Someone gasped.
Abigail tried to look toward the frantic patter of footsteps. The click of the door echoed around her aching head, and she forced back nausea. Abigail rested her head upon the pillow and stared up at the cherubs dancing on the mural above her bed.
Then…the door opened again.
“Abigail.”
She sorted through muddied thoughts as she tried to place the voice. Then, taking a slow breath she turned her head on the pillow.
Her uncle strode over to the bed and sat in the empty chair beside her, his somber gaze moving over her. “Thank God, Abigail. We had feared you would not recover.”
The memory of that thunderous night went ripping through her thoughts, and she gasped as she recalled the horror of Geoffrey’s rejection, the mind-numbing terror of the carriage accident, then the unbearable soreness of her head and body.
She wet her lips.
“Would you care for water?” He reached for a pitcher that sat beside her bed.
Her stomach churned at the thought of filling her belly with anything. “No,” she said, that one word hoarse, and near unrecognizable as belonging to her.
He froze, and sat back in his seat.
“How long have I been asleep?” she whispered.
“Nearly three days, Abigail.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Do you recall what happened that evening?”
God, she wished with the pain the accident had brought her, it could have managed to somehow shake loose the all too familiar sting of Society’s rejection, and worse, Geoffrey’s disdain.
For the remainder of her days she would recall the precise moment when the warm, caring look in Geoffrey’s eyes had been replaced with the cool, flinty ice of a man who’d found her actions unforgiveable. Her heart twisted with a bitter resentment. “I remember.” Until she drew her last breath she would love him, but she would not, could not forget how easily he had turned her out.
“You injured your arm quite badly.”
She touched her fingers to the sling over her left shoulder that restricted her use of the limb. The screams of horror as the arm had been tended to by some faceless doctor filtered through her remembrance.
“You suffered a very serious injury to your head. The doctor feared you’d not recover.” He leaned over and touched the fingers of her uninjured hand. “You have too much of your mother’s strength and courage to die that way,” he said, his words gruff.
If she were truly strong and courageous she would have never humbled herself at Geoffrey’s feet on that stormy night.
A sudden onset of guilt besieged her as she silently confronted the shame of all the turmoil she’d visited upon her uncle and his family, and for what? A man who didn’t love her? A gentleman who had treated her like the refuse upon his boots?
The duke had taken her in, treated her as another daughter, and she’d repaid that kindness with the scandal of her past and the recklessness in going to Geoffrey.
Abigail embraced her burning resentment because it kept her from weeping useless little tears for a man not deserving of those salty droplets.
“Would you care to speak of him?” the duke said quietly. The hiss and pop of the embers within the hearth filled the quiet.
Not of the stormy night, but rather, him.
Geoffrey.
No. She’d rather bury the memory of Geoffrey with all the other painful, shameful sins of her past. Instead she said, “There is nothing to speak about.”
“It is my understanding he turned you away.”
Her uncle would not let the matter rest. Abigail turned her head, and looked toward the heavily curtained windows. “Yes, he did.” Geoffrey had more than turned her away; with his vitriol he’d reduced her to the broken and shamed creature she’d resolved never to be again after Alexander’s betrayal. She cringed in shamed remembrance.
“If Redbrooke hadn’t sent you away…”
“But he did,” she said with a steely rage she’d not felt even after Alexander’s betrayal. She didn’t want to speak of Geoffrey. I can’t.
She wanted to begin throwing bits of dirt upon the memory of him until he was nothing more than a dream of what-ifs.
Her uncle leaned over and touched her hand. “I believe he does care for you, Abigail.”
Abigail looked away a moment. She winced as pain radiated out from her forehead and raced down the side of her cheek, and along her jawline. I should not have gone to him.
She wondered if in the light of a new day, if he’d had time to reflect, would Geoffrey have been more forgiving?
The memory of him as he’d been— hard, unyielding, with, his stiffly held shoulders and a flinty expression in his blue-green eyes confirmed the emptiness of that possibility. No, she thought with more hurt than he deserved. His reaction would not have been different.
Abigail took a deep breath. “I should never have gone to him.” For so many reasons. “I just…”
“You just love him, Abigail.”
She closed her eyes again. “I am so very sorry,” she whispered. For too many things to put to words. “I repaid your kindness with this great scandal.” She seemed incapable of bringing anything but shame to those she loved.
“Abigail, I’m a duke. My family is capable of weathering far greater scandals than this.” Ducal arrogance leant credibility to his words.
Her throat worked under a swell of emotion. Her uncle’s leniency did little to assuage the guilt of her past and present wrongs. In her need to see Geoffrey, she’d set out without a thought to the consequences of being discovered…consequences which would only hurt Beatrice.
He said nothing for a long while, and then he let out a long sigh. “Your mother has proven there is no logic when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Mama, who had braved her family’s scorn, the stinging censure of her social peers, and began a life anew, in a new country, all for the love of a man. Except, Mama’s world had unfolded like the sweetest bloom in spring; bright and vibrant and joyous.
Her lips twisted.
Love hadn’t been as kind to Abigail.
“I do believe, Abigail,” her uncle began quietly. “That he did, perhaps still does love you.”
No, Geoffrey had never loved her. He’d never given her those three beautiful words…and it had not mattered. All that had mattered is that he’d been willing to trust again, and laugh again after his own heart had been shattered.
“Perhaps,” she said, flatly. She thought of Alexander’s desire for her wealth, which had mattered so much more than a life with her. Gentlemen were inconstant. Alexander, now Geoffrey had proven as much.
Her uncle opened his mouth to say something, and then closed it. He rose. “I will send for the doctor, Abigail. And your cousins have been riddled with worry. May I send them in?”
“Of course,” she murmured.
As he took his leave, Abigail stared at the closed door, foolishly wishing love had been enough, this time.
A gentleman should not conduct himself in a way that earns Polite Society’s censure.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~27~
With his free hand, Geoffrey pounded on the front door of the Duke of Somerset’s townhouse. The nobles passing by in their fashionable phaetons and upon horseback, halted, mouths agape, as Geoffrey darkened the duke’s doorstep for the seventh day in a row.
The butler pulled the door open and wordlessly, Geoffrey held his card out.
The servant looked down his nose at the card, but made no attempt to take it. “Miss Stone is not receiving guests.” He started to close the door.
Geoffrey stuck his booted foot inside the door-jamb, halting the man’s efforts. He squared his jaw. “I’d like to see the Duke of Somerset.”
“His Grace is not receiving guests, either,” the butler said through the small opening.
Geoffrey wedged his hip inside the door, and he’d wager his family seat in Kent that the usually stoic servant cursed. “Will you tel
l him I’m not leaving? I’ve every intention of remaining right on the steps of his townhouse until he grants me an audience.”
The butler sighed. “I will again remind His Grace. Good day, my lord.” He shoved his hip into the door.
Geoffrey stumbled backwards. With a black curse, he took his all too familiar seat upon the top step and set down the bouquet in his hands. His lower back ached from sitting on the hard stone but the discomfort seemed so very insignificant when compared to the bruises and injuries Abigail had sustained.
His stomach clenched in a familiar knot, as he once again imagined Abigail’s terror the night of the accident. He tortured himself with image of her lifeless body being flung about the hired hack.
Geoffrey glanced up at the thick blanket of gray and black clouds that rolled over the sky. A single raindrop landed on of the bridge of his nose.
Then the skies opened up.
Bloody wonderful.
***
From where she stood in the drawing room, Abigail parted the thick curtains just enough to peer down into the streets below. A steady stream of rain pounded the pavement. Geoffrey stood, and drops of water sprayed from the fabric of his cloak as it swirled about his feet. Moisture ran in rivulets down his collar and soaked the finely tailored russet garment.
He awkwardly brushed an elbow across his brow but the movement upset his equally drenched beaver hat. A chestnut lock tumbled over his eye and oh, how she longed to brush it back.
She was a fool.
He banged the door.
Her love for him should have died a swift death on that dark, threatening night.
He banged again.
His rejection would forever haunt her.
And again.
But she loved him; hopelessly and helplessly, in a manner that defied all sensible logic.
His pounding increased.
She closed her eyes.
Why would he not go away?
He’d been very clear when he’d turned her away that he found her unworthy, and yet, he now created no small scandal by visiting the duke’s townhouse, seeming to enact a kind of penance.
Surely, nothing more than a sense of misguided guilt drove Geoffrey’s impulsive actions.
The moment she’d awakened from her unconscious state, she’d embraced the animosity and fury she felt over Geoffrey’s treatment. It had served as a kind of protection against further sorrow. But with each knock of that blasted door, he rattled her carefully crafted defenses.
Abigail dropped the curtain back into place and leaned into the wall. She groaned as her injured shoulder collided with the hard surface.
“Abigail, you must sit,” the duke called from the King Louis chair he occupied. He folded his arms across his chest. A scowl formed on his austere cheeks. “If I’d imagined you would be up as you are, I’d have never agreed to you being down here. The doctor said—”
“I cannot lay in bed any longer, Uncle.” She would go mad with nothing but her pained regrets to keep her company.
“Do you suppose he’ll go away soon?” Beatrice asked. She set aside her embroidery frame. He’s been out there for nearly an hour.” Her eyes took on a faraway expression, and a sigh escaped her. “I think it is so very romantic.”
Robert came up beside Abigail and pulled the curtains back enough to look outside into the growing rainstorm, and down at Geoffrey. He growled. “I think it is bloody foolish.” A rumble of thunder punctuated his words.
A tremor went through Abigail’s body, and she closed her eyes in a desperate bid to fight back this new, irrational fear she had of storms. Memory of that night, the sting of the rain, the bite of the wind, the shattering carriage, haunted her.
Abigail swayed on her feet.
Robert cursed and carefully caught her against him.
“Abby!” Beatrice cried out, and jumped to her feet.
“I’m all right,” Abigail whispered. Except she didn’t think she would ever be all right, again. The ache of Geoffrey’s abandonment, the cold, icy disdain that had fairly dripped from his hardened eyes, all of it so at odds with this resolute gentleman who continued to request an audience.
“He’s bloody mad,” Robert bit out as the steady rain picked up in intensity.
Beatrice wandered over to the window and peeked outside. “He’s brought flowers.” Her brow wrinkled. “That poor bouquet is nearly ruined.” She leaned closer to the window.
“Beatrice,” the duke called pointedly from across the room. “Come away from the window.”
She waved her father off. Her brow screwed up. “Whatever kind of flowers are they? I do say they are lovely. But they are not at all familiar.”
“Ivy and aconite,” Abigail whispered. She remembered back to the flowers he’d brought before he’d discovered the truth about her, before her world had crashed down upon her.
“Aconite? I’ve never heard of it. What an odd flower to pick out. One would think he’d select roses, or lavender…” Her cousin continued to prattle on, as Abigail sank into a nearby sofa.
“I’ll have one of the servants remove him,” the duke muttered.
“No!”
Three pairs of eyes swiveled to Abigail.
She swallowed, feeling the hot flood of color rush her cheeks. “I…” She glanced down at the floor. It shouldn’t matter and yet she couldn’t bear the sight of proud, proper Geoffrey humbling himself outside the duke’s townhouse for all to see.
“Absolutely not,” Robert barked. “That blackguard isn’t to set foot in this house.” He waved a hand at Abigail. “It is Redbrooke’s fault you’re in this condition.”
With his gruff, commanding presence, he reminded her so much of her brothers.
“No,” she said quietly. Upon first awakening, she’d been filled with acrimonious rage over Geoffrey’s treatment. She would forever regret Geoffrey’s inconstancy, his unwillingness to see her as a woman who’d made a mistake with her heart…just as he’d done with Emma Marsh. But, as much as she longed to hate him, and blame him for the injuries she’d suffered, she could not fault him for putting her in the carriage that stormy night.
With the experience of life, she could regret decisions she’d made but she now knew she must accept the consequences of those decisions. Abigail could not fault Geoffrey or Alexander or anyone else for the mistakes she made.
And it had been a mistake to go to Geoffrey’s residence.
“Uncle,” Abigail began, turning to the duke. “I need to see him.” Unless she spoke to him, she would never be free to move forward. “He’ll not go unless I speak to him.”
He held her gaze, and then after a long while, a sigh escaped him. “Robert, have him shown in.”
Robert cursed. He held his father’s stare, but then gave a slight nod.
Abigail directed her attention to the window yet again.
“Beatrice, I require a word with Abigail,” the duke said to his daughter.
Beatrice hesitated, and then touched Abigail’s right hand. “He loves you, Abby,” she whispered for Abigail’s ears alone.
Abigail bit the inside of her cheek to keep from tossing out a denial. Geoffrey didn’t love her. He may have cared for her—at one time. But never love. His heart had been dead and buried with Miss Emma Marsh’s betrayal and his father’s death.
“He does,” Beatrice insisted. “I saw him, Abby and I’ve never witnessed greater despair than Lord Redbrooke the moment he saw you.”
“Beatrice,” the duke called.
She nodded. “He made a mistake, Abigail. But I believe, in my heart that he loves you.” Beatrice ran her gaze over Abigail’s face, and then hurried from the room.
Abigail stared after her, contemplating her cousin’s words. Geoffrey’s actions since the accident were surely motivated by nothing more than guilt.
The duke stood, and strode over to her. “You need to sit.”
“I do not—”
“Sit.” The stern ducal command brooked obedience.
“What would you like me to do?”
She blinked.
He spoke without preamble. “Do you want to wed him?”
Wed him? At one time she had. Once upon a time ago when she’d believed him to be a man of courage and strength who would brave scandal just to be with her. She shook her head. “He does not want to wed me.”
“If he offers for you—”
“He won’t,” she interrupted. The duke didn’t know the vile, hateful words Geoffrey had hurled at her in the foyer of his townhouse.
“If he does,” the duke continued. “I’d encourage you to consider his suit. I believe Beatrice is correct when she says the viscount does indeed care for you.”
She said nothing, grateful when he took his leave, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
Abigail sat there, waiting for Geoffrey.
She would listen to him, and then she could begin to move on from the pained reminder of all she’d lost.
A gentleman should be committed to goals that he sets for himself.
4th Viscount Redbrooke
~28~
Rain poured from Geoffrey’s hat, and filled his eyes. He dashed the back of his hand over his face, blinking back the moisture. He tucked the small box he’d arrived with under his arm, and with bouquet in hand, pounded on the duke’s door.
It opened.
He stared wide-eyed, stunned by the unexpected admittance.
Fearing whoever had permitted him entry might change their mind, Geoffrey swiftly entered. With his free hand, he pulled off his drenched beaver hat and handed it over to the servant, who helped him from his cloak. Water sprayed the duke’s Italian marble floor.
Then Geoffrey froze. The Marquess Westfield stood at the base of the staircase, arms folded across his chest.
“Must you persist?” he snapped. “You’re a soaking mess and you’re making a bloody fool of yourself.”
Geoffrey’s mouth tightened. He’d not explain himself to Westfield. The words in his heart were reserved for Abigail. “I’d like to see Abigail.”
Westfield’s scowl deepened. “She doesn’t want to see you, Redbrooke. I’ve notified her each day since you’ve been here and every day she instructs me to send you on your way. Today is no exception.”
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