Page 92 of A Perfect Gentleman

“I can see.”

“I will admit I could imagine it more of you,” she went on in a musing tone, surprising a little crack of laughter from him. “But when you added Graeme to the plot, you lost all hope of convincing me.”

“Indeed? I was under the impression you accused him of trying to murder you.”

“I was angry. And I didn’t accuse him of anything. What I said was that I would be safe as long as I was away from there. That’s probably true—if someone is trying to kill me. All the ‘incidents’ have occurred in London. That doesn’t mean I think Graeme is behind it.”

“Then who do you think is behind it? Aside from myself, of course.”

“I don’t really know why anyone would be trying to kill me, which is why I find it difficult to believe. All I’m certain of is that it isn’t Graeme.”

“If that’s true, why didn’t you tell him so?”

“I told him I didn’t mean it, but you can’t really ‘unsay’ things, can you? And he’s right; it will be better this way.”

“I see. So now that you’ve gotten what you wanted, you’ll toss him aside.”

“Toss him aside?” Abby stopped and faced Sir James, a flush of anger staining her cheeks. “I am doing what I can to make up for the wrongs my father and I have done him. He’s free to live as he wants now. He can see Miss Hinsdale every blasted day if he chooses. He won’t have to lie or pretend to feel what he doesn’t. And I won’t have to be there to watch him do it.”

Tears sprang into her eyes, and she whirled away, embarrassed. “I won’t stand here trying to justify myself to you.” She turned and stalked back to the carriage, Sir James politely trailing a few steps behind her.

Abby spent most of the rest of the journey with her eyes closed, pretending to sleep and doing her best to keep her stomach under control. That task was helped by the fact that Sir James stopped several times along the way, allowing her to get out and walk around a bit. She was surprised by his thoughtfulness, given his obviously poor opinion of her, but of course, as he had said, stopping was preferable to her being ill inside his luxurious carriage.

They pulled up to Lydcombe Hall late in the afternoon. By the time Abby stepped down from the carriage, the front doors had opened and Graeme’s mother was rushing toward them, arms outspread.

“Dearest girl! I am so happy to see you. What wonderful news!” Mirabelle engulfed Abby in a hug. Her mother-in-law was warm and soft and smelled faintly of jasmine. And, surprising even herself, Abby wrapped her arms around the woman and burst into tears.

“There, now, sweetheart.” Mirabelle patted her back, seemingly unperturbed by the sudden storm of tears. “It’s going to be fine. Don’t you worry about a thing. You’re home now.”

Strangely enough, Abby did feel as if she was home. Mirabelle swaddled her in such loving care it was impossible not to feel cherished. Abby loved Lydcombe Hall and its gardens, even in the autumn. Her bedroom was lovely and comfortable, the meals delicious. If she expressed a preference for any food, it was on the table the next meal. Her mother-in-law was happy to stay with her or leave her to her own devices, as it suited Abby’s mood. Abby was in the best of health, and the baby was, as well. Abby knew she should have been walking on air.

Instead, she was lonely and miserable and far too apt to break into tears. Even though she had not yet gained weight, her waist disappeared seemingly overnight. It was wonderfully freeing to give up her corsets, but equally lowering to let out the waists of all her frocks. The nausea began to recede, fortunately, but her moods swung up and down. She found herself snapping at poor Mrs. Ponsonby, whose constant and extreme solicitude grated on Abby’s nerves. Abby immediately apologized, of course, but it left her feeling both guilty and annoyed. She had always heard that a pregnant woman’s complexion glowed. Hers was pasty. Her hair had lost its sheen.

None of those things would have mattered, she knew, if Graeme had been there. It was his absence that made her ache, that turned her happiness to sorrow. She wanted to talk to him, to share every new and exciting change she was experiencing. Each time she walked through the gardens, she was bombarded by memories of being there with him. She thought of the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way he turned his head, the heated, heavy-lidded way he looked at her when he was about to take her in his arms.

It seemed almost perverse that she should daydream about him, that her body should ache for his touch, his heat, his kisses. Abby would have presumed—if she had ever thought about it before—that a woman approaching motherhood would have higher thoughts somehow, her physical needs ebbing. But she had found that it was precisely the opposite. Her body betrayed her, yearning for pleasure, and her wayward mind made it worse, returning over and over again to Graeme’s lovemaking.

The days dragged by and became weeks. Each day she watched for a letter from him, but there was nothing except a few notes addressed to his mother, in which he always included a terse inquiry as to Lady Abigail’s health—she noticed he never called her Abby or his wife. Abby wrote him every day, but tucked each missive away in a growing pile, unsent.

Humiliatingly, she was even reduced to asking Sir James on one of his short, periodic visits if he had heard from Graeme. He glanced at her sharply, but said only, “Yes. A few times. He asks after you.”

She nodded. “That is courteous of him.” After a moment’s silence, unable to stop herself, she went on, “He is well?”

“If he is not, he doesn’t say so.”

“What does he— I suppose he is quite busy.” Abby picked at the monogram on her handkerchief.

“I don’t know. His correspondence is more peppered with questions than with details of his life in London. Perhaps, Lady Montclair, if you wished to know what he is doing, you might write him.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure he wouldn’t . . . he is busy and I, um . . .”

Abby blushed to the roots of her hairline, embarrassed by how much she had revealed of herself. It was clear that Graeme had removed himself from her in every way. She was nothing to him but the carrier of his heir. He did not care about her. He did not desire her. He did not miss her.

And she, who felt all those things for him, was trapped—not by this house or these people or even by the baby inside her, but by her own heart.

chapter 30

Graeme rolled out of bed. He couldn’t sleep anymore. Truth was, he rarely slept these days. He just lay awake and churned with feelings. Regret. Lust. Self-pity. Resentment. Pain. All those and a thousand more ran through him, unstoppable, unbearable . . . and utterly pointless.