Page 11 of A Perfect Gentleman

After the fiasco of her wedding night, she had fled to the Continent, miserable and alone. When her father tracked her down and sent Prescott to bring her back, David had convinced her to return—not to her sheltered life in her father’s house, but to take her place in society on her own. And she had done it. Abby had faced her fears, weathered the storm of scandal, and set herself up in her own household, no longer her father’s pawn, but a married woman of substance.

She had remade herself into a confident, attractive woman, one who was not afraid to speak up, who dared to do what she wanted, who made her own decisions. Abigail lifted her chin, giving her image a disdainful smile. The life she had in New York was one she had built. She could do the same again here.

She had come here with a purpose. She was not about to slide back into the quicksand of fear and doubt. Abigail Price might have been a timid sort whose heart was easily bruised, but Abigail Parr, the Countess of Montclair, was a woman who could handle whatever came along.

Nothing that Graeme or any mysterious letter-writer could do would stop her.

chapter 4

The woman was haunting him. It seemed as if everywhere he went, Abigail was there. He saw her at the opera, sitting in the Havertons’ box, chatting and laughing with their thoroughly dissolute son. She was at Mrs. Battleham’s soiree the next night with that upstart American Prescott in tow. Last night he spotted her at the Hammersmiths’ dinner party, this time seated next to and madly flirting with Lord Cargaron, a man old enough to be her father and married, as well—not to mention reputed to also maintain a mistress. No doubt he hoped to work Abigail into his sexual juggling act.

It was nothing to Graeme, of course, with whom Abigail flirted or what man was standing beside her, sneaking glances down the front of her gown. But any scandal she brewed now would stain his name. That was his only concern.

She was too free and familiar in her speech. Her gowns were—well, they were not lewd, of course; his grandmother assured him they were from Worth or another elegant designer. It was just that they all looked so . . . so delectable on her. A pale pink satin that looked as if Abigail were layered in rich pink frosting, or a vivid gold velvet that changed the color of her eyes to a bewitching shade of tarnished copper. Even a simple black silk frock drew one’s eyes inexorably to the contrasting creamy white skin of her breasts and shoulders.

He never saw Abigail in the same dress twice, and he heard the envious murmurs among other ladies as they studied her attire. Lady Montclair’s ball gowns, the dowager countess assured Graeme, occupied a large space in the conversations of every afternoon call. Graeme was not entirely certain whether his grandmother deplored the idea or was proud of it. He could not help but wonder how Abigail could afford so many luxurious dresses. He gave her a very generous allowance out of the estate, of course, but still . . . he wouldn’t have thought it extended to a seemingly limitless wardrobe of Parisian gowns.

Graeme had never paid attention to women’s dresses. He had admired one or two on Laura, but he had never noticed them as he did now. No doubt Laura had dressed more conservatively, not trying to bring attention to herself. Laura had always been a perfect lady.

Abigail, on the other hand . . . It would not be fair to say that she did not act like a lady. He had not seen her do anything untoward or inappropriate. It was more that wherever she was, whatever she did, she drew everyone’s eyes. When she smiled, she sparkled; she moved her hands expressively as she talked; when she was amused, she laughed aloud. There was nothing demure about her, nothing reserved. He remembered the silent wisp of a girl he had married and he wondered where she had gone.

Had she purposely deceived him? She might have thought he would be more agreeable to tying himself to her if she pretended to be a proper lady. If so, she had certainly done an excellent acting job. He admitted that his eyes had been too full of Laura to really see any other woman. But he couldn’t have been that blind, that mistaken. Abigail must have been manipulating him, just as her father had. It made him wonder what she was trying to maneuver him into now.

Whatever it was, he refused to fall in with her schemes. Despite his grandmother’s prodding, he avoided Abigail. He did not try to speak to her. In fact, if he found himself anywhere near her, he immediately left. No matter how inescapable her presence seemed to be, he refused to acknowledge it. The irritating thing, of course, was that avoiding her meant that he had to keep an eye on her. He saw her conversations, her dances, her laughter. Even more annoying was that when she was not at a party, he still looked for her, wondering where she was and with whom.

“Why don’t you just go talk to her?” his grandmother asked him now. “I don’t know what you hope to prove by standing here watching her.”

“I’m not watching her. I happened to glance over.”

“Hmph.”

“And what I am proving is that she cannot goad me into action. She wants to stir up trouble, to provoke me into doing something.”

“Doing what?” Lady Eugenia asked.

“I don’t know. I have no intention of finding out.”

“This seems a most peculiar plan, I must say.”

“If I refuse to respond to her as she wishes, if I ignore her, eventually she will realize I am not going to rise to the bait, and she’ll stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Bothering me.” He glanced over at Lady Eugenia. Her expression reminded him forcibly of the time he was eight and had knocked over her favorite Waterford vase.

“Graeme Edward Charles Parr, it is time you stop shilly-shallying about and take that woman with you to the estate.”

“I have no intention of taking her home.” Graeme set his jaw. “I don’t know why you think that is any sort of solution to the problem.”

“It is a solution that will keep her out of London. A result, I might add, that folding your arms and glowering at her every night has not brought about.”

“At least she does not have that American fellow with her,” Mrs. Ponsonby offered in her soft voice.

“That is little consolation, Philomena,” Lady Eugenia told her.

“No, of course not.” Mrs. Ponsonby nodded.

The dowager countess heaved a sigh. “Well, if you have no intention of doing anything constructive, Montclair, take me home. It’s deadly dull, as Mrs. Wellersby’s parties always are, and listening to that old fool Danforth gave me a headache. I don’t know why we came in the first place.”