Page 78 of A Perfect Gentleman

As for Abby wronging him—well, yes, she had maneuvered him into her bed. And he had been furious at her, sure that her talk of divorce was a threat. But how could he resent her for something that brought him such pleasure? He knew her now, was sure she had not acted maliciously. It had torn his soul today to see her tears. He’d wanted to take her in his arms and soothe away her pain and regret, to assure her he was happy, not angry.

Then, in the next breath she told him that she was leaving him. Not only that, she’d had the gall to act as if he was the one at fault. As if he had asked for it. Damn it, he hadn’t asked for any of it. She was the one who had swooped in and gleefully turned his life upside down. And just when everything was going well, she’d jerked the rug from beneath his feet.

“Don’t pretend you ever wanted me,” she had said. It had been “all duty” to him—oh, yes, clearly that was nothing but duty that had sent him into her bed all those nights.

And if she was so appalled by her father’s actions, if she regretted her own bit of marital coercion, then why the devil was she punishing him by kicking him out of her bed? Where was the logic in that?

While he was reeling under those blows, she had delivered the coup de grâce: she was carrying his child. Sweet heaven . . . his child. A strange warmth blossomed in his chest at the thought, and along with it a rush of anticipation mingled with alarm, even fear. What would it be like to hold his own child in his hands?

He tried to imagine a boy in his image. No, easier by far to see a girl who looked like Abby—black curls tied with pink bows, and a frilly white dress. But how could he possibly manage to be a father? He realized that he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do. And what kind of example was he of anything? Worst of all, what if the baby died? What if Abby miscarried? What if she died giving birth to his child?

Graeme leaned on the desk, bracing his head with his hands. What he wanted most at this moment was to hold Abby, to cradle her in his arms and spill out all the joyous, fatuous, horrific things rattling around in his head. He wanted to lay his hand across her abdomen, dreaming about that fragile life inside her, a part of him nestled beneath her heart. He wanted to kiss her and assure her that he would take care of her and her child.

And that was precisely what Abby had denied him. What the devil was the matter with the woman? Why had this warm, willing, generous creature, this smiling green-eyed temptress who was so eager and adventurous in bed, abruptly turned away from him?

The answer to that was obvious, no matter how galling it was to admit it. She had never wanted him. What she had wanted was a child. Graeme had been nothing to her but a means to an end, and now that her goal was accomplished, she had no use for him anymore. Perhaps he had not been wrong in his original assessment of her. Maybe she really was cold and hard as stone.

But no . . . he remembered the hurt that had flashed across her face when she’d realized who Laura was, the sadness in her eyes, brimming with tears, her stark white face, smudged with blue shadows beneath her eyes. He thought of her smile, of the mischief that danced in her eyes, the soft moans that escaped her lips when he made love to her. No, she was not cold.

It could be her condition. Pregnancy caused women to act peculiarly, didn’t it? The truth was, he had no experience with pregnant women. He was an only child, not married except in name, and he had been careful to make sure such an instance didn’t arise with any mistress he had taken. The married men he knew were not in the habit of discussing their wives, and his grandmother and mother would sooner have swallowed nails than discuss something so indelicate.

Or perhaps it was simply that Abigail was right. They had made an agreement. And this, he knew, was last in his thoughts because it was the one he did not want to examine. But he knew Abby now; she did not lie. With her, there was no subterfuge, no hidden meaning. Their marriage had been a straightforward bargain made between two adults. They both wanted a child and had agreed to conceive one. Now she was pregnant, and their agreement had been fulfilled. There was no longer any need for them to sleep together. No reason to pretend they were a normal couple.

Abigail understood and accepted it. She was simply continuing with their agreement. Only he was foolishly holding on to something that had been form, not substance. He should really be relieved that he could return to the life he’d had before. He should be glad Abby was willing to move forward on her own.

Graeme groped beneath his tumultuous emotions for the resentment he had once held for Abby, the love he had felt for Laura, the independence of living without thought of another person. It must be there underneath all these painful feelings. Surely he could get back to himself. Being with Abby had been fun and pleasurable and easy, shimmering with excitement. But it wasn’t a normal life. It wasn’t something that lasted. It was only an interlude, too intense to live with always.

There. That made sense. That fit. It was just as it should be. His life would return to the way it had been, the way he liked it. And he was certain, absolutely certain, that soon he would no longer feel this hollowness inside.

After spending much of the day brooding over the matter in his study, Graeme approached teatime with some trepidation, unsure what to say or how to act around Abby. It was with a curious combination of relief and disappointment that he saw that only his grandmother was taking tea with him.

He watched Lady Eugenia pour. “Um, Abigail is not partaking? Or Mrs. Ponsonby?” he added hastily. It occurred to him that he should tell his grandmother the news; it was, after all, what she had been hoping for this whole time.

“No. Philomena felt it her duty to stay with Abigail when she learned the countess was feeling under the weather. Philomena is always so insistent on doing her part, but I fear she’ll grow rather thin if she intends to keep this up the whole nine months.”

Graeme refrained from saying that it was more likely Abigail would bar the door against Mrs. Ponsonby after one session of being “entertained” by her. He wondered if the woman had read a section of Pilgrim’s Progress to Abigail to ease her suffering, as she was apt to do with his mother. It took a moment for the import of his grandmother’s words to sink in. He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You already knew?”

“About Abigail’s delicate condition? Yes, of course.” Lady Eugenia offered a rare unrestrained smile.

“She told you?” Abby had confided in his grandmother before him?

“Of course not. Don’t be foolish. She didn’t have to say anything; I could see the signs. I do have some familiarity with the subject.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Really, Montclair.” She sent him the sort of look that had always pinned him to his chair. “It’s hardly a fit topic for conversation in mixed company.”

“I didn’t see any signs.”

“Of course not, dear, you’re a man.”

“I should have, shouldn’t I?”

“I can’t see why.” She sipped her tea.

“Because . . . I don’t know. Grandmother . . .” He toyed with his spoon. “I don’t know what I should do.”

“Do? I’ll tell you what you should do. Stop all this idiocy about your father’s charity, for one thing. I cannot imagine why you feel the need to seek out everyone who ever had any interest in that fund. It can’t be good for a woman in Abigail’s condition. She should be resting, not digging through trunks or chasing about the city.”