Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

by Christi Caldwell

God help her.

  She’d imagined crossing the ocean and leaving behind her family the greatest trial she’d ever endured.

  Looking at Geoffrey, wanting him as she did, she now knew there could be no greater trial than the one she now confronted.

  He bowed. “Forgive me.”

  Her eyes slid away from him. This is the kind of proper man he was. He begged pardon for failing to bow. She shook her head. “Geoffrey, I…”

  He stalked across the room. “I’ve brought this.”

  Abigail blinked down at the scrap of parchment he held out, and hesitated a moment. She took it in her fingers.

  Ices at Gunter’s.

  A walk in Hyde Park.

  Several waltzes.

  A trip to the theatre…

  Abigail glanced from the list, up at Geoffrey. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, eying her expectantly.

  She smoothed her fingers along the thick, ivory velum. “Uh…”

  “It is a list,” Geoffrey interrupted.

  Abigail looked down blankly at the parchment again. “Yes. Yes it is.”

  Geoffrey held out his hand.

  Wordlessly, she turned it over and contemplated him. A small frown tilted the corners of his lips downward as he examined the meticulously written scrawl.

  Geoffrey cleared his throat. “I created this list of proper events and activities for a gentleman courting a suitable young lady.”

  Her mouth went dry. There it was again—a suitable young lady.

  He continued, seeming oblivious to her inner turmoil. “We’ve walked in Hyde Park. Granted it was before I’d settled on you as a match.”

  A desperate laugh bubbled up in her throat. Oh, Geoffrey. Sweet, wonderful Geoffrey. How carefully he plotted out every aspect of his life. Her nervous amusement died as she wondered how much of his devotion to order stemmed from the pain of Emma Marsh’s betrayal. “It is…very romantic.”

  He held the paper up and closed it in his fist; the crackle of the wrinkled parchment filled the space like a dry log of wood being tossed into a fiery hearth. “You’re right. It seems I’m rubbish at this.” He took a step away from her.

  Abigail rushed over to him, realizing he’d interpreted her words as mocking. “Oh, no. You aren’t rubbish at all.” You’re good, and kind, and valiant.

  A half grin formed on his lips. “I’d written this list before you. I had every detail for the rest of my life carefully plotted and planned, Abby.”

  That sounded remarkably like the proper man she’d first come to know with his somber frown, and his seeming difficulty in managing a smile. Such a man would do something as practical as create a list to help secure a match in a most expeditious manner.

  Geoffrey claimed her hand. “Will you accompany me?”

  She studied their interlocked fingers. Anywhere. “Where?” she murmured. “I’ve not been to Gunter’s. Lord Sinclair mentioned it and it sounds divine.”

  Geoffrey growled and lowered his head so his brow nearly rested upon hers. “I don’t want to hear you mention Lord Sinclair’s name.”

  At the possessive note in that strongly uttered demand, warmth fanned out and filled Abigail. “To Hyde Park?”

  Geoffrey flicked her nose with the tip of his finger, and grinned. “We’ve already been to Hyde Park. Twice.”

  “Well, you must cross that off the list, then,” she said with a smile.

  He took her by the hand and led her to the terrace doors. “Come,” he murmured, and pushed the doors open, he led her outside.

  Abigail’s skin burned from the feel of his hand, strong, and hard in her own delicate palm.

  “I was an absolute wretch to you, Abby.”

  She blinked and looked up at him. A cloud shifted above the sun and cast half of his angular face in shadows. Then the cloud passed, and bathed him in sunlight. “When?” she blurted.

  A wry half-grin turned the right corner of his lips. “I rather think on a number of occasions.” He settled his hand upon her waist, and pulled her close.

  Abigail’s breath caught in her chest, and she tipped her chin up. He is going to kiss me, here amidst the fragrant blooms and sun-filled sky, and, I am shameful and improper because I want that so very desperately.

  “The evening I first danced with you,” he continued, seeming unaware of the heady effect his presence had upon her.

  She blinked back the thick haze of desire.

  “I was a boorish lout. I was rude and condescending, and arrogant. Until you, Abby, I hadn’t realized what life had turned me into. You’ve reminded me how to laugh.”

  Unable to bear the heated intensity radiating from his eyes, Abigail dropped her gaze to the immaculate lines of his white cravat. Tell him. She could not allow him to harbor these false views about the kind of woman she was.

  She wet her lips.

  He guided her hand upon his shoulder.

  “What…?”

  “I’m dancing with you. Again. I want to start anew with you, Abby.”

  And then he proceeded to waltz her through the clusters of roses and crocuses up from the ground. He hummed a discordant tune.

  Her body stiffened. “Oh, Geoffrey, I’m truly a dreadful dancer.” She stepped upon his foot, her graceless body seemed desperate to confirm the truth of her words. “I’m forever falling all over myself.”

  He dropped his brow to hers, and tightened his hold about her. “Well, then. It seems I must be there to catch you should you fall.”

  Amidst the sun-filled garden, with the chirping coy and Geoffrey’s humming as their symphony, Abigail fell in love.

  Abigail had given her girlish heart to the handsome Alexander Powers. But there, in the duke’s parlor, Abigail fell in love with a woman’s heart.

  Panic warred with joy, two very competing emotions within her breast. She could not love him. It was not to be countenanced. After Alexander’s betrayal she’d thought herself incapable of ever again trusting the fickle emotion called love. But God help her—she loved Geoffrey.

  Tell him the truth. Tell him everything, you selfish, cowardly creature.

  Later.

  For now, Abigail intended to steal this final, beautiful moment before the truth killed all the warmth in Geoffrey’s eyes.

  A gentleman should take care to avoid public displays of emotion.

  4th Viscount Redbrooke

  ~19~

  From his spot behind the white, marble pillar, Geoffrey surveyed Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s ballroom. He peered over the rim of his champagne glass, in search of Abigail.

  An ominous rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and an icy chill stole through him. Since the tragic night of his father’s death, rain and thunder transported him back to the moment he’d come upon his father’s broken body, eyes opened, staring lifelessly up at the storm-ravaged sky.

  “I believe it is going to rain.”

  Geoffrey froze, and turned to greet his sister, Sophie. She smiled up at him, her arm looped through her husband’s.

  Waxham inclined his head in greeting.

  “My that is a dark look,” she said. A clap of thunder punctuated her words.

  “Sophie, Waxham,” Geoffrey greeted.

  Waxham gave a slight bow.

  “You scoundrel,” Sophie whispered. She crossed her arms over her middle. “You had me so thoroughly convinced of your intentions for one lady, and then I must find out from the scandal sheets that you’ve in fact been courting another?”

  Geoffrey took another sip of champagne. “It appears you’ve done an even poorer job in reigning in my sister’s cheekiness,” he said to his brother-in-law.

  “I wouldn’t even begin to dare try,” Waxham drawled and waved over a passing servant. He accepted a glass of champagne and returned his attention to Geoffrey. “My efforts would prove futile, especially after you’ve indulged her hoydenish behavior through the years.”

  Sophie swatted her husband on the arm. “Oh, do behave. The both of you.” She arc
hed a brow. “And do not think to shift the topic, dear brother. Are the reports correct? Am I to acquire a sister-in-law?” Enthusiasm underlined her conspiratorial whisper.

  Geoffrey choked around the mouthful of champagne.

  His sister’s eyes lit up like a child’s who’d tasted her first ice at Gunter’s. “I am! You needn’t deny it. Your reaction quite confirmed your intentions.”

  He frowned, glancing around to determine whether anyone happened to overhear Sophie’s pronouncement. Lords and ladies throughout the room eyed him with a rabid curiosity that made him grit his teeth. If it weren’t for the desire to see Abigail, he’d have taken leave of the evening’s festivities a long while ago. “Do you have no control over your wife?” he said from the corner of his mouth.

  His brother-in-law snorted. “If you must ask such a question, it would seem you know your sister a good deal less than I’d originally believed.”

  Sophie went on as though they hadn’t spoken. “I can hardly imagine that my very proper, very dull brother has gone and won the affections of an American woman.” At Sophie’s pronouncement, a bolt of lightning lit the ballroom.

  Geoffrey’s body jerked. The jagged light lit up the sky and spilled through the floor-length windows and into the room.

  Sophie blinked. “Never tell me you’re afraid of a little lightening, brother?” He was spared from answering as she returned to the matter that had driven her over to his private corner of the ballroom. “By mother’s clear displeasure I take it that the rumors are in fact correct.”

  Geoffrey’s gaze sought and found his mother. She stood conversing with their gaunt, heavily wrinkled hostess, Lady Ainsworth. A black scowl marred his mother’s face. She held herself with such a stiff rigidity it was a wonder the wind that whipped against the windows didn’t topple her right there.

  “The rumors are correct.” His tone sounded weary to his own ears. He’d not have expected the sharp stab of guilt would sting this much. His mother had barely uttered a word to him since he’d very clearly stated his intentions to wed Abigail.

  Sophie’s smile dipped.

  Waxham cleared his throat. “It is never easy to deviate from the desires and wills of one’s parent,” he said. The gravity of his tone spoke of a man who could identify with Geoffrey’s secret shame. Waxham’s gaze settled momentarily upon his wife’s head. “But, matters of the heart should not be decided by logic and order.”

  Just then, at the entrance of the ballroom, Abigail appeared upon the arm of her cousin, Lord Westfield. Geoffrey’s breath hitched in his chest.

  Abigail’s violet satin skirts shimmered in the glow of the candlelit ballroom. An intricate floral design threaded with glimmering diamonds had been stitched upon the bodice of her gown. It drew his attention to the generous swell of her bosom and his mouth went dry. She had the look of Eve in the garden of sin, and how he longed to throw aside all that was proper and join her there.

  She scanned the ballroom, as though searching for someone, and then their gazes met and held.

  Abigail smiled, dipping her head in a subtle greeting.

  Geoffrey imagined he was grinning like a love-struck simpleton. But god help him, he wanted her.

  “Oh dear,” his sister said, shattering the pull. “You’ve fallen quite hard.”

  Waxham pat him in a commiserative gesture upon his shoulder.

  Geoffrey shook his head, and started toward Abigail. Yes. He’d fallen quite hard.

  ***

  For the better part of the day, Abigail had wrested an impending sense of disaster. She’d credited the thundering skies for the odd apprehension that caused gooseflesh to dot her skin. The storm was the kind of storm that had shattered too many great ships at sea.

  The carriage bearing the duke, Robert, Beatrice, and Abigail had arrived a short while ago at Lord and Lady Ainsworth’s ball. The torrents of streaming rain and the deep puddles throughout the London streets had made their carriage ride a long one. Then they’d had to wait in an endless row of carriages until they’d reached the entrance of the townhouse, as everyone made a desperate attempt to shorten the distance between their carriages and the front door.

  Abigail’s gaze landed upon several ladies. They snapped their fans open, and over the rim of the satin accessories ran their eyes over Abigail in a manner that indicated they’d found her wanting. Then, they averted their stares with a pointed flourish.

  Her stomach roiled at the cut direct that had been so very familiar at home. The ugly reminder of her past only intensified her earlier misgivings.

  “Oh, my. I believe I was wrong,” her cousin murmured.

  Abigail forced aside the portentous musings. “Hmm?”

  “About Lord Redbrooke,” Beatrice clarified. “I never believed that particular gentleman capable of anything beyond stiff politeness.” Beatrice sighed. “I would trade my little finger to have a man look at me the way Lord Redbrooke is looking at you.”

  Abigail’s heart tripped at a funny little pace as Geoffrey’s long-legged stride closed the space between them. He stood taller than most gentlemen in the ballroom, making it easy for Abigail to follow his path. He navigated through the throng of guests with a masculine grace.

  In all the time Alexander Powers had courted her, he’d never looked at her in the hot, penetrating manner that Geoffrey now did. Geoffrey’s was the primeval gleam of a man who wanted to lay claim to her.

  And all her earlier reservations, her unfounded fears lifted as he stopped in front of her. She tilted her head back and her breath caught. Geoffrey studied her through thick, lowered lashes. She curtsied. “My lord.” Did that breathless greeting belong to her?

  He took her hand in his and raised it to his lips. Even through the thin fabric of her glove, Geoffrey’s touch heated her skin, and sent warmth radiating out through her body.

  Just then, a harsh, bold laugh cut into the charged exchange, and she froze. Pinpricks of unease ran along her spine. Her gaze collided with a gentleman who stood just beyond Geoffrey’s shoulder. The foppish dandy, garishly dressed in violet, satin breeches had his lascivious stare trained upon her bosom. Abigail’s apprehension grew.

  “Miss Stone, may I have this dance?” Geoffrey’s request jolted her back to the moment.

  “I…”

  A shocked gasp cut into her reply, and yanked Abigail’s attention to a nearby stern-faced matron with a frown upon her fleshy cheeks. The woman raked a frigid gaze over Abigail’s person.

  “Abigail?” Geoffrey’s question reached her, muffled and vague the way she’d used to hear her mother and father’s calls from when she’d been submerged beneath the ocean’s surface.

  Oh, God. Abigail sent a prayer skyward.

  “Abby?” Beatrice’s voice laced with concern blended with Geoffrey’s.

  The pointed stares, and too-loud whispers carried her back to a different night, to the time she’d been discovered in Alexander’s arms, when her world had crumpled down around her. She shook her head.

  “I’m all right.” Her protest sounded halfhearted to her own ears.

  Of course no one knew. No one could know. This was not her shoreline home. This was a country of different people, an ocean apart from the shame of her past.

  Then her gaze tripped upon her uncle and cousin Robert as they cut a determined swath through the crowd of people who peered down long, noble noses at Abigail. Purpose drove the steps of both the duke and his son.

  Her eyes slid closed.

  Not now. Not here.

  She recognized their matched, hardened expressions.

  Geoffrey frowned. “Abigail?”

  Abigail opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Forgive me, Geoffrey,” she whispered.

  He lowered his brows. “For…?”

  Her uncle and cousin reached her side.

  Geoffrey turned to greet the duke. He bowed. “Your Grace. I’d like to request an audience with you tomorrow morning.”

  The duke’s lips flattened into a
hard line. “Redbrooke.”

  What matter of business could Geoffrey have with the duke? Then Geoffrey looked at her, his eyes warm, and gentle upon her face…and she knew. He intended to offer for her. She folded her hands around her waist and looked around, confronting the expressions of the ton who were taking great relish in her public fall. Agony formed like tight knots in her stomach until she wanted to twist and writhe to escape it.

  Abigail took first one steadying breath. Then another. And another. Perhaps it was merely her own insecurities and memories of the past that drove cloying fear up her throat, and threatened to choke her.

  Then she spied Lord Carmichael, the old bastard who’d put his hands all over her person; his fleshy lips were pulled back in a victorious smile. Her heart froze, and she knew. Oh God, how she knew. Somehow the old letch had discovered her scandalous past.

  Robert took her gently but firmly by the arm. “We need to leave, Abby.”

  No! Not again.

  She managed a jerky nod and tugged her arm free of Robert’s hold; her toes flexed within the soles of her slippers, as she was filled with a restive need to run and keep running until she’d escaped the all too familiar disdain.

  Beatrice’s brow furrowed. “Leave? Why we’ve only just—”

  “Beatrice,” the duke’s single, harshly uttered word silenced Beatrice. He looked to Geoffrey. “Tomorrow, then.”

  Her uncle was mad. Tears flooded her eyes, and Geoffrey’s face blurred before her. With his value for propriety and honor, Geoffrey would sooner send her to the devil than see her to the altar. She swayed on her feet, the room dipped and spun like her youngest brother’s wood whip top that he’d played with over and over.

  Geoffrey cursed and reached for her. He caught her against him, even as outraged gasps escaped the lords and ladies around the ballroom.

  She tilted her head back, and gazed at him through the blasted moisture that filled her eyes. “Please, don’t.” Because if you continue to hold me, I’ll dissolve into a puddle of shame and despair at your feet.

  His square jaw tensed as he scraped a frantic gaze over her person, tightening his hold upon her. “Abigail, what is it?” The faint thread of panic that underlined his words sent guilt spiraling, until it filled every corner of her body. In mere moments, the look of gentle concern and caring would die to be replaced with revulsion. She’d braved the scorn of her American compatriots, and been mocked and ridiculed as an American interloper in British Society…she could not stand to bear witness to the moment all affection went out of his eyes.