A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  As they walked through the lobby, Graeme rehearsed in his head what he must say to her. As soon as they stepped from the lift, he began. “I wanted to speak with you. I could not with my grandmother there, of course, but I have been remiss. I should have come to see you immediately. The other evening, when you proposed that we—that I—that is to say, that we alter the arrangements of our marriage . . .”

  “You mean sleep together?” Abigail suggested.

  He gave her a pained look. “Are you always so blunt?”

  “I don’t know.” She grinned, mischief lighting her eyes. “I have never discussed the matter with anyone before, you see.”

  “Good Gad, I should hope not.” He sounded, he realized, like a pompous old fogy, and he could feel heat rising up the back of his neck. How did he always wind up feeling awkward and embarrassed around Abigail? He cleared his throat and plowed ahead. “What I mean to say is that I acted inappropriately. I was angry. I should never have—I am not in the habit of forcing my attentions upon a woman, and I must apologi—”

  “Stop it!” Abigail jerked her hand from his arm and whirled to face him. The color was high on her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. “Just stop it.” She reached out and dug her hands into the lapels of his jacket, crumpling them, and stared straight into his eyes. “Don’t you dare apologize for kissing me.”

  Still holding the front of his jacket with a death grip, she stepped in closer and went up on her toes and kissed him. Graeme stood still, too stunned by her action to move, as her mouth closed soft and warm on his. A quiver ran down through him.

  She pulled back, her breath coming as swiftly as his, heat shimmering between them. “You kissed me the other night because you wanted to.” She moved in again, and this time he seized her waist and pulled her up into him.

  Their lips met, hungry and fierce, and she let out a satisfied little sigh that swamped him with heat. Her hands slid up his chest and neck, sinking into his hair, and every movement made his flesh tingle. He was immediately, achingly hard. When at last she pulled back, it took all his strength of will to relax his arms and release her.

  “You wanted to kiss me,” she whispered. “And you want more than that. Can’t you for once stop playing the gentleman and tell the truth? At least ten years ago you were honest.”

  Abigail whirled and walked rapidly away. He watched, his mind a jumble, as she opened her door, then turned to him. “I’ll be here tomorrow evening if you want to accept my offer.”

  She stepped inside and closed the door.

  chapter 10

  Graeme ran a shaky hand back through his mussed hair and glanced around. He was relieved to find the hallway empty. His hat had wound up on the floor. He bent over to pick it up and absently brushed a piece of lint from it.

  She had finally driven him to madness. Kissing her right in the middle of the hotel corridor, where anyone might have come along and seen them. Bizarrely, the thought sent another sizzle of arousal through him.

  He took the stairs down, unwilling to face the lift operator, and paused for a moment to gather his wits before leaving the hotel. Hoping that nothing of what he’d just done showed on his face—the dowager countess had eyes like an eagle—he smoothed his hands down the front of his jacket and set his mind to think of anything other than that moment in the hall outside Abigail’s room.

  “Goodness, Montclair, you’ve left me sitting here an age,” his grandmother greeted him. “You might have a little more consideration.”

  “You might have had a little more consideration than to invite Abigail to join us,” he shot back, his nerves too ragged for courtesy.

  Lady Eugenia raised her eyebrows. “I was unaware I needed your permission to invite a guest.”

  “You needn’t put on that look of wounded innocence. You know perfectly well I have never limited you—would never limit you—regarding guests or anything else. But I would hope you might give a thought to how I would feel about it. Couldn’t you have warned me?”

  “I was afraid you might balk if you knew.”

  He snorted. “At least that’s honest.”

  “I prefer not to lie unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Then tell me the truth again—why in the name of all that’s holy did you invite her?”

  “Because, my boy, you don’t seem to be accomplishing much on your own.”

  Graeme stared, the silence in the carriage as thick and brittle as glass. His grandmother returned his gaze with an air of calm expectation.

  “You’re in on it with her!” His voice slid upward in amazement. “Good heavens, Grandmother. How did she talk you into it?”

  “Please.” The countess sniffed. “She didn’t talk me into anything. I wrote to her, suggesting she visit England and attempt a reconciliation.”

  “You suggested it?” He had not thought he could be any more astonished, but clearly he was wrong. “Why? I find it hard to believe that you took a sudden liking to Abigail.”

  “Of course I don’t like the woman.” She looked at Graeme as if she found him deficient in reason. “But you must have an heir, and your wife lived on the other side of the Atlantic. Clearly someone had to do something. I want grandchildren, and I will never have any if I leave the matter up to you.”

  His jaw dropped. “Good Lord. I don’t love the woman. I don’t even like her. Hell, I don’t even know her. And you expect me to . . . to . . .” He sputtered to a stop, unable to say in front of his grandmother any of the words that came to his mind.

  “I expect you to do your duty,” she returned with asperity. “You are your father’s son, after all. Surely you are capable of bedding a woman without loving her.”

  “ ‘Et tu, Brute?’ ” Graeme murmured.

  “There’s no need to bring Shakespeare into this.” The countess turned on him the gimlet gaze that was usually guaranteed to bring any recalcitrant relative into line. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to jump off a cliff or face a horde of savages.”

  “I am bloody well tired of playing the pawn in someone else’s game.”

  “Don’t swear.”

  “That’s what concerns you?”

  “What concerns me is this family.” Lady Eugenia leaned forward, her expression implacable. “Stop emoting like a tragedian and be Lord Montclair.”

  His own grandmother. It was unbelievable. It was no surprise for James to be cavalier about it, but for the dowager countess, the stickler for propriety, upholder of aristocratic values to urge him to—well, it was outrageous! Infuriating. Why were they so insistent on pushing him into Abigail’s arms?

  For that matter, why was he so damned insistent on not doing something that he wanted quite urgently to do?

  Kissing Abigail had set him afire. Why not take what she eagerly offered? She asked for no emotional entanglements. Abigail was being coolly logical; he was the one twitching around like some coy maiden. It was no wonder James laughed at him.

  But there was nothing wrong in having some pride, surely. Abigail was manipulating him—on the one hand using the hammer of divorce, on the other the sweet enticement of her kisses. Nor was it just pride or stubbornness or even principle. No one seemed to understand that taking her into his bed, living with her, would mean an acceptance of his marriage. Of her.

  His grandmother spoke of duty. But hadn’t he already given up enough for duty? The name would survive and so would the title without Graeme taking a woman he distrusted into the very center of his life.

  It was easy for James to treat it as a casual thing, a few encounters. But it wasn’t that simple. Abigail would be the mother of his child. He would have to live with her unless he let his child go off to live with her alone, something he would never allow. He would have to honor and respect her, treat her as his wife.

  Maintaining a mistress or visiting a lady of the night had never struck him as wrong when Abigail was his wife in name only. But if Abigail was his wife in truth, such dalliances would be an insult. He refused t
o be the philandering sort of husband his father had been.

  But then he would be trapped indeed. God knew, he would enjoy coupling with Abigail now. But passion faded. When he no longer felt this surge of hunger for her, what would be left for him? Lovemaking without passion or love, merely to satisfy a need, held little appeal, like eating just to survive. A lifetime of celibacy held even less allure.

  Or, worse—what if he came to care for her?

  His father had been weak where women were concerned. Graeme knew that in many ways he was the same, though he exercised more control over his desires. A woman’s tears, her smile, her softness, undid him. How many times had he done something just to please his mother or his grandmother? Even Aunt Tessa had only to look at him with her huge eyes sparkling with tears and he would weaken and give her the money that her less-susceptible son would not.

  Abigail was an expert at deception. After all, until he’d found her going out in the night to secret meetings and threatening him with divorce, she had convinced him that she knew nothing of her father’s machinations.

  She was already determined to make him dance to her tune. How much would she be able to twist and turn him to her will if she was able to reach his emotions? She could turn him into nothing more than a puppet.

  But surely he was not so weak a man that he would allow her to control him. Could he not maintain his reserve and wariness where she was concerned?

  Yes, she was attractive and he felt a certain amount of desire for her—very well, a large amount of desire for her—but at some point passion would fade. Then they could settle into a distant relationship, maintain a formal civility. It wasn’t as if he were spineless. He knew better by now than to trust her. He would not allow her to worm her way into his affections.

  He had hurt her pride when he’d rejected her. The bitterness in her tone, despite her light words, made that clear. And he was sorry for that, no matter what he thought of her character. He could understand why she thought he owed her something.

  Perhaps he did. It was scarcely fair to deny a woman a child, the thing most women longed for. She was as tied to him as he was to her. He sometimes thought with regret about not having children. How much more so would a woman?

  It would have been easy enough for her to saddle him with another man’s child, so it spoke well for her that she had not.

  If she was able to go into an affair with such cold practicality, surely he could also. They could establish rules—a contract of sorts, as if it were a business arrangement. Which, he supposed, in a way it was. Yes, he would be giving in to her coercion, which galled him. But it would be foolish, surely, to stubbornly refuse to do something that was in his own best interest to do.

  He would call on her the following evening, as she had suggested, and they could discuss the matter, agree to certain ground rules, lay out the various aspects of their agreement. It would all be very civilized, very cut-and-dried, not a repetition of what had happened between them the last two times they had broached the matter. It was the sensible thing to do.

  Still, as he went to bed, he could not help but wonder if, rather than being reasonable, he had merely talked himself into jumping into quicksand.

  Abby spent a good deal of time on her bath and toilette. She could not rely on Graeme calling upon her this evening. Their heated kiss the night before had given her hope, but she was coming to discover just how stubborn a man he was. Molly, aware that Abby was expecting a visit from Graeme, glowered at her in the mirror as she brushed out Abby’s hair and helped her into an elegant blue satin dressing gown. Abby ignored her.

  It was more difficult to ignore her own nerves, especially after she dismissed the maid. Her stomach was too twisted to eat anything and her nerves too jumpy to sit down, so she spent her time pacing and checking and rechecking to make sure every detail was just right. The lighting was appropriately low and rendered faintly exotic by the gauzy red scarf thrown over the lampshade; the wine and two glasses sat ready on the table in front of the sofa; the door to the bedroom was invitingly ajar but not boldly open, and a mellow glow came from the lamp within.

  Her appearance, of course, was the centerpiece of her plan, and she had accomplished all she could there. She could not, after all, magically become a delicate slip of a girl. But her dressing gown was perfect—as elegant as a dress, it was unencumbered by the excesses of fashion, so that there was no bustle, no corset, no yards of material, no petticoats.

  Designed to resemble a kimono, the sky-blue satin was patterned with clouds and trees in a Japanese style. The long sleeves were slit at the elbow and hung almost to the hem of the robe, showing the red satin lining inside them. A very wide sash emphasized her waist and the lack of a stiff corset beneath. Lacy frills of her nightgown showed above the waist and below the cut sleeves and flashed into view between the sides of the skirts as she walked.

  Modest but subtly provocative, it was the perfect attire for a lady’s boudoir. Her hair was arranged in a casual coil atop her head and anchored with two red-lacquered chopsticks. She remembered the way Graeme’s eyes kept going to her unbound hair the other night.

  She had done everything she possibly could. Now she just had to wait.

  A knock sounded on the door, startling her even though she had been hoping for it. Her heart began to hammer in her chest. Her future hung in the balance. What if she could not bring it off?

  “Abigail.”

  Graeme said her name in the way only he did: so formal and crisp and English. It broke her from her momentary paralysis. She could do this. She would do it. She refused to accept any other possibility.

  Abby opened the door. “Graeme—or perhaps I am presuming. Should I call you Montclair? I confess I haven’t yet gotten the British way with names.”

  “Graeme. Yes. Of course,” he said distractedly as his eyes took in her attire. “I’m sorry. Do I have the time wrong? I—” He glanced back toward the hall as if he might leave.

  “No.” Abby curled her arm through his and pulled him into the room, closing the door behind them. “This is the right time.” She guided him toward the sofa. “I’m glad you decided to accept my invitation.”

  “Well, I—I thought we should clarify a few things, lay some groundwork, so to speak—if that is, we are to do this thing.”

  “Then you are amenable to . . . this thing?”

  Graeme cleared his throat and glanced away from her, turning his hat brim around and around in his hands. “I have taken it under advisement.”

  He looked so ill at ease that Abby almost smiled. “Very well.”

  She reached out and slipped his hat from his grasp, hanging it on the coatrack. Graeme trailed over to the window, aimlessly touching the back of a chair, the closed draperies, a decorative vase on the table. He glanced toward the lamp, softly glowing beneath the gauzy scarf, then reached out to brush his fingertips across the material. He quickly pulled his hand back.

  Graeme turned back to face her, his face carefully remote. “Little as I wish to give in to your threat of divorce, I must admit you have a point regarding my, ah, need for an heir. It is understandable that you should want a child. I—it is scarcely fair of me to deny you the, um, joys of motherhood. I fear I had not considered that aspect of the situation.”

  “Then you are agreeable. I’m glad.”

  “There are certain things that must be made clear, however.” His eyes ran down the front of her dressing gown. “Perhaps you should . . . Don’t you think you might prefer to change into something more—I mean, perhaps we should talk about this in a more . . . formal setting.”

  “A formal setting? You mean—at an attorney’s office? You intend to make a contract?”

  “No. No, no, of course not. I just thought . . . perhaps someplace else.”

  “I think this is the sort of conversation that would be better served in an intimate setting. Don’t you?” She slipped her hand in his and led him back to the sofa. “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me
your stipulations? Would you care for a glass of wine?”

  “What?” He tore his eyes away from her bosom and looked at the carafe and glasses. “Oh, no. That’s perfectly all right. Well, perhaps.”

  She sat and leaned forward to pour the wine. Picking up her own glass, she settled back and faced him. “Now . . . what is it you want to make clear?”

  “If we have a child, he—”

  “Or she,” she interjected.

  “Yes, of course, or she—or they.”

  “They? Then you are thinking of more than one?”

  “Well, I do need an heir.” Color began to rise in his face. “And one cannot be certain . . .”

  Abigail smiled. “I see. Then you’re saying we should keep at it until we have a boy?”

  His color deepened. Perversely, Abigail felt herself growing more relaxed with each expression of Graeme’s nerves.

  “I didn’t mean—I don’t know.” He picked up the glass of wine and took a gulp.

  “Well, we can deal with that when the time comes. What else?”

  “He—she—must be raised here.”

  “In London?”

  “In England. I will not allow you to take my child away, to whisk him back to America with you and raise him there.”

  “I agree. Your heir should grow up here, where he will inherit the title. I wouldn’t want him to be a foreigner to his heritage, after all.”

  “Then . . . then you will continue to live here?” He kept his eyes on the glass in his hand rather than on her.

  Cold pierced her chest. She pushed that feeling aside. She had to remain calm and rational. “I will live with my child, of course. However, you need not worry that I shall try to interject myself into your life. I am well aware that our arrangement is a temporary thing. I shall maintain my own household.”

  His eyes flew to hers, stony now. “I will not be a stranger to my child.”

  “Of course not. There is no question of that. I’m sure we can arrange it so we both can be with the child but not in each other’s company. You have your estate and your home here in London. I might buy a retreat—like the Vanderbilts’ summer home in the mountains. Perhaps in Scotland. It will be easy enough for us to avoid one another.”