Page 9 of A Perfect Gentleman

“Abby?” The man’s eyes went immediately to her. “Are you all right?”

“You are an acquaintance of my wife’s?” Graeme asked before Abigail could open her mouth. Four hundred years of aristocracy colored his voice.

“Yes.” Abigail dropped her hand from Graeme’s arm, shooting him an arrow glance before favoring the other man with a smile. “I’m quite all right, David, thank you.” Americans were, Graeme thought, terribly free with given names. “Allow me to introduce you to the Earl of Montclair. Lord Montclair, this is Mr. David Prescott.”

Prescott gave him a greeting as chilly as his glance, and Graeme replied in kind. “You’re visiting London?”

“Yes, Mr. Prescott was kind enough to escort me on the trip,” Abigail explained.

“Ah, I see.” Graeme shifted, subtly positioning himself between Abigail and the other man. “Then I must give you my thanks for watching over my wife.”

Prescott met his eyes levelly. “I thought someone should.”

“I beg your pardon?” Graeme’s eyebrows soared.

Without the least degree of subtlety, Abigail latched hold of Graeme’s arm and squeezed. She flashed a brilliant smile at both men. “Mr. Prescott also had business in London.”

“Indeed? You are an associate of Lady Montclair’s father?”

“I used to work for him.” His tone was as blunt as the look in his reddish-brown eyes. “But I would say I am more a friend to Lady Montclair now.”

“Are you.” Graeme bared his teeth in something like a smile. Naturally the man would come from Thurston Price’s camp. The insinuation in Prescott’s words was obvious, an insult that made him itch to take the fellow outside. But, of course, that would result in exactly the sort of scandal he was trying to avoid.

It was, he reflected sourly, probably what Abigail was hoping for. And it didn’t matter, not really. He did not care where Abigail might choose to give her favors; indeed, the man was quite welcome to her. It was the insult that annoyed him, the reflection on his name. He was not jealous.

Abruptly Graeme stepped back. “Then I will take my leave so that you may pursue . . . your friendship.” Sketching a bow to the other two, he turned and walked away.

Abigail watched Graeme’s retreating figure, feeling suddenly drained. Prescott studied her with a frown. “Are you all right, really? Shall I escort you back to the hotel?”

She summoned up a smile for the man. It wasn’t his fault that seeing Graeme had left her shaky. “That would be most kind of you. I believe I am a little tired.”

“Of course. I’ll fetch your wrap.”

They left the ballroom. Abigail carefully avoided glancing in the direction Graeme had gone. She refused to let him see that she was looking for him. She had gotten through it; that was the main thing. She had not let him see how the nerves had danced inside her from the moment she saw him standing there.

He was more handsome than she remembered. She wasn’t sure if her memory was faulty or if maturity had honed his looks into a sharper, more vivid image of himself. He had been only twenty-three when she married him, not that much older than she. His form had filled out into the more powerful one of a man in his prime. The square jaw and firm chin were a trifle harder, the even features tempered by time and experience into something deeper than mere attractiveness. He looked, she thought, like a man in whom one could put one’s trust.

But that, of course, was an absurd thought. Experience had taught her how little she could entrust any of her feelings or hopes to him. She knew Graeme was a man of his word, for he had never wavered in the slightest regarding his vow to stay away from her. No doubt those he loved could rely on him. But someone like her, someone whom he held in disdain, would be a fool to let down her guard.

“Could we walk?” she suggested as they left the house. “It’s a lovely night and not all that far.”

“Of course, if you wish.” Prescott fell in beside her, and she took his arm with easy familiarity.

“I’m glad you came with me,” she went on. “I know I told you I could handle it all without help—and I could have—but it is nice to see a friendly face.”

“Was it very hard meeting him again?”

Abby shrugged. It was impossible to describe the wild mixture of emotions that had flooded her at the sight of Graeme. The rush of excitement and the downward tug of dread, the swift, mindless attraction to his face and form, the effort to keep up the light, unemotional role she had decided to adopt.

“It was . . . odd,” she admitted.

“You don’t have to do this, Abby.” He stopped and faced her, taking both her hands in his. “You needn’t face Montclair.”

Abigail smiled fondly at him. “No. I do need to.” She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, then let go and started walking again. “I have to go forward with my life. I cannot continue in this limbo forever.”

“I hate that you should have to have anything to do with him. I’m not sure what you hope to accomplish by all this.”

“Frankly, I sometimes wonder myself.”