Page 6 of A Perfect Gentleman

“No, the jet necklace, I think, to accent the dress.” Abby glanced over at the creation that lay across the bed. An underskirt of rich black satin was overlain by a shimmering silk overskirt, pulled back and pinned to fall in extravagant folds over the bustle and into the short train. The front of the silver bodice and overskirt were marked with a few bold black chevrons, the finishing touch a delicate black strip of lace lining the edge of the heart-shaped neckline. “The dress itself is the real jewel.”

“Aye, that it is, and cost as much, too, I’d say.”

Abby smiled faintly. “But well worth it.”

“Everyone will be looking at you tonight,” Molly agreed, setting the jewelry chest down on the vanity table before Abigail. “He’ll see you, sure enough, if he’s there.”

“I am told he will be.” Abby picked through the drawers of the chest until she found the necklace of faceted jet beads and handed it to the other woman. “And if he isn’t, well . . .” She shrugged. “There will be another time. He won’t stay away long; after all, it’s his duty to his family.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Molly grumbled, settling the string of beads around Abigail’s slender throat. “If you want my opinion, which you dinna, that man is the last thing you ought to wish back in your life.”

“It’s been ten years. Don’t you think he might have changed? I know I have.”

“Aye, well, you’ve become the lovely woman you were always meant to be. I dinna know what that Sassenach devil’s become.”

“To be fair, he was in love with someone else. He didn’t want to marry me.”

“Aye, well, then, he should have married her, not you.”

“He had to marry me in order to save his estate. I can’t fault him for doing his duty to his family. I am sure my father pushed him, as well. You know how he is.”

“Aye, well enough.”

“I was just too young and foolish to see how it was. I assumed Lord Montclair was content enough to marry me. I took his behavior as British reserve, gentlemanly restraint, not resistance. Indeed, I think I didn’t want to know the truth. He was . . .” She tilted her head to the side, remembering, and her eyes softened. “He was so handsome, so refined. Not at all rough or consumed with making money like my father and his friends. Not wild and extravagant like their sons.”

“He had a bonny look to him,” Molly admitted.

“Yes, he did, didn’t he?” Abby smiled and met her maid’s gaze in the mirror. “I wonder if he still does.”

Molly snorted. “If he got his just desserts, he’s balding and has a paunch.”

Abigail chuckled, standing up and taking off her robe. “It’s been a decade, not two or three.”

“Och, well, dissipated living can do much to a man.”

“He didn’t seem ‘dissipated.’ More upright than anything else.”

“I suppose.” Molly was reluctant to give up her vision of the man. Picking up the whalebone corset, she wrapped it around Abigail. “Breathe in now.” As she pulled in the ties, she went on, “I canna see why you don’t set your sights on someone better suited for you. Mr. Prescott would do anything for you. Look at the way he came to London with you.”

Abby waited until the ribbons were fastened to let out her breath and speak. “I believe Mr. Prescott had business to attend to here, as well.” Molly gave an eloquent shrug, and Abigail continued, “And Mr. Prescott is not my husband.”

Molly sighed. “I know. That’s the devil of it, isn’t it?”

They continued the dressing ritual, pulling on her petticoats and fastening the bustle attachment. Then, finally, Molly stepped up on a stool and carefully lowered the magnificent Worth creation over Abigail’s head without disturbing her coiffure. She fastened the buttons up the back and gently adjusted the train that cascaded over the bustle and flowed out a few inches onto the floor behind Abigail.

Together they studied the results of their efforts in the mirror. Molly let out an appreciative sigh. “Ah, Miss Abby, you’re a picture. If that man doesn’t go down on his knees and beg your forgiveness, he’s a fool.”

Abigail laughed. “Well, that would certainly enliven Lady Pengrave’s ball, wouldn’t it?” She picked up her fan and gloves and paused to let her maid settle the gossamer silk wrap around her shoulders. “Whatever Montclair does, I am quite looking forward to it.”

“Are you sure she’s here?” Graeme asked, scanning the crowded ballroom. “I don’t see her.”

“How could you hope to spot anyone in this crush?” his grandmother retorted. The place was stuffed with people, with only the dance floor relatively clear—and that was being encroached upon by the minute.

Graeme turned back to his grandmother. The dowager countess, square and stout in her usual purple, was a formidable woman. She was not tall, but she was as immovable as a wall, and there were few who dared cross her. Even James did his best to avoid her. Everything about her, from her haughty expression to her firmly corseted form, seemed carved from granite.

“She will be here,” Lady Eugenia decreed.

“Everyone comes to Lady Pengrave’s ball,” added the countess’s companion, who stood just beyond her. Mrs. Ponsonby’s statement was delivered in a soft, die-away voice, as one would expect from her. A small, frail woman, Mrs. Ponsonby was as unlike the countess as it was possible to be. Quiet and soft-spoken, she rarely offered an opinion unless it was to agree with the countess. Living on Lady Montclair’s generosity since her husband’s death, she did her best to be as unobtrusive as possible. It was, Graeme thought, probably the wisest course to take with his grandmother.