Page 41 of A Perfect Gentleman

“Sorry.” He looked down at her. With a stab of shame, he realized that ripping open her clothes had sent a wave of primitive arousal through him. The sides of her corset fell away, exposing the camisole beneath. Soaked as it was, the thin garment was almost transparent, and it clung to her flesh, revealing the lush curves of her breasts and the darker circle of her nipples, pressing against the cloth.

It was inappropriate. Wrong. Animalistic. But he knew that the tremor in his fingers as he untied the ribbon of her undergarment had only a little to do with the chill in his fingers. Doing his best to keep his movements calm and detached, he tugged the camisole off over her head.

“Here.” His voice came out husky, and he kept his eyes firmly turned away as he reached over and grabbed up a towel, wrapping it around her shoulders.

She made a pleased noise at the warmth, pulling the towel tightly around her, and a long shudder ran through her. And that, too, Graeme found, stoked the fire in his veins. He kept his eyes on his hands working on the ties of her petticoats, but sliding those down her legs provided an equal amount of temptation. He could not keep his mind from straying to the way her long, slender legs had felt wrapped around him last night, how achingly sweet it had been to slide between them and bury himself inside her.

He hoped she could not feel the surge of heat in his hands. Hastily, he laid a blanket over her. Perhaps it was all right to leave the pantalets; they were, God knew, thin enough to dry quickly. Graeme turned his back to her and settled down to work on the elegant leather boots. For a moment he was tempted to pick up his knife again and use them on the long crisscrossing laces, but he refrained. Perhaps the tedious task of unlacing the myriad of aglets would cool his blood.

Lord, but he was becoming a lecher. Abigail had been inches away from a man who was shot to death; she’d been pushed into the river and almost drowned. And he couldn’t keep his mind off making love to her again.

The knock on the door came as a relief. The housekeeper swept in, carrying a tray. “Here we are, sir. I’ve brought you each a cup of nice hot soup.” She cast a disapproving look down at Graeme. “You ought to put on something dry, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“And if I did mind?” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Mrs. Burbage had been the housekeeper since he was a lad, and she ran everything and everyone in the place, servant or earl, with the same cheerful domination.

“I’d say it anyway, I expect.” Her dark eyes twinkled as she thrust a cup into his hand.

The soup was too warm and enticing to protest. He stood up as the gray-haired woman bustled about, pulling Abigail up and wrapping her blanket around her with an efficiency Graeme knew he could not hope to match. She settled Abigail onto a low stool directly in front of the fire and pushed the cup of soup into Abigail’s hands.

“Drink up, dear, and you’ll feel better in no time. Now.” Mrs. Burbage swung back to Graeme, pointing a stern forefinger at him. “You go let Siddings get you cleaned up before the man has apoplexy. I’ll take care of Lady Montclair.”

Graeme turned to Abigail. Her mouth curved up a little, her eyes already regaining their glow. “Yes, well, clearly you will do that better than I.” He winced inwardly at the almost sulky tone of his voice.

“Graeme.” Abigail leaned forward, throwing out her hand to him. He took it and was startled when she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it, then pressed it to her cheek. “Thank you.”

“Yes. Well.” He shifted and glanced around vaguely, feeling at once warmed and embarrassed. He squeezed Abigail’s hand. “Mrs. Burbage will take good care of you. I—I’ll be close by. If you need me.” He was strangely reluctant to leave.

Graeme glanced over at the housekeeper, who nodded at him, her face sympathetic. “Don’t worry, she’ll be fine. You go on now.”

Graeme nodded, and with a last glance at Abigail, he left the room.

chapter 14

Now that he was no longer tending to Abigail, Graeme realized just how wet, cold, and dirty he was. It was a relief to bathe and put on fresh trousers and a shirt. Afterward, he returned to Abigail and was told by Mrs. Burbage that “Lady Montclair is soaking in a nice warm bath” and the housekeeper would let Graeme know “when Lady Montclair is ready” to see him. Interpreting this statement to mean his presence was both unnecessary and undesirable, Graeme sat down beside the fire in his study and, leaning his head back against his chair, let his mind drift.

He was, he thought, rather a failure as a husband. He had not succeeded in even the most basic of a husband’s responsibilities, keeping his wife safe. Of course, his wife’s refusal to inform him of what she was doing made the task somewhat difficult. He supposed a better husband would have known what she was up to.

What had sent Abigail down to the docks? Her vague explanation of an unknown person offering “information” about her father was flimsy, and her demeanor indicative of a lie, just as it had been this morning. Surely she must have known more about this “information” or the informer or she would not have risked going to as unsavory a place as a dockside tavern.

What did she hope to discover about her father—or, more likely, what did she hope to conceal? Thurston Price doubtless had done numerous things one wouldn’t want bandied about, but that didn’t explain why she wouldn’t tell Graeme. It wasn’t as if he had any illusions about her father’s character. Perhaps the information wasn’t about her father, or at least not solely. What if it was something about her she was hiding?

Graeme was roused from his reverie by Mrs. Burbage’s entrance. He jumped to his feet. “How is she?”

“She’s right as rain, sir, now don’t you worry about that. It’d take more than a dip in the Thames to do her in.”

He smiled faintly. “No doubt you’re right.”

“I’ll set the maids to preparing a room for her, but in the meantime, I put her to bed in your bedroom. I hope you don’t mind.”

Graeme thought of Abigail tucked up in his bed, and lust stirred deep inside him. How could he desire a woman this much when he did not even trust her? “That’s fine. No need to bother with that tonight.”

“As you wish, sir.” She turned to go.

“Mrs. Burbage?”

“Yes?” She swiveled back.

“Send someone to Lady Montclair’s maid at the Langham. Molly’s her name. Instruct her to pack up her ladyship’s things tomorrow and bring them here.”