Page 80 of A Perfect Gentleman

The sliver of light that came from beneath the door to Abby’s room went out. He stood for a long moment, battling with himself. Finally he walked to the door and took the knob in his hand. It would not turn. The pain that pierced him was unexpectedly sharp. Graeme set his jaw. At least he could act like a man about it.

He turned away.

chapter 26

Abigail started down the stairs. She had breakfasted on tea and toast in her room. The pattern of the past few days was that usually the other members of the household had gone their separate ways by the time she emerged from her bedroom. Graeme retired to his study or sometimes left the house on some piece of business or other. Lady Eugenia and her companion spent the morning in the upper sitting room, leaving Abby the peaceful solitude of the library.

The afternoons required her to make an appearance in the drawing room to greet callers or to venture forth with the dowager countess, paying calls. Before teatime, Abby often escaped to her bedroom for a nap—she was uncharacteristically sleepy these days, but it was also a convenient way to escape Mrs. Ponsonby, who had apparently taken it as her mission to keep Abby’s spirits up.

After that there was tea and later dinner or an evening out. It was then that she was with Graeme, trapped in a miserable charade of marriage. Gone were the intriguing conversations, the laughter, the kisses stolen in alcoves or hallways. There were no more seductions or teasing anticipations, no sweet lovemaking, no long nights wrapped in his arms.

Now there was only the most prosaic of conversation between them. His only touch was a helpful hand up into the carriage or the formal extension of his arm to her as they walked. Graeme had retreated to his former polite, remote behavior, his smile perfunctory, his laughter nonexistent.

There had been a few times when she glanced up and found his eyes on her, and she had felt the familiar breathless certainty that he wanted her, that at any moment he would sweep her up to his bedroom. But then he would glance away and the moment was over. Sometimes during a conversation with others, they would glance at each other, their eyes alight with laughter, and she would feel the old familiar closeness, the shared amusement. When that happened, she ached for what she had once had, no longer hers.

They did not talk about their investigation. Abby knew that Graeme had gone out a time or two to see someone connected to the fund, but he had not asked her to accompany him. And that, she thought, had hurt more than almost anything. Had their closeness been only an illusion?

She had to think that his show of desire for her had been a pretense, too, given how quickly he had accepted her release from their agreement. Even as she set him free, she had hoped deep inside her that he would not want to be released. That he would take her in his arms and tell her that making love to her had never been a burden, that he desired her as much as she did him.

But he had not.

Abby told herself it didn’t matter. She had gotten what she wanted. She had done the right thing, even though it hurt. It was better, really, that it had ended when it did. She had grown perilously close to loving him. Any longer, and she might very well have lost her heart to him. That would have been worse. Surely it would have been worse.

Abby went to the library, as was her custom, but she was unable to settle down to read. She went from shelf to shelf, seeking something that would pull her from her gloom. It was a welcome interruption when Norton announced Mr. Prescott.

“Yes, send him in.” Abby knew a twinge of guilt. She had neglected her friend recently.

Norton’s disapproval of her receiving visitors in the library was clear, but he merely looked at her with an expression of long-suffering and bowed out of the room, returning a moment later with David Prescott in tow.

“David.” Abby extended her hand to him, her spirits lifting. “How good it is to see you again.”

“Hello, Abby.” He smiled. “Are you well? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Do I look so awful then?” she asked in a teasing tone.

“No, of course not. You could not be anything but beautiful. But you look a bit . . . thin. The last time I called on you, they said you were indisposed.”

“It’s nothing to worry about. I have been a bit under the weather lately, but it is due to a ‘happy event,’ not illness.”

“Ah. Of course. Then I am very pleased for you.” His face looked more regretful than pleased, but Abby chose to ignore that.

“Thank you. I am, as you must guess, elated.”

“Then you must take especial care of yourself,” he said.

“I am quite cosseted.” Abby saw no reason to add that it was Mrs. Ponsonby and the dowager countess doing most of the cosseting.

“Abby . . .” His tone was serious, and he peered intently into her face as he spoke. “You know that if anything is wrong or you are unhappy or . . . frightened in any way, you need only come to me, and I will help you.”

She raised her brows. “Of course. You are a true friend. But I’m fine, I assure you. It takes more than the prospect of a baby’s birth to frighten me.”

“I wasn’t referring to that. I know you are fearless—too much so. A little caution would be healthy for you.”

“David . . . whatever are you talking about?”

“The other day, the last time I was here, when I could not see you, I talked to your maid.” At Abby’s grimace, he went on hastily. “Do not blame Molly; I asked to speak to her. I wanted to be sure you were all right. She’s concerned about you. She told me there had been a fire in your room.”

“You must not refine too much on what Molly says. She worries about me as if I were still five years old.” She turned away, sitting down at the library table. “There was an accident, and the curtain caught on fire. I was not harmed, I assure you. I’m quite well and intend to remain so. Now . . . sit down and tell me what you have been doing. What is the latest news from New York?”