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
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
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