
“Oh, I insist.” Beatrice tapped her brother on the arm.
Abigail folded her arms across her chest, tapping her foot upon the ground as Beatrice and Robert took their leave.
In the distance, Beatrice peeked out from behind her brother’s shoulder, and winked.
Abigail let out a beleaguered sigh.
It would appear she was to be alone with Lord Proper…whether either of them wished it or not.
A breeze tugged at her skirts, and freed a strand of her hair from the Italian lace woven through her hair by her maid. Abigail surveyed the swans and pelicans that flitted about the wide, man-made lake. Abigail touched her fingers to the delicate strip of fabric and forced herself to look at Lord Redbrooke.
He stood, his large frame immobile, as if he feared any movement would cause him to splinter into a thousand million pieces.
He glanced back toward the direction Beatrice and Robert had disappeared.
Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous Page 7