Page 94 of A Perfect Gentleman

From the man’s bewildered expression, Graeme was inclined to think he was telling the truth. “Then maybe it’s as simple as this: you covet Abigail. She is married to me; she’s carrying my child. You know you’ll never have her. And you cannot bear it.”

Prescott surged to his feet. “I’ve known that for ten years.” He came around the desk. “I’ll tell you this: I’ve thought a few times about killing you. But I never once considered hurting her. There’s only one person that would want her dead, and we both know who that is.”

“Don’t you dare try to turn this back on me.” Graeme moved closer to him, fists clenching at his side. “I would never hurt Abby. Never. I am trying to protect her.”

“If you’re so keen on protecting her, why is she immured in your little castle in the country while you’re here in London?”

“Because she’s as bloody suspicious as you are!” Graeme swung away. He would have loved to punch something, but he refrained, knowing he’d only look like an even bigger fool than he was.

“You’re saying Abby thinks you’re trying to kill her?”

“Apparently.”

Prescott let out an inelegant snort. “You really don’t know a thing about her, do you?” He looked at Graeme for a long moment, then sighed. “Look, I don’t like you.”

“That doesn’t exactly come as a surprise.”

Prescott ignored him. “But I’ll do you a favor anyway. If I thought Abby would leave with me, I’d take her away from you in a second. But there’s no way Abby would go. I know, because I offered.”

“What?” Graeme stiffened.

“I told her that I feared for her safety. I offered my help. Abby told me Molly was wrong. It was all nonsense, and you would never hurt her.”

“That’s a trifle different from what she said to me.”

“If Abby was scared of you, why hasn’t she fled? She’s got money; she’s got me; she’s got Molly. And she has a father who could slice you up six ways to Sunday and never turn a hair. If she wanted to, Abby would be on the next ship to New York, and I don’t care if you’re the Earl of Montclair or the King of England, you’d never get her back.” Prescott shrugged. “But you go ahead and deceive yourself all you want.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure if you’re a coward or a fool, Montclair. But it’s pretty damn convenient to put the blame on Abby for your desertion.”

Rage shot through Graeme. He grabbed Prescott by the lapels and slammed him into the wall behind him. “Damn you! How dare you say— I didn’t go with Abby because she didn’t want me.” Graeme gave him a last little bump into the wall for emphasis and released him.

“Oh, really? Well, if I had a wife and somebody had tried to kill her, I wouldn’t be sitting here whining about how she hurt my feelings. I’d damn sure be with her to make certain it didn’t happen again. No matter what she told me.”

Graeme left Prescott’s office in a fury. His mind raging, he strode aimlessly through the streets. He remembered the last night he had walked like this, lost in his thoughts, until he was literally lost, as well. That, too, had been about Abby. It seemed he always wound up in a daze over her. If he believed in magic, he’d think she had bewitched him.

Graeme had always tried to conduct himself as a gentleman. He didn’t intrude on others, least of all a lady. He wouldn’t think of forcing his attentions on her or even importuning her. One treated one’s wife with care and respect, and in that area he had fallen woefully short at the very beginning. It seemed the least he could do now was to leave Abigail alone.

It didn’t matter that he wanted her so much it hurt or that he was lonely or bored or missed her smile. Her laugh. Her eyes. Except, damn it, he did want her, and he was thoroughly miserable. And, truthfully, he was bloody tired of being polite.

What if Prescott was right? Was he a fool? Or a coward? Maybe he was both. Sometimes he felt as if he didn’t know anything anymore, least of all himself.

What if not imposing on Abby was merely a pretext, a way of holding himself apart, aloof? A way of avoiding the truth. What if it was just that he was frightened? Scared that he might tell her all this—how he felt, what he wanted, how utterly miserable he was without her, and she wouldn’t care?

He wound up finally sitting in Hyde Park. He felt adrift, unable to find the guidelines. It was hours before he dragged himself home. He avoided Norton, who sought to press more food on him, and shut the door on Siddings’s fussing.

Alone, he opened the door to Abby’s room.

The faint scent of her perfume lingered here, as tangible as a caress. His eyes moved around the room, finally stopping on the bed. He turned away from it and crossed the room, trailing his hand along the dresser. There was nothing on it but a lamp and a lace runner, no trace of Abby. The vanity was much the same, the little pots and bottles and cases that had sat there gone.

He thought of watching her brush out her hair or apply her perfume before a party. He remembered the way she would dab it behind her ears, on her wrists, between her breasts. His loins tightened with the familiar, insistent ache.

He opened the wardrobe. She had left a few dresses there, one of them the purple taffeta gown she had worn the night of Lady Middleton’s ball. The night their marriage had crashed into ruin. The last time they’d made love.

Graeme slid his hand down the dress, remembering the swish of it as she walked. He bunched the material in his fist. He thought of how he had stood across the ballroom, riveted by the sight of her in this gown, completely unaware of the conversation around him. Abby had turned and looked across at him and she had smiled, lowering her eyes as if she were a blushing maiden, but sending that wicked glance up at him.

The thought was enough to make him harden. He leaned in, resting his forehead against the fabric, cool as water, breathing in the scent of her, remembering the smell of their sex in his nostrils, the bliss of being sheathed in her tight heat, her arms clasped around him as if she would never let go.