Page 30 of A Perfect Gentleman

Lady Eugenia raised her eyebrows. “I was unaware I needed your permission to invite a guest.”

“You needn’t put on that look of wounded innocence. You know perfectly well I have never limited you—would never limit you—regarding guests or anything else. But I would hope you might give a thought to how I would feel about it. Couldn’t you have warned me?”

“I was afraid you might balk if you knew.”

He snorted. “At least that’s honest.”

“I prefer not to lie unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Then tell me the truth again—why in the name of all that’s holy did you invite her?”

“Because, my boy, you don’t seem to be accomplishing much on your own.”

Graeme stared, the silence in the carriage as thick and brittle as glass. His grandmother returned his gaze with an air of calm expectation.

“You’re in on it with her!” His voice slid upward in amazement. “Good heavens, Grandmother. How did she talk you into it?”

“Please.” The countess sniffed. “She didn’t talk me into anything. I wrote to her, suggesting she visit England and attempt a reconciliation.”

“You suggested it?” He had not thought he could be any more astonished, but clearly he was wrong. “Why? I find it hard to believe that you took a sudden liking to Abigail.”

“Of course I don’t like the woman.” She looked at Graeme as if she found him deficient in reason. “But you must have an heir, and your wife lived on the other side of the Atlantic. Clearly someone had to do something. I want grandchildren, and I will never have any if I leave the matter up to you.”

His jaw dropped. “Good Lord. I don’t love the woman. I don’t even like her. Hell, I don’t even know her. And you expect me to . . . to . . .” He sputtered to a stop, unable to say in front of his grandmother any of the words that came to his mind.

“I expect you to do your duty,” she returned with asperity. “You are your father’s son, after all. Surely you are capable of bedding a woman without loving her.”

“ ‘Et tu, Brute?’ ” Graeme murmured.

“There’s no need to bring Shakespeare into this.” The countess turned on him the gimlet gaze that was usually guaranteed to bring any recalcitrant relative into line. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to jump off a cliff or face a horde of savages.”

“I am bloody well tired of playing the pawn in someone else’s game.”

“Don’t swear.”

“That’s what concerns you?”

“What concerns me is this family.” Lady Eugenia leaned forward, her expression implacable. “Stop emoting like a tragedian and be Lord Montclair.”

His own grandmother. It was unbelievable. It was no surprise for James to be cavalier about it, but for the dowager countess, the stickler for propriety, upholder of aristocratic values to urge him to—well, it was outrageous! Infuriating. Why were they so insistent on pushing him into Abigail’s arms?

For that matter, why was he so damned insistent on not doing something that he wanted quite urgently to do?

Kissing Abigail had set him afire. Why not take what she eagerly offered? She asked for no emotional entanglements. Abigail was being coolly logical; he was the one twitching around like some coy maiden. It was no wonder James laughed at him.

But there was nothing wrong in having some pride, surely. Abigail was manipulating him—on the one hand using the hammer of divorce, on the other the sweet enticement of her kisses. Nor was it just pride or stubbornness or even principle. No one seemed to understand that taking her into his bed, living with her, would mean an acceptance of his marriage. Of her.

His grandmother spoke of duty. But hadn’t he already given up enough for duty? The name would survive and so would the title without Graeme taking a woman he distrusted into the very center of his life.

It was easy for James to treat it as a casual thing, a few encounters. But it wasn’t that simple. Abigail would be the mother of his child. He would have to live with her unless he let his child go off to live with her alone, something he would never allow. He would have to honor and respect her, treat her as his wife.

Maintaining a mistress or visiting a lady of the night had never struck him as wrong when Abigail was his wife in name only. But if Abigail was his wife in truth, such dalliances would be an insult. He refused to be the philandering sort of husband his father had been.

But then he would be trapped indeed. God knew, he would enjoy coupling with Abigail now. But passion faded. When he no longer felt this surge of hunger for her, what would be left for him? Lovemaking without passion or love, merely to satisfy a need, held little appeal, like eating just to survive. A lifetime of celibacy held even less allure.

Or, worse—what if he came to care for her?

His father had been weak where women were concerned. Graeme knew that in many ways he was the same, though he exercised more control over his desires. A woman’s tears, her smile, her softness, undid him. How many times had he done something just to please his mother or his grandmother? Even Aunt Tessa had only to look at him with her huge eyes sparkling with tears and he would weaken and give her the money that her less-susceptible son would not.