Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

by Christi Caldwell

Her eyes flew open with shocked outrage at his insolent response. “Are you making light of this situation?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Her eyes narrowed as if trying to determine the veracity of his words.

  “Mother, I’m wet. And cold.” He held a staying hand up when she made to speak. “I have no intention of wedding Miss Stone. I was retrieving something for the lady and I fell. There is nothing more to it than that. My interest lies with Lady Beatrice.”

  Mother’s mouth formed a small moue of surprise. She blinked. “Truly? Because last evening the gossips reported your interest in that…Miss Stone, creature. I observed you myself, Geoffrey. You were staring.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I do not stare.” Last evening he had. However, in the light of day he chose to blame such an uncharacteristic reaction on too much champagne. Only, he hadn’t had any spirits that morning, so how did one account for actions at Hyde Park? Geoffrey continued on toward his chambers.

  His mother quickened her pace in a very un-viscountess-like manner to meet his long strides. “You are absolutely brilliant then! Why, of course Lady Beatrice, who is a perfect match for you, would be so very grateful that you should have helped her cousin retrieve…” Her brow furrowed. “What is it you helped the young woman retrieve?”

  “A piece of lace,” he said, automatically, not thinking about how foolish his actions would appear until he’d spoken them aloud. Only, it hadn’t been any mere scrap of fabric but rather a token given by her family before she’d journeyed to London. Surely such an item merited him wading into the lake with all of Polite Society staring on?

  They reached the door to Geoffrey’s chambers.

  His mother wrinkled her nose. “Hmph. Regardless, it must have mattered to the young lady, and Lady Beatrice will surely know as much and be so grateful and…”

  “Good day, Mother,” he muttered, and turned the handle. He closed the door on his mother’s indignant gasp, and locked it for good measure. The viscountess’ tenacity would have driven Boney to defeat faster than the whole of the British infantry and navy together.

  He dropped his forehead against the wood panel of the door and banged it ever so slightly.

  For a brief, too brief, moment on the walking path alongside the lake, Geoffrey had wanted to dip his head, and lay claim to her full lips, explore the hot, wet, cavern of her mouth.

  Instead, he’d gone and leveled reprehensible accusations about her public behavior and demeanor. Geoffrey could name just two other times he’d truly hated himself; following his father’s death and Emma’s betrayal…and now, he could add his haughty treatment of Abigail to that list.

  Geoffrey dragged a hand through his hair, his mother’s admonition blended with his own sense of responsibility. His interest in Abigail, though bothersome, could be explained by the obvious desirability of the winsome beauty. He valued respectability, but hell, he was still a flesh and blood man.

  If he were to secure Lady Beatrice’s hand and affections, it would serve him well not to be linked in the scandal sheets to Miss Stone’s name…and it would also serve him to be free of scandal. The Duke of Somerset by the very nature of his title and status in Society could secure the most advantageous match…and, Geoffrey was already at a disadvantage with a mere viscounty.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Who the hell…” he took a deep breath, remembering himself. “Yes,” he called through the wood panel.

  “My lord, I’ve arranged a bath and…”

  Geoffrey unlocked the door and pulled it open. His valet Williamson stumbled forward. The young servant’s eyes widened at the sight of Geoffrey standing there in his ruined Hessians and soaked garments. He seemed to remember himself and motioned to the small army of servants bearing a tub and steaming buckets of water.

  Geoffrey shrugged out of his soaked jacket and tossed it aside. Williamson caught it before it hit the velvet-like material of the burgundy Wilton carpet. His valet eyed the thoroughly ruined material as though he’d just been handed the body of his sole heir.

  Moments later, the servants paraded out of the room until only Williamson remained. “Will you be remaining in, my lord or going out.”

  “I’ll be visiting my clubs.”

  “Very well, my lord.” Williamson rushed to select Geoffrey’s attire.

  Geoffrey hurried through his ablutions and a short while later assessed himself in the bevel glass. Properly attired in a brown coat, striped linen waistcoat, and fawn trousers there could be no mistaking this man as the fool who’d toppled over in Hyde Park. He gave a pleased nod, and accepted the top hat with its curled brim from Williamson. A trip to White’s and several glasses of brandy were in order.

  With that in mind he left, hurrying through his house before Mother could harangue him over his seeming interest in Miss Abigail Stone.

  Williamson had clearly been so intuitive as to anticipate Geoffrey’s intentions, for when he made his way to the foyer, the butler Ralston handed Geoffrey his black cloak. “Your horse has been readied,” Ralston murmured, glancing pointedly around the foyer.

  The viscountess must be near.

  Geoffrey nodded and hurried out the door to the waiting groom, who extended the reins of Geoffrey’s mount, Decorum. He climbed astride and nudged the horse forward.

  As he rode, he considered his recent meeting with Abigail Stone. For whatever reason, the young woman had slipped into the recesses of his mind and would not relinquish her hold. He supposed a good deal of his interest in the young woman stemmed largely from her exotic beauty, but with the clean spring air filling his lungs, he realized his fascination was a product of more than mere physical lust. Abigail possessed a bold spirit and unabashed candidness that he didn’t understand, and yet, oddly because he didn’t understand it, found himself intrigued by it. Since Father’s death, Geoffrey had taken great care to avoid passionate women such as Abigail.

  Geoffrey guided Decorum down St. James Street, and drew on the reins, bringing his mount to a stop in front of the familiar white stone front of White’s. He dismounted, and handed the reins over to a waiting servant.

  Intent on putting aside the memory of Abigail’s husky laugh and siren’s voice, he strode up the steps and entered his club.

  “Redbrooke!” A booming voice called in greeting.

  Geoffrey looked around, until his stare alighted upon Lord Alvanley in his place of honor at the bow window, alongside the Earl of Seaton.

  Geoffrey raised his hand in greeting and wound his way through the club, nodding as he passed acquaintances, until he reached his table in the far back corner. He slid into the comfortable folds of his seat and motioned for a bottle of brandy.

  A servant hurried over and placed the bottle and glass atop the table.

  Geoffrey reached for it and proceeded to splash several fingerfuls into the glass. Raucous laughter caught his notice. He frowned around the rim of his drink, and took a long swallow. Several foppish young dandies stood around the infamous White’s betting book.

  Lord Walsh, a reed-thin dandy in garish golden satin breeches, said something that made the three gentlemen around him howl with laughter.

  “Bloody swains,” a deep voice drawled, jerking Geoffrey’s attention back from the indistinguishable words among the young dandies.

  Geoffrey looked and frowned—Lord Sinclair. Bloody fantastic. He and Sinclair had moved in the same circles once upon a lifetime ago. Only, Sinclair still carried the reputation as something of a reckless rogue.

  Sinclair had also secured one of Abigail’s waltzes last evening.

  Geoffrey detested him even more.

  “Might I join you, chap?” Sinclair didn’t wait for Geoffrey to confirm, but pulled out the chair across from Geoffrey and settled into the seat. “Mind if I help myself to a glass of brandy?” He glanced around and then held his hand up. A liveried servant came over with a glass, which he placed in front of Sinclair. The young man bowed and then took his leave.
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br />   Sinclair poured himself a glass and took a sip.

  Geoffrey stared across the table at the other man. He and Lord Sinclair had attended Eton and Oxford in the same years, but beyond that, they tended to move in very different social circles.

  Very different.

  Which made Sinclair’s intrusion so very odd.

  And unappreciated.

  Sinclair cradled his glass in one hand and drummed the fingertips of his other along the edge of the table. The rhythmic tapping grated, and Geoffrey gritted his teeth until Sinclair suddenly stopped. He leaned over, placing his elbows upon the table. “Lady Beatrice, is it?”

  Geoffrey blinked. “I beg your pardon?” It would certainly help if the other man spoke in complete sentences.

  “Or is it the lovely, ever-intriguing Miss Abigail Stone who has snared your attention.”

  Geoffrey’s mind went blank at the other man’s blunt questioning. He reached for his too-tight cravat, and then remembered himself. Clearing his throat, he clenched the edge of the table. “Of a sudden you are interested in my marital intentions?”

  Sinclair’s eyes lit. “Ah, so you do have, how did you phrase it, marital intentions?” He arched a brow. “Hardly the romantic, are you, Redbrooke?”

  Geoffrey silently cursed and downed the remaining contents of his glass. That hadn’t always been the case. Emma’s visage flashed behind his eyes. He reached for the bottle and poured himself another. “You’re worse than the bloody matrons at Almack’s.”

  Sinclair grinned. “Who knew you had a sense of humor?”

  Geoffrey sat back in his chair, and took another sip of brandy. He frowned. Geoffrey didn’t know why, or how to explain it, but this unfavorable opinion carried by Abigail and Lord Sinclair rankled. He had a sense of humor. That is, when something happened to be funny. Not crudely amusing. Or inappropriately amusing. But, well, amusing.

  Another round of laughter rent the quiet conversations of White’s. Simultaneously Sinclair and Geoffrey stared off at the trio of dandies.

  “You never answered my question, Redbrooke? Is it Lady Beatrice or Miss Stone you’ve set your marital cap at? If I was a wagering man,” he glanced toward the men clustered around the betting book. “And I am, a wagering man, I would venture it is Lady Beatrice you are poised to make your viscountess. Hmm, no word?” Sinclair said, leaning close. He took another sip of his brandy.

  Geoffrey had sought out his clubs to rid himself of his mother’s barrage of questions. It would appear he’d merely traded one nuisance for another. “It’s none of your damned business, Sinclair.”

  Sinclair arched a brow. “What if it is my business, Redbrooke? Or rather, what if I care to make it my business?”

  Geoffrey’s frown deepened. He crossed his ankles and leaned back, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t see how my intentions should matter to you. That is, unless you have honorable intentions for…” His words trailed off. From around the rim of his glass, he studied Sinclair.

  The earl took a long swallow of brandy.

  Hell. “You intend to court Lady Beatrice,” Geoffrey said. He remembered the fascinated manner in which Beatrice had studied Sinclair at Lord and Lady Essex’s ball. This would certainly complicate Geoffrey’s timeframe.

  Sinclair choked on the contents of his glass. He waved off a passing servant and the expressions of concern. “Lady B...Beatrice?” he sputtered, on a hushed whisper solely for Geoffrey’s ears. “Lady Beatrice.” Another fit of choking ensued. When at last the fit had ceased, Sinclair gave his head a clearing shake. “I didn’t come to ascertain your interest in Lady Beatrice, but rather her cousin.”

  Geoffrey cocked his head. Sinclair’s words humming through his ears like he’d been submerged under water, and left there too long. “Her cousin?” he asked blankly.

  “Yes,” Sinclair said with a nod. “Miss Abigail Stone. The scandal sheets had written of your seeming interest in Lady Beatrice, however, there seems to be some uncertainty as to whether it is the Lady Beatrice or the lovely Miss Stone who has you so enthralled.”

  All manner of suitable responses escaped him. He should vehemently protest the charges, and yet his focus remained on why the too-roguish, too-charming Sinclair should concern himself with Abigail Stone.

  “She’s an American,” Geoffrey said at last, choosing to keep his tone neutral.

  “I suspected you would find her unsuitable,” Sinclair said more to himself. “Told Drake and Emmaline,” he said referring to the Marquess of Drake and his marchioness, Lady Emmaline, who happened to be Geoffrey’s sister’s dearest friend. “That there is no way you would be interested in an American.” An entirely inappropriate half-grin turned the other man’s lips. “I, on the other hand, well, I have very little problem with her being an American.” Sinclair shoved back an unfashionably long strand of black hair that fell over his eye.

  With their dark coloring, Sinclair and Abigail would make a striking match. Another growl worked its way up Geoffrey’s throat.

  “I say, are you all right?”

  Geoffrey imagined the wicked Sinclair with the charming Miss Stone, and all Geoffrey’s earlier imaginings of her spread upon satin sheets, her arms extended toward him, were replaced with her reaching for the bastard Sinclair. Something Geoffrey didn’t recognize, something he’d never before felt, not even with Emma, something primal and dark reared its ugly head until he wanted to snarl and toss the table aside and bloody Sinclair the way he’d bloodied Carmichael.

  He gave his head a shake. What the hell is wrong with me? He must be going mad. Geoffrey drew in a steadying breath and lied through his even, white teeth. “I have no interest in the lady.”

  Sinclair smiled. “Splendid, Redbrooke.” Laughter from over at the betting book snagged his attention. “What the hell are they wagering on?”

  Geoffrey shrugged and because frankly he’d had enough of the idea of Miss Stone and Lord Sinclair together, Geoffrey used that diversionary question to make his much needed escape. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and rose.

  Alas, Sinclair seemed unable to identify a clear dismissal. He jumped up from his seat and fell into step beside Geoffrey. “Bloody dandies,” he muttered to Geoffrey. “Were we ever that foolish?”

  Geoffrey scowled at the other man. “I wasn’t."

  Sinclair blinked. “Did you just insult me, Redbrooke?”

  They reached the rainbow menagerie of too-bright satin waist coats, sparing Geoffrey from responding to Sinclair. As one, the group of gentlemen fell silent, eying Geoffrey with a hesitancy, even as they parted to allow him access to the betting book.

  He scanned the wagers.

  Lord Ashville bets Lord Forbes 200 guineas to 10 that an event between them understood takes place before another which was named. May 17, 1818.

  Lord Montgomery bets Lord Avondale 100 guineas to 20 that Lady Waxham will be enceinte before the Season is concluded.

  Geoffrey frowned at seeing his sister’s name in the betting books, and continued reading.

  Sinclair’s black curse sent three of the dandies hurrying off.

  Geoffrey continued reading.

  Lord Carmichael bets Lord Havensworth 50 guineas to 10 Miss Abigail Stone will…

  His body went immobile, as the words inked in black upon the page blurred before his eyes.

  Geoffrey’s gaze narrowed.

  …find herself compromised by an English gentleman, and shipped back to the Americas with a sullied reputation.

  That dark, primordial urge reared its ugly head. Geoffrey spun around, and the remaining young gentleman who’d not possessed the sense to flee before, went wide-eyed. The brightly colored peacock gulped and fled for his respective table.

  Geoffrey turned back to the damned page. He reached for the parchment.

  “Don’t,” Sinclair said quietly, anticipating Geoffrey’s hasty actions.

  Geoffrey stared down at the page, unable to explain this unholy urge to defend the lady’s honor.

&nbs
p; Sinclair cleared his throat, looking pointedly at Geoffrey’s hand.

  As if burned, Geoffrey yanked his fingers back. He’d just tried to rip a page from the famed betting books. What in hell was wrong with him?

  Abigail Stone.

  The sooner the young lady returned to America, the better off he would be.

  He looked to Sinclair. “You shall meet no resistance from me in your courtship of Miss Stone.” With those words, he bowed, and took his leave; for the first time hating his dedication to propriety and his image amidst Society.

  A gentleman must be diligent in his studies and have an appreciation for matters of intellect.

  4th Viscount Redbrooke

  ~10~

  The following morning, Geoffrey rose and dressed, with his resolve to court and wed Lady Beatrice strengthened. He’d already focused enough of his too important time upon the unsuitable Miss Stone. Determination fueled his strides as he marched up the front steps of the Duke of Somerset’s townhouse, and rapped on the door. As he waited for the butler, he turned out and studied the busy street and carriages with a direct intensity that caused the passing gentlemen and ladies to politely avert their attention.

  He spun around as the door opened, and held out his calling card. “To see Lady Beatrice.” Not her cousin. Not the delectable, troublesome American miss.

  The expressionless servant bowed, and motioned for him to enter. Geoffrey handed his cloak and hat over to the butler and followed him as he led him to Lady Beatrice.

  Each step that carried him closer to Lady Beatrice echoed with the words his father had tried to ingrain into him.

  Duty.

  Words Geoffrey had so foolishly ignored for the love of a woman.

  Honor.

  A woman who’d wanted nothing more than to foist her bastard off on him.

  Responsibility.

  … and enjoy the wealth marriage to him would have assured her.

  Decorum.

  His father’s lifeless face flashed in his mind, and he momentarily closed his eyes at the familiar ache of guilt and pain.

  Atonement.

  The butler stopped and opened a door. Laughter, clear, and honest as a summer’s day filled the brightly lit parlor, and spilled from the room. The husky, delicious alto could only belong to one woman.