Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous

by Christi Caldwell

  Alexander’s throat moved up and down. “There will only be you.”

  Abigail did not labor the point with him because not long ago, she’d been like him. She had believed herself shattered by his perfidy.

  It had taken Geoffrey to show her the truth…that her heart hadn’t fully lived—until Geoffrey had entered her life.

  Alexander raised her hand to his lips, and placed a kiss upon her knuckles. Then, with a long, elegant bow, he took his leave.

  Abigail stood there long after he made his solemn exit. The fire crackled in the hearth; the embers popping and hissing loudly. In the span of mere hours, the entire foundation of her world had been shaken by the truth of her parent’s deceit, Geoffrey’s profession of love, Alexander’s reappearance in her life.

  Her gaze snagged upon the forgotten items Geoffrey had brought with him.

  Abigail angled her head, and studied the blooms of aconite and ivy. She wandered over and picked up the rain-dampened bouquet, and raised it to her nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the red bloom. She’d believed guilt had driven his offer of marriage. And yet…

  She touched the tip of her finger to the spriggy, harsh ivy leaf. Were these romantic gestures of a gentleman motivated by a sense of guilt and rightness?

  Abigail set the bouquet down, and reached for the oddly shaped box no larger than the span of her hands together. She turned it over, and then set it aside.

  She loved him.

  Loved him with a depth of emotion that defied humility and pride.

  For the first time since the carriage accident a week ago, Abigail smiled. She embraced the liberation of acknowledging her love of him.

  She would wed him.

  Just as soon as he returned to her.

  When consuming spirits, a gentleman should demonstrate restraint.

  The 4th Viscount Redbrooke

  ~30~

  From the alcohol-induced stupor Geoffrey had dwelt within for twenty-six hours, eighteen minutes, and…he glanced bleary-eyed up toward the ormolu clock…the blasted numbers were too small.

  He tugged out his watch fob and tried to bring the numbers into focus. Hell, he’d lost count. Twenty-six hours, now nineteen minutes, and…he picked up his half-drunk brandy and tossed it back. It didn’t matter.

  Time had ceased to matter.

  None of it mattered.

  “You must speak to him. I’m ever so worried.” From outside his office door, his mother’s murmured words cut across the numbed haze that gripped him.

  The wood panel of the door drowned out his brother-in-law, Waxham’s response.

  Geoffrey reached for the nearly empty bottle of brandy, and poured himself a tall glass. They could all go to hell.

  Because now, Alexander Powers, once a faceless bastard who’d broken Abigail’s heart was real. A vise-like pain gripped his heart. The other man had stood there looking like one of Michelangelo’s damned sculptures, a golden foil to Abigail’s dark beauty.

  No amount of alcohol could drive back his remembrance of the masculine possessiveness and love in Powers’ eyes.

  I love you, Abby.

  Geoffrey clenched his eyes tight but could not, would never be able to escape the dagger-like pain cloying at his insides. Until he died, he would forever remember the moment of Alexander Powers’ return…because it had been the moment when all Geoffrey’s hopes of earning her love had died a swift, and agonizing death.

  Geoffrey had caught her as she’d fainted and he would cherish every last one of the thirty-seconds or so when he’d cradled her close.

  He’d handed her off to her brother, and fled faster than Abby’s fabled Hermes.

  Ever since, Geoffrey had been foxed.

  “Please, speak to him. It is that…” woman.

  “Abigail,” Geoffrey whispered. “Her name is Abigail.”

  Waxham spoke. “I…” But his words were muted.

  The door opened.

  Geoffrey swiped the back of his hand across bloodshot eyes. “Get the hell out, Waxham. I’m not accepting company.”

  The door closed. “I should hope not. You smell horrid.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes shot open. His sister stood near the door, gazing at him with far more concern than he deserved. He’d been a bastard to her.

  “Mother asked Christopher try to reason with you. I assured her I would speak to you, Geoffrey.” Her lips twitched. “I don’t believe she found any comfort in that.” Sophie wandered over to the full floor-length windows, and threw the curtains wide. “Mustn’t have you sitting here alone in the dark.”

  He flinched at the sharp burst of sunlight that streamed through the windowpanes.

  Whatever words she cared to utter about Abigail would be a futile waste of her energies. The devil with his silver tongue couldn’t convince Geoffrey that Abigail had been anything but the most perfect thing to have ever happened to him. For a brief moment, the gods had seemed to think him worthy of happiness, and sent Abigail into his life.

  And he’d spit in the face of his fate.

  Sophie advanced further into the room and claimed the leather winged back chair at the foot of his desk. “I told her I’d speak to you about Miss Stone.”

  “And?” Geoffrey slurred. He reached for the decanter of brandy, but Sophie leaned over with far more speed than he imagined her capable of, and yanked the bottle off his desk.

  She set it down on the floor beside her. “And, as a young lady, I have it on good authority that other ladies do not admire a gentleman who wallows in self-pity.”

  He growled. “I’m not wallowing.” Pause. “Perhaps I am,” he conceded. “May I have my bottle?”

  Sophie wagged a finger at him. “No more of that,” she murmured. “You will not win back your Miss Stone if you’re…” she wrinkled her nose, “smelling like a hot pig in a summer sun?”

  There would be no winning Abigail back. He’d lost her before he’d ever had her.

  He sat back in his chair and swiped his arm across his eyes. “Please, leave,” he said.

  Sophie drummed her fingertips along the arms of her leather seat; the grating sound echoed around his mind. “You know, I don’t think I will. You need a friend.”

  A harsh chuckle escaped him, and his arm fell back to his side. It appeared Sophie and Sinclair were of like opinions. “I don’t need a friend.”

  I need Abigail.

  His sister went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “For years, Geoffrey, I’ve believed you to be a pompous ass.”

  At one time Sophie’s vulgar language would have appalled him more than the charge she now leveled at him. It had been Abigail who’d forced Geoffrey to confront the weaker aspects of his character and aspire to be a better, more honorable person.

  “That is because I am a pompous ass.”

  Sophie smiled. “Yes. There is truth there. But you weren’t always that way.” She scooted to the edge of her seat.

  No. His life had been irrevocably changed when he’d come upon his father’s body that stormy night five years ago. Geoffrey appeared to be the same cowardly bastard he’d always been, because even after all this time, he couldn’t find the courage to tell Sophie of the events that had precipitated their father’s death.

  Sophie continued on, seeming unaware of the inner turmoil roiling through him. “And you haven’t been that way since you met your Miss Stone.”

  “She isn’t my Miss Stone,” he said, tiredly.

  For a mere flicker in time, Geoffrey had been fortunate to have her in his life but she had always belonged to Powers.

  Sophie’s smile dipped. “Oh, dear.”

  He glanced past her shoulder, toward the gold brocade curtains.

  She sighed. “You are supposed to ask, ‘what, Sophie?’”

  “What is it, Sophie?” He wanted nothing more than his half-drunk bottle of brandy.

  “You love her rather desperately, don’t you?”

  The vise about his heart tightened, and he rubbed his chest, to dull the st
eady, throbbing ache, to no effect. “I do,” he breathed the word into existence. And he’d uttered them, too late. In the end, she’d not believed him.

  Alexander Powers’ tall, powerful visage flashed to mind and Geoffrey buried his head into his hands. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes in a desperate attempt to rid himself of the image of Abigail and Alexander together. She would leave. She would board a ship with the man who had in fact been faithful to her…and exist as nothing more than a memory in Geoffrey’s heart.

  The crackle of leather, followed by the flutter of muslin fabric registered.

  Sophie knelt down at his feet and took one of his hands between her own. “Geoffrey, she is not lost to you.” She gave a faint squeeze.

  “She is,” he said, his voice hollow.

  “You must go to her.”

  Geoffrey pulled his hand free, and climbed to his feet. “I did go to her, Sophie.” He dragged a hand through his mussed hair, and proceeded to pace a small path in front of his desk.

  “And?” she prodded.

  “And the gentleman she loved,” Loves. “Has come for her. It would seem some kind of misunderstanding occurred.” He grimaced.

  Misunderstanding. One seemingly innocuous word. Yet, it represented the death of Geoffrey’s dreams

  Sophie wrinkled her nose as though she’d taken in a distinctly unpleasant odor. “A misunderstanding?”

  After Geoffrey had handed Abigail over to her brother’s arms, he’d fled but not before he deduced that some manner of lie had been told to separate Abigail and Powers. Odd to think if that one untruth hadn’t been perpetuated, then Abigail would have never come to London and Geoffrey would have never lost his heart to her generous, spirited hands.

  Even suffering as he was, he could not bring himself to regret having met her.

  Instead, Geoffrey would have to find solace in knowing Abigail was once again happy—even if that joy came in the arms of another man.

  His heart lurched.

  Oh god, this would destroy him.

  His sister sat back on her heels. “Hmph.” She tapped her finger alongside her jaw. “Well, there is nothing for it. You must fight for her.”

  Geoffrey froze mid-movement. Could he fight for her? At one time, Geoffrey had believed nothing mattered more than his pride and honor. What Sophie proposed would require him to set aside all those aspects of his character, and humble himself in the vain hope that Abigail would forget her love for Powers, and…

  His breath died on a long sigh. “No, Sophie.”

  Her cornflower blue eyes went wide in her face. “But…”

  “No,” he said, this time more adamantly. He’d caused Abigail enough pain. She’d been bruised and battered and nearly killed because of Geoffrey’s faithlessness. He remembered back to that miserable night when she’d stood before him, pleadingly in his foyer. A good deal of her suffering had transcended physical wounds. “I cannot.”

  Sophie stood, with fire snapping in her eyes. “Then you do not truly love her.” With a flounce of her curls she turned around and stormed toward the door.

  Denial tore from him, harsh and guttural. “Don’t.” He could imagine how someone such as Sophie believed him incapable of that emotion. Geoffrey had been an utter bastard to Sophie over the years. “I cannot cause her more pain,” he said at last.

  Sophie spun to face him. Her gaze moved over his face. “Oh, Geoffrey,” she whispered.

  He looked away, hating that he’d become an object of his sister’s pity.

  “Please, let me help you.”

  Unless she could convince Abigail differently of the feelings she carried in her heart, then nothing could be done. His throat moved up and down. “I do not deserve your kindness, Sophie.” Not after the great hurt he’d done his family all those years ago on a different road, on a different thunderous night.

  “You are my brother,” she said simply. “I love you. Now, we must devise a plan.”

  “No,” he said.

  Her widened eyes indicated she heard the finality in that succinct utterance.

  She folded her arms across her chest, a determined glint in her eyes. Then, she nodded once. “Very well, Geoffrey. But this is not done.”

  He stared at her as she took her leave.

  It was done.

  It had been done the moment Alexander Powers entered the Duke of Somerset’s parlor.

  A gentleman should always be punctual.

  4th Viscount Redbrooke

  ~31~

  Abigail stared down at her packed trunks and valises. They rested in an orderly heap at the foot of her bed. Her maid, Sally, continued to pull garment after garment from the armoire, and lay them upon the coverlet of Abigail’s four-poster bed.

  He’d not come.

  He’d not returned for her.

  Pain twisted Abigail’s heart, and she drew in a deep, shuddery breath.

  Odd, how very similar this moment was to another. Abigail stood, numb while Sally moved to place the remaining gowns inside the trunks.

  Abigail folded her arms across her middle. Only this time, she’d not been forced away in shame. She’d chosen to leave.

  Nothing remained for her here. There was no life in England without Geoffrey. His world had very clearly resumed its proper, practical course—a course that did not include the shameful, American Abigail Stone.

  The door opened.

  Abigail glanced over distractedly. Her cousin stood at the front of the room. Her wide, blue eyes filled with sadness tugged at Abigail’s already broken heart.

  “Oh, Abby, you mustn’t leave,” Beatrice said softly.

  Abigail picked up her silver comb and brush. She turned the delicate pieces over to Sally who accepted them, and rushed over to another trunk and began to pack Abigail’s accessories.

  “I must,” Abigail murmured.

  Beatrice walked over to Abigail. She stopped several feet away, and ran her gaze over Abigail’s face. “Is it because you love Mr. Powers?” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Because I did believe that perhaps you loved Lord Redbrooke.”

  Abigail shook her head. “I…” She took a deep breath. “No. It is not because of Alexander.”

  Beatrice picked up one of Abigail’s butterfly jewel-encrusted combs and moved it back and forth between her two hands. She wandered over to Abigail’s bed littered with gowns, and sat upon the only empty corner. “I did believe you would wed Lord Redbrooke.” She glanced up from the combs in her hand. “Did you not want to wed him?”

  Abigail swallowed. Her gaze slipped over to the now wilted bouquet in the large porcelain vase upon her mantle. “I did want to wed him. He…”

  Does not love me.

  Never came back for me.

  Was merely motivated by a gentlemanly sense of honor and guilt.

  “He…” Her words ended on a sigh. “It’s not to be, Beatrice.”

  Beatrice settled back in her seat, hopelessly wrinkling the golden satin gown beside her. “I do not like this forlorn side of you.”

  Sally reached for the unopened box Geoffrey had left behind at his last visit. Her maid placed the oddly shaped package into a trunk. “No!” Abigail exclaimed. She felt herself coloring. “Uh…that is just, thank you,” she said, and rushed over to remove the small item from the trunk.

  Beatrice cocked her head and studied the box. “What is it?”

  Abigail shrugged. “I don’t know. Lord Redbrooke brought it the day he called, and…”

  “You never opened it?” Beatrice snorted. “I believe you are the only woman in all the kingdom who’d fail to open a gift.”

  Abigail looked down at the package. It’s not that she didn’t want to open it, per se. She did. Rather desperately. It wouldn’t, however, in light of Geoffrey’s rejection, be proper to retain the unopened gift. She’d been meaning to have it delivered to his townhouse with a very informal, polite letter. But she’d never gotten herself round to doing it.

  Perhaps beca
use the minute the flowers wilted and the box was gone, it would be the end of something that almost was.

  She sighed and set the box down on her vanity. “Will you see that it is delivered to him, Beatrice?”

  Beatrice rushed to her feet. “You’d merely return it?”

  Abigail nodded. “It is the right thing to do.” After all, it would be the height of impropriety to accept a gift from a gentleman.

  Beatrice propped her hands on her hips and tapped her foot on the floor. “Bahh, love is wasted on you and Lord Redbrooke! The two of you are a perfect match.” She threw her hands up in an air of resignation and marched over to the door.

  Beatrice yanked it open with great force and stumbled into Nathaniel.

  Abigail’s brother stood poised, hand raised as if he’d intended to rap on the wood panel.

  “Forgive me,” Beatrice muttered, and slipped by him.

  Nathaniel gave his head a bemused shake. “What was that about, poppet?”

  She shook her head. “I’m a bit old to be called poppet.”

  He crossed over and tweaked her nose. “You’ll always be poppet.”

  It appeared her brother still viewed her as the same young girl she’d been; the one who’d chased after him, and put spiders in his boots, and ink in his tea. He somehow had seemed able to look past the scandal and simply see his sister—Abby Stone.

  Nathaniel surveyed the room, and seemed to do a kind of inventory of the stacked trunks and valises. “It appears you’re nearly packed.”

  She attempted to swallow, with little success. Instead, she nodded.

  Nathaniel motioned for her to sit.

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “When I journeyed here, Abby, I did so with the intention of reuniting you and Alexander. I expected you’d reconcile, and we would return. The three of us. It isn’t that simple, is it?”

  It hadn’t been that simple in very many years. “No,” she whispered.

  “You love him?”

  She didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I do.”

  “If you wed him, then you’ll have to remain here, and there is nothing more I would hate in the world than to board my ship and sail away knowing that this is where you’ll spend the rest of your days.”