People didn’t tease him. They hadn’t in very many years. “Geoffrey,” he corrected.
She blinked, and looked back up at him.
“I imagine when a young lady has come to the rescue of a gentleman then it is only appropriate she should refer to him by his Christian name,” he said, turning her words back to her. “It is my birthday.”
She blinked several times.
Geoffrey felt the sting of embarrassment at his hastily spoken words. He suspected he wanted to share that bit of information with someone considering no one, not even his own mother remembered that on this day, thirty years past, he’d entered into the world. “Forgive me. I don’t know why I…”
“Well, Happy Birthday, Geoffrey. Now, you must certainly keep the scrap of lace from Lizzie.”
“Lizzie?”
“My sister,” she clarified.
Geoffrey struggled to swallow past a swell of emotion. She would give up the fragile reminder from home, for him.
How little he knew about this woman, and yet, he felt a connection to her that defied logic and terrified him all as one.
“You have a sister?”
Abigail nodded. “And three brothers. It is a full household.”
“If it is anything like my household over the years with my sister Sophie, then I imagine there is a good deal of excitement there.” How many days of his life had he spent lamenting that very fact? What a stodgy bastard he’d been.
“Oh, certainly. We were always coming into all kinds of trouble, much to Mama’s chagrin.” Her gaze took on a faraway, wistfulness.
“You must miss them.”
A gentle breeze freed a strand of hair from her neat chignon. She tucked it back behind her ear. “Every day.”
And if she did not make a match, then she would surely return to her home. The breath left him on a swift exhale as, for the first time, he considered that reality. This was not Abigail’s home. Inevitably she’d either wed an English gentleman or board a ship back to America. A vise-like pressure tightened about his heart at both prospects.
He wanted Abigail to say more of her family, but she remained uncharacteristically silent. Geoffrey opened his mouth to ask her further questions, but something in the look she gave him begged him to let those questions die.
“Are you close with your sister, Geoffrey?”
Her question gave him pause. He’d been sternly disapproving of his sister these past years. With her tendency to land herself into scrape after scrape, she had represented chaos in his world. It hadn’t been until she’d wed that he’d come to appreciate how Sophie had filled his household with some modicum of happiness, and how much darker it had become after she’d left. “I suppose more now, than in the past. Sophie possesses a bold spirit. I…I believe you’d get along famously.”
Geoffrey shook his head, dislodging an image of Abigail as his wife; she and Sophie, fast-friends.
“I owe you an apology,” he said.
She angled her head. The sudden movement displaced one of those midnight tresses, and Geoffrey caught it between his fingers, and studied it.
He continued before she could speak. “I kissed you last evening.”
Abigail trailed the tip of her tongue along the seam of her lips and he followed that innocently seductive movement. God help him for being an utter bastard. For even now, with an apology upon his lips, alongside the Serpentine, he longed to take her into his arms yet again, and lay her down and make love to more than just her mouth.
“You needn’t apologize.”
With his uninjured hand, he claimed her fingers in his. “I do. My actions were unpardonable. You are an innocent. And a lady. God help me, I do not know what you’ve done to me, Abigail. I resolved to wed your cousin and honor my familial obligations to the Redbrooke line. And yet, in this short time, you’ve thoroughly bewitched me.”
***
You’ve bewitched me.
Something wicked dwelled inside her. Something wrong and wicked and vile. The kind of wicked that got ladies sent away to abbey’s and shut away from Polite Society but she reveled in his words…
Abigail hugged her arms to herself. The memory of Geoffrey’s lips upon her skin and on her lips still burned hotter than the July sun. It had the power to melt her inside and out, liquefying every single coherent thought.
Something stirred to life inside her breast. Her eyes ran a path over the angular planes of Geoffrey’s chiseled face, his aquiline nose, the serious set to his mouth drawn by the harsh beauty of a man who so valued honor.
Her throat worked up and down, as she acknowledged the truth—a man such as him would never, could never find her an acceptable match.
Filled with a desperate need to put distance between them, Abigail took a step away from him. She wandered to the side of the lake and stared out as the morning sun peeked over the horizon. “Do you know why I like to come here?” She cast a glance back at him and smiled. “No, you wouldn’t know that. I come here because it is quiet and I manage to forget that I’m an ocean away from home.” And here, I’m free of censure.
Gravel crunched beneath Geoffrey’s boot, indicating he’d strode over toward the edge of the lake. “Do you find American Society very different than English Society?”
A bitter laugh bubbled up her throat, and she hugged her arms close to her chest. Regardless, of American Society or English Society, all respectable people would find her wanting. Instead, she said, “No.”
“Do you,” he paused, “long to return?”
Abigail tilted her head and studied a graceful white swan as it dunked its long neck beneath the surface and come up a moment later, empty.
She yearned for the life she’d known before she’d given up her good name. “I…” in returning to America, however, she would only be returning to scorn and ridicule, forced to live with the constant reminder of her mistake.
Geoffrey’s fingers brushed the side of her cheek, and gently turned her head to face him. “Is it a very complicated question?”
For all the pain of Alexander’s betrayal, Abigail had never grieved the loss of what her foolish decision had cost her—a respectable husband who loved her—until now. Now, the most she could aspire to was an advantageous match with a gentleman willing to forgive her past transgression.
Geoffrey ran his knuckles along her cheek. “Abigail?” he prodded.
For the first time since she’d boarded her father’s ship, she longed to share the great burden she carried. Of course, she could never tell this proud, proper English nobleman, even if he had saved her from Lord Carmichael.
No, Geoffrey could not save her in all the ways she desperately needed saving.
“I miss my family,” she said after a pregnant stretch of silence. She gestured to the lake. “I miss the pure, clean sea air. Do you know they say there are so many trees across the whole of North America that a single squirrel could cross the entire continent upon the tops of the trees?”
His face may have been carved from stone as hard and unyielding was his expression. Geoffrey’s green-blue eyes bore into her, and she wondered that he couldn’t read every deepest, darkest secret she kept from him. “But do you long to return?”
Staring up at him, Abigail came to a staggering realization. “No, I do not,” she whispered. She ached for the loss of her family but beyond that, there was nothing left for her there but shame, regret, and broken promises.
Her eyes slid closed.
God help her.
She longed for him.
Abigail took a staggering step away from him. She stepped so close to the lake, her pale yellow skirts brushed the mouth of the water. Geoffrey may as well be as unattainable as one of the stars in the sky.
She drew in a shuddery breath.
Geoffrey reached for her, and pulled her back from the water’s edge. He dropped his brow to hers. “If you are seen here like this, alone with me, there will be a scandal.”
Her eyes slid closed. The scandal of bein
g alone with him would be tantamount to ruination. She knew that. He knew that.
It appeared she’d not learned the folly of her past. Her lids fluttered closed, as she prepared for his kiss.
That didn’t come.
Abigail opened her eyes to find him watching her, with emotionless eyes.
“Abigail, I took a vow upon my father’s death to honor my title and all the responsibilities that go with that.”
An odd little pit formed in her stomach. Those words were enough. She silently begged him to cease talking, enumerating all the reasons she would never be a suitable bride.
Alas, he appeared immune to the stinging lash each word of his left upon her heart.
“If I were free to choose, I would—” He glanced off to a distant point over her shoulder. “That is neither here nor there. I’m not free to choose. There was one time when I would have, one time I did, set aside my personal obligations and responsibilities for my selfish desires. I cannot do that again.”
The pit grew, to the size of a boulder and she pressed her palms along the front of her skirts to smooth that pain. Her efforts proved futile.
“I’m wholly unsuitable as a wife.” Her words sounded flat to her own ears.
Geoffrey raked a hand through his hair. “No. Abigail you are…”
She held her hand up to silence him. Abigail didn’t need him to wax on with false praise. Not when she knew the truth, and not when he, even if he were unwilling to acknowledge it, also knew that truth. “Don’t. Please, don’t.” She squared her shoulders and dug deep for the pride that had allowed her to walk out of Mr. and Mrs. Van Buren’s home with her head held high, even after being discovered en dishabille by all the leading members of society. “I see my maid, Sally. She is waiting for me.” She dipped a curtsy. “If you’ll excuse me.”
A muscle throbbed in the corner of Geoffrey’s eye. He gave a curt nod, and stepped aside so she could pass.
Abigail hesitated. “And Geoffrey,” she said, softly. “Beatrice will make you a good wife.”
Geoffrey tugged free the Italian lace wrapped around his hand, now stained with blood, and held it out to her.
She shook her head. “No. Please. Consider it a birthday gift.”
Before he could say another word, she turned on her heel and fled.
It’s both gauche and unwise for a gentleman to consume spirits before twelve o’clock in the afternoon.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~13~
Geoffrey sailed through the front doors of his townhouse, and froze at the sight of his mother.
She stood in the foyer, arms akimbo. “I’ve been waiting to speak with you since last evening, Geoffrey.”
He silently cursed. Following his meeting with Abigail, all he wanted was to nurse his regret with too much brandy in the confines of his office. “Mother,” he greeted. He glanced pointedly at Ralston, who was good enough to keep his eyes averted from the private exchange.
His mother ignored his attempt at discretion. “What are you thinking, dear boy?”
He’d always detested when she called him dear boy, as though he were some kind of recalcitrant child…and she tended to use it when she was most disappointed. “This is neither the time nor the place.”
She opened her mouth as if to protest. Then closed it. “Very well. Then I’d like to speak with you in your office.” With a final glower, she stomped off.
Geoffrey followed after her. He hadn’t even closed the door when his mother, who stood at the center of the room, threw her arms wide. “Whatever are you thinking, Geoffrey?”
He hesitated. His mother was a notorious gossip, but surely she’d not learned of his chance meeting with Abigail that morning. Not for the first time, Geoffrey began to feel a greater connection to his sister, Sophie, who’d had to endure untold scrutiny and gossip.
Geoffrey strolled over to the tray of crystal decanters. He poured himself a brandy.
His mother’s eyes widened. “Brandy? Geoffrey, it is not even eight o’clock in the morning.”
Which begged the question of why the viscountess was up at such an uncharacteristic hour and interrupting one of his stolen moments of quiet. He knew better than to ask as much. Geoffrey took a sip. “There’s little harm in a brandy to celebrate my thirtieth year.”
She blinked. “Is it…?”
“Yes.”
Hi mother wrinkled her brow. “Hmph. Happy Birthday,” And then… “You are causing a scandal with that American...”
“Abigail Stone.”
“Woman.”
“I observed you at the theater last evening, Geoffrey. You did not take your eyes off one another once.”
“Mother—”
She jabbed a finger in his direction. “You made a promise after your father’s death.”
Guilt ripped through him. “And I intend to honor those promises.” He downed the brandy. He reached for the bottle and poured another, to the rim. He had every intention of getting fully soused.
His mother took a deep breath. She held her hands up. “Geoffrey, I do want you to be happy.”
Geoffrey looked down into the amber contents of his glass. He’d forfeited all right to happiness when he’d chosen Emma over his father and family. He took a long swallow, and set the glass down hard on the mahogany table. Liquid sloshed over the rim. “I have already stated my intentions, Mother. I’ve chosen Lady Beatrice as my future wife.” If she’ll have me.
His mother studied him intently as if to determine the veracity of his words. She seemed to find truth in his promise for she nodded. “Forgive me, Geoffrey. After that situation with Miss Marsh, I sometimes still fear you’ll be driven by your passions.”
And here he’d believed he’d done a masterful job of handling himself with a suitable level of decorum the past four, nearly five years. It appeared his mother awaited the moment he would make his next, great misstep. Geoffrey looped his hands behind his back and walked over to the floor-length windows that overlooked the quiet street below. “This topic grows tedious, Mother.”
From the smooth, clear surface of the windowpane his mother’s reflection stared back at him. She rang her fingers together. “I’ve seen the way you look at that w…Miss Stone,” she corrected. “No good can come of it, Geoffrey.”
“I understand that.”
But why can’t it, a voice niggled somewhere deep inside. Abigail was the granddaughter of one of the oldest and most respected titles in the realm. Her father, though a former servant, had amassed a small fortune and established a flourishing shipping enterprise.
Abigail was not Emma. Abigail was incapable of the deceit and trickery that had filled Emma Marsh’s black heart.
His mother touched his shoulder.
He stiffened.
“Geoffrey, I know you think me cold and unfeeling, but aside from the death of your father, nothing has caused me greater pain than seeing how Emma Marsh hurt you.”
The agony of guilt robbed him of breath. For years he’d withheld the details of that night from his mother, knowing the truth would destroy her. Or mayhap he was merely a coward. In sharing the truth, he would always be the recipient of his mother and sister’s deserved scorn.
“We’ve been invited to attend a dinner party at the Duke of Somerset’s. I suspect he’s gathered the nature of your intentions, Geoffrey. You are so very close to securing one of the most coveted matches of the Season.”
He nodded.
His mother removed her hand from his shoulder. “Happy Birthday, Geoffrey.”
Geoffrey touched a hand to the front of his jacket, where Abigail’s stained lace rested against his heart. “Mother,” he said, his voice tried to his own ears. “I’ve letters to see to.”
She took her leave with a stony silence. As the door closed with a decisive click, he fetched his partially drunk glass of brandy and the crystal decanter, and carried them over to his desk. Geoffrey settled into the comfortable leather folds of his winged back chair, and sloshe
d the liquid into his glass. He set the bottle down.
This had been the exact spot Father had sat the moment Geoffrey had confessed his intentions to wed Emma Marsh.
His fingers tightened reflexively about the glass. Diminutive and possessed of hazel eyes and hair like spun gold, she could not be more different in appearance than Abigail. A bright-eyed, teasing flirt, Emma had been the youngest daughter to an impoverished baronet and with her tinkling laugh, she had captivated Geoffrey the moment he’d first seen her at Almack’s.
She had led him a merry little chase, vowing not to settle for a match less than a marquess.
Geoffrey stared into the amber depths of his glass. When she’d suddenly shifted her attentions and affections wholeheartedly to him, he’d naively believed she’d loved him, besotted fool that he was.
He finished his brandy in one gulp, welcoming the fiery trail it blazed down his throat.
His mother constantly likened Abigail to Emma…but nothing could be further from the truth. Abigail did not crave and require pretty compliments and the undivided attention as Emma had. In fact, he could count on just one hand the number of sets Abigail had danced. Instead, she seemed to prefer keeping company of the partner-less young ladies, and skirted the edges of Society’s periphery.
Geoffrey poured himself another brandy, well onto his way to getting thoroughly foxed.
He’d defied his family’s wishes only once before. The outcome had proven disastrous. The consequence one he would never be fully absolved of.
But bastard that he was, Geoffrey still yearned to make a match not dictated by stiff propriety and decorum.
Tonight he would take dinner with the Duke of Somerset and see to his responsibilities…just as he had done for five years.
Geoffrey hadn’t wanted for more…
Until now.
While attending dinner parties, a gentleman should give his undivided attention to the persons seated next to him.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~14~
One head of hare.
One serpent.
Abigail’s gaze moved beyond Lord Lewlick’s shoulder and focused on the window. The curtains were drawn back just enough to allow the moon to filter its white light through the brocaded fabric, and reveal a smattering of stars.
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