Page 43 of A Perfect Gentleman

“What the devil are you suggesting?”

“I am saying that when she was in New York, no one harmed Abby. But here someone has tried to shoot her and drown her. I wonder, who in this city would like to get rid of her? Who has told her to leave time after time?”

“You’re accusing me of harming her?” Graeme took a quick step forward. “Are you mad? She is my wife.”

“Exactly. A wife you would prefer not to have.” Prescott did not back away.

“I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t harm any woman, much less one I took a vow to protect.”

“You made a number of vows that day,” Prescott sneered. “You haven’t kept the others. Why keep this one? We both know you have failed Abby in every way possible. I suppose you might not have been behind what happened to her tonight. But I doubt you’d shed any tears if she were gone. Forgive me if I am not reassured by the idea that you have locked her away in your house and are ‘looking after’ her.”

Graeme clenched his fist, thinking how satisfying it would be to smash it into the man’s face. “Lady Montclair is not a prisoner here. You are free to call on her tomorrow at a more reasonable time and see the state of her health for yourself.”

“Oh, believe me, I will.” Prescott’s baring of his teeth could hardly be termed a smile. He stalked away, but at the door he stopped and turned back to Graeme. “Take damned good care of her, Montclair. You’ll answer for it if you do not.”

Graeme swung around and began to pace, seething with anger. As if he would try to hurt Abigail! It was absurd, of course. Abigail would not think that; she was too reasonable. Oh, the devil, what was he talking about? He had no idea whether Abigail was reasonable or not; he scarcely knew the woman. All he really knew was the strong and inconvenient hunger for her that had taken up residence in him lately.

He felt like smashing something, but that would be childish. He took out some of his ill humor by jabbing the fire with the poker, then banging the poker back into its stand. What was most annoying was the fact that several of Prescott’s arrows had struck too close to home, echoing his own thoughts earlier this evening. He had failed to protect her. Indeed, he had failed in any number of ways.

At least he could do something about safeguarding Abigail from now on. He had already taken the first step by moving her here, under his roof. It was clearly impossible to keep an adequate watch over her when she lived somewhere else. The next task was to untangle the mystery of tonight’s rendezvous. He was certain that was the key to it all. Tomorrow he would find out the name of the man who had been shot tonight.

Right now he needed to see her. Despite Mrs. Burbage’s assurance that Abigail was fine, he wanted to check for himself. As he climbed the stairs to his room, he realized that he also needed to sleep. His anger at Prescott had drained away, taking with it the remnants of his energy.

He thought of Abigail in his bed, of slipping beneath the covers with her. It had been nice—far more than nice, if he was truthful—to wake up beside her this morning. But it seemed an invasion of her privacy to lie down with her uninvited. Which was enormously foolish. He was her husband, after all; he had every right to be there. It was, in point of fact, his bed.

The only thing wrong about lying down with her was the fact that his need for sleep had nothing to do with it. He was already aroused, just thinking about her, but it would be base of him to importune her. Abigail had been through an ordeal tonight.

His bedchamber was dark save for the flicker of light in the fireplace, but that was enough to allow him to see Abigail’s form in his bed. He walked over and stood for a moment, gazing down at her. She was nestled on her side, dark hair spread across his pillow. The covers had slipped down, and he could see that her shoulders were bare. She was naked beneath the sheet.

His body tightened, his mind filling with images of stripping her wet clothes from her this evening. Graeme thought about the way he had ripped her dress apart in frustration and sliced the laces of her corset. Predictably, now he was hard as a rock. He should turn away and let her sleep.

Graeme reached out to glide his hand across her hair. Abigail’s eyes opened and she smiled sleepily.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to awaken you.” And wasn’t that an enormous lie?

“That’s all right.” Abigail turned over on her back, reaching out to take his hand, which sent the covers sliding perilously down the slope of her breast. To his disappointment, it stopped just above her nipples. “Come to bed.” Her voice was soft, and she tugged at his hand.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. “I, um . . . You should sleep.”

“I will.” She smiled again, the curve of her lips slow and provocative. “We can both sleep here. It’s quite large.”

“You must be tired,” he said thickly.

“So must you.”

“Not at the moment.”

She chuckled a little, her lips parting over her teeth, and all he could think of was how it would feel to have those teeth sink into his shoulder. Abigail slid over, flipping the corner of the covers back in invitation.

Graeme stripped off his clothes and climbed in beside her.

Abigail was, as he had guessed, deliciously naked, her flesh warm and pliant. He stroked his hand down her body, watching her eyes darken with desire. He bent to kiss her. Now, he knew, he could not stop. He kissed her over and over—long, drugging kisses as his fingers sought out the hidden places that made her tremble and moan.

Graeme was drunk on the taste of her, the feel of her. Her skin was satin against his fingertips, and when his hand slipped between her legs and found the thick moisture of her arousal, it was all he could do not to let out an animal growl of hunger. Passion pounded in him, urgent, insistent, but he clamped down on it with merciless control, determined to take the time and care that he should have taken the night before.

Abigail writhed beneath him, her hands caressing his dampened skin, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Graeme . . . Graeme . . .” She threaded her fingers through his hair, and when she clenched her hands in his hair as a tremor ran through her, the prickle of pain only heightened his hunger.

At last he moved between her legs, sliding into her slowly. Desire was a deep, throbbing ache, a swelling pressure that pushed at the dam of his control as he thrust and retreated in a timeless rhythm. Abigail dug her heels into the bed, arching up against him, her relentless need building until with a thin cry she shuddered and clung to him. Then, at last, he released the reins of his control and rode, hard and fast, to a shattering climax.