A Perfect Gentleman

by Candace Camp

  “I don’t know where to look. There’s nothing in the desk.” He glanced around. The only other pieces of furniture were the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

  “What did you do with the things that were here before?”

  He leaned against the desk, considering. “Well . . . I remember burning some old papers, and I think I packed a few things away. I’m not sure what happened to that trunk.”

  “Would it be in the attic? A storeroom?”

  “If anyone would remember what happened to it, it would be Norton. Let’s ask.”

  If the dignified butler was surprised by his employer’s question, no sign of it crossed his face, though Graeme had known him long enough to recognize the touch of chagrin in Norton’s eyes when he could not recall what he had done with the item in question. After some consideration, Norton came to the conclusion that it was most likely to be in the attic, so Graeme and Abigail turned there next.

  A narrow set of stairs led from the servants’ corridor on the top floor to the attic above. Carrying a lamp, they climbed the stairs and stepped through into the long, narrow room. Windows at the front and back admitted light to add to the glow of their lamp. Graeme glanced over at Abby and smiled.

  “You like this, don’t you? Searching for it.”

  “Of course!” She looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, there is the dust.” He pointed to the floor. “The cobwebs. The gloom. Mice?”

  “Oh, pooh.” She dismissed such things with a wave of her hand. “It’s exciting. And mice, I imagine, will run from us, not vice versa.”

  She walked along the central aisle to the window at the far end, and Graeme followed, trying to imagine any other lady of his acquaintance who would have shrugged aside the dust and spiders. Of course, this was a woman who met strangers at a dockside tavern without a qualm.

  He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the post of an abandoned headboard, and they started on their task. They opened trunks and peered into corners and shifted aside old umbrella stands, toys, and whatever other detritus of the past had wound up in the attic. Abby was momentarily distracted by a trunk containing ball gowns from a hundred years earlier, carefully unfolding a gown and holding it up to admire the elaborate embroidery.

  “Can’t you imagine what this must have looked like?” She stood, holding it in front of her.

  “Indeed, I can.” It was easy to picture her in the vivid blue dress with its stiff bodice pushing her breasts up almost indecently. No doubt her neck would have been draped with sapphires and diamonds, more jewels dangling from her ears and nestled in her hair. It had been an extravagant time, he’d read.

  “Of course, it would have been a trifle short.” She cast a laughing look down at the skirt, which ended a good six inches above her ankles. “It must have been a tremendous production to get dressed. The powdered wigs. Painting your face and putting on beauty marks. The panniers out to here.” She held her arms out. “I wonder how they managed to walk through the doorways.”

  “You’ve little room to talk, Countess.” He strolled toward her, smiling. “Given your bustles and corsets and countless petticoats.”

  Abby widened her eyes in mock horror. “Why, Lord Montclair, it’s quite shocking for you to be discussing such things.”

  “Is it?” He stopped very close to her, bracing his hand on one of the attic beams.

  “Indeed. I believe gentlemen are supposed to be politely unaware of such feminine items.”

  “Are they? And yet, I’ve had a bit of experience with ‘such feminine items.’ ”

  “So you have.” Abby stepped closer, settling her hands on either side of his waist.

  “Yes.” He brushed his lips across her cheek. “And they’re a damned nuisance.”

  “Hmm.” Abby slid her hand up the front of his waistcoat. “One can only wonder why you continue to deal with them, then.”

  “Because . . .” He nipped playfully at the lobe of her ear. “The prize is well worth the trouble.”

  She giggled. “Stop.” She looped her arms around his neck in a way that contradicted her words. “We are supposed to be looking for a trunk.”

  “Ah, but the trunk will still be here later.” He nuzzled into the crook of her neck.

  “So shall we,” Abby pointed out.

  “Yes, and hopefully feeling more relaxed.”

  “I am feeling quite relaxed now.”

  “Are you?” His lips traveled up her neck. “Let me see what I can do about that.”

  She tilted her face to receive his kiss, her body melting against his. He knew how she would taste, how she would feel beneath his hands, and he tightened with anticipation. Abigail was pliant and willing—more than willing, he thought, as he curved his hand around the nape of her neck and felt her skin warm under his touch. She shivered, pressing up into him, and he slid his hands down her back, curving over her, enjoying the feel of her rounded derriere without the obstacle of a bustle.

  He dug his fingertips into the fleshy cheeks, lifting her up and into his pelvis. She murmured, rubbing herself against him, and he hardened in response. Her untutored, eager reactions never failed to stir him. Graeme lifted his head and looked back down the length of the attic, considering for an instant the prospect of pulling her down on the dusty floor.

  “No. Not here,” he decided.

  Abigail turned in his arms—and that was a pleasure in itself, for now that rounded bottom was flush against him, and her front was open to his hands’ exploration. “It isn’t the most comfortable of surroundings,” she agreed. “Mmm.” She leaned back into him. “Graeme, if we are not to do this here, you must stop.” But the hand she placed on his roaming hand was more caressing than restraining.

  “Yes. You’re right. I’ll stop.” He bent to kiss the side of her neck. “In just a moment.”

  She let out a laugh and pulled away, reaching back to take his hand and pull him along with her. “It’s not far to my bedroom.”

  “It seems a very long way at the moment.” But he went along amiably, lacing his fingers through hers. It was tantalizing to forestall the pleasure for a bit, to whet his appetite with images of spending the remainder of the afternoon in bed with her.

  They left the attic and trotted down the back stairs to the bedroom floor. As they emerged into the corridor, Graeme whisked Abigail into the alcove by the back window, pressing her up against the wall and kissing her thoroughly. She countered by running her nails down his back. He fisted her skirts in his hand, sliding them upward.

  “Graeme!” she hissed. “Not here. What if a servant comes out from the back stairs?”

  “I’m not sure I care,” he murmured.

  “So you say now!” She ducked out from under his arm and turned into the main hall, glancing back at him over her shoulder and laughing. He started after her.

  “Graeme! There you are!” Lady Eugenia stood halfway down the corridor.

  Abigail let out an undignified “Eek!” and halted abruptly. Graeme took a quick step to the side so that he was behind Abby, his lower half concealed.

  “Don’t you dare move,” he murmured, clamping his hand on her waist. His wife began to giggle.

  “Where have you been? Siddings has been looking for you.” His grandmother peered at them. “Where is your jacket?”

  “What—oh, um, I must have left it in the attic.”

  “The attic! Why on earth were you in the attic?”

  “Well, um . . .”

  “I asked to see it,” Abigail put in, much to Graeme’s relief.

  “How odd.” Fortunately, his grandmother seemed to feel no explanation of Abigail’s oddity was necessary. “Well, it is time for tea. Lady Theresa and Sir James are joining us.”

  “Who?”

  “Your aunt and cousin.” Lady Eugenia narrowed her eyes. “Montclair, are you ill?”

  “No. Course not. I’m fine.”

  “You are rather flushed.” His grandmother took a step
toward them.

  “No! No, I am perfectly well, I assure you.” He could feel Abigail shaking with laughter, her hand in front of her mouth to hide it, and he pressed his fingertips into her sides, whispering, “Stop that!” But his own lips began to twitch.

  Lady Eugenia frowned. “Really, Montclair. You are acting most peculiarly.” A quick cut of her eyes toward Abigail revealed where she thought the peculiarity came from. “Do get cleaned up. You look a fright. Your hair is every which way. I’ll tell Norton to hold the tea for ten minutes.” She walked away.

  Abigail turned to him, both hands clasped to her mouth to control her laughter, her eyes dancing above them.

  “You will be the death of me.” Graeme strove for a stern voice, but the teasing laughter on Abby’s face sent the fire in him leaping even higher.

  “Oh, dear, we wouldn’t want that.” She cast him a provocative look from beneath her lashes.

  Graeme grabbed her wrist and swept her down the hall, pulling her into his room and locking the door behind them.

  “What are you doing? Lady Eugenia’s holding tea for us. We haven’t time.” Abby backed up as he advanced on her.

  “What I want won’t take much time.”

  “Graeme!” Abby’s eyes lit up. “What are you suggesting?”

  “This.” He looped an arm around her waist and picked her up, setting her down beside the bed, facing it. As she turned her head to look back at him in surprise, he took her by the wrists and set her hands flat on the bed.

  “Graeme . . .” Intrigue turned her voice throaty, and the sound sent shivers through him. “What are you—oh!” She broke off as he shoved up her skirts and reached under to pull down her pantalets. “Oh, my.” Abigail stepped out of the undergarments, widening her stance.

  He sucked in a breath at the sight of her and ran his hands slowly over her soft white buttocks.

  “But I still have on my shoes,” she protested.

  “I know. I like it.” He slid his hand between her legs, finding the heat and the flooding moisture there. He smiled. “I think you like it, too.”

  He slid his finger over the satiny nub, and the soft moan that escaped Abby ratcheted up his hunger. His own flesh was throbbing, pressing against his trousers, but he clamped down on his desire, continuing to stroke her until she was moving against his hand, her breathing as harsh and ragged as his own. Only then, when he felt as if he might explode from the need knotting within him, did he unbutton his trousers and shove them down.

  He buried himself in her with a deep groan of satisfaction, pausing to keep from hurtling to a climax right then and there. Sliding his hands up to cup her breasts, he began to move, reveling in the tight heat that surrounded him. Her body shifted with the power of his thrusts, and he moved one hand to her waist to hold her steady. His other hand slid down to the exquisitely sensitive flesh between her legs, and she moaned again when he found her.

  “Graeme . . . Graeme . . .” She repeated his name in a low incantation, and the sound of it stirred him more than he would have thought possible. Then she gasped and shuddered as she reached her peak, tightening around him. With a low cry, Graeme let loose the reins of his own desire, hurtling into deep, dark ecstasy.

  chapter 19

  Unsurprisingly, they were late to tea. Lady Eugenia frowned in reproof as she rang for Norton to bring in the tea cart. From the amusement in James’s eyes, Graeme thought his cousin suspected the reason for their tardiness. Graeme could not find it in himself to care. He politely introduced Abigail to his aunt and cousin, then joined James, standing beside the mantel.

  “I see you are adjusting to married life,” James murmured, and Graeme shot him a quelling look.

  “When did you return to the city, Aunt Tessa?” Graeme asked. It was the surest way to deflect conversation away from himself, for his aunt loved nothing better than to talk about herself. It allowed Graeme to while away the visit watching his wife.

  He thought somewhat smugly that Abigail looked the very image of a well-satisfied wife. After their lovemaking, he had had some qualms that she might have been repelled by his raw need and the swift, even animalistic way he had taken her, but the relaxed contentment in her face, the warmth of her gaze when she glanced at him, were enough to dispel that worry.

  “I came back yesterday,” Tessa said, answering Graeme’s question. “One can only ruralize for so long.”

  “Two weeks, apparently,” James added.

  His mother flashed a grin at him. “I’m sure my absence wasn’t long enough to suit you, dear boy, but I noticed you lasted no longer than two days at Grace Hill.” She turned toward the dowager countess and said in an explanatory aside, “James’s cousin Maurice was visiting.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “What’s wrong with his cousin Maurice?” Abby asked.

  Lady Eugenia looked pained at the blunt question, but Tessa turned to Abby, happy to enumerate the man’s faults. “It would be easier to ask what is not wrong with him. If he isn’t complaining about his headaches, it’s his delicate stomach or his earache or one of a hundred other ailments.”

  “Now, Mother, one can hardly blame the man for being ill,” James said mildly. Knowing how James felt about Maurice, Graeme suspected he made the protest solely to goad Aunt Tessa.

  “But one can blame him for talking about it incessantly. The man’s a dead bore.”

  “Really, Theresa,” the dowager countess said. “Must you speak so freely in public?”

  “It’s hardly public.” Tessa lifted her brows. “We’re all family here. I quite consider Mrs. Ponsonby one of the family.” She directed one of her sparkling smiles at Lady Eugenia’s companion.

  “Of course she is,” Lady Eugenia replied. “George was Reginald’s cousin, though I believe he was only a second cousin once removed.”

  “I think Lady Eugenia was referring to me,” Abigail explained to Tessa, looking more amused than annoyed.

  “Oh. Well, no use trying to hide the family skeletons,” Tessa told her cheerfully. “You’re bound to find out someday. Anyway, it isn’t as if Maurice is Graeme’s relative; he’s related to James on his father’s side. And he’s not really what I would call a skeleton exactly, not like that mad Lady Harlow who was married to Reginald’s great-uncle.”

  “Ah. The tea,” Lady Eugenia said in a loud voice. “Why don’t you pour, Theresa?”

  Tessa accepted the countess’s suggestion with good grace, and the next few minutes were occupied with the serving and partaking of tea and cakes.

  “Montclair, no doubt you are planning to take Lady Abigail to Lydcombe Hall soon.” Lady Eugenia took up the reins of conversation again.

  Abby lifted her brows and turned a quizzical gaze on Graeme. “Are you? How interesting.”

  “Not that I know of,” Graeme said flatly and looked over at the dowager countess. “We haven’t discussed it, Grandmother.”

  “Now is the best time to see the estate, when the gardens are so lovely,” his grandmother countered.

  “Why would she want to go now?” Tessa asked. “The Season is still on.”

  “I believe Lady Eugenia is thinking more of hiding away an inconvenient American relation than of the Season,” Abby told her.

  James leaned his head toward Graeme, saying sotto voce, “I smell blood in the water. Perhaps you should introduce a new conversational gambit.”

  “Grandmother . . .” Graeme jumped in before the dowager countess could marshal her forces and reply to Abigail. “I was thinking about that charity of Father’s.”

  The subject had simply been the first thing in his head, but Graeme was pleased to see that it effectively diverted everyone. Lady Eugenia stared at him. Aunt Tessa looked puzzled. Even Abigail seemed nonplussed.

  “What are you talking about?” Lady Eugenia said at last.

  “Do you mean that fund for wounded soldiers?” Tessa asked.

  “Yes. That’s the one. Do you remember it, Grandmother?”

  “Of
course I do. But why on earth are you thinking about that?”

  “It seemed a worthwhile cause. I thought I might take it up myself. It would have pleased Father, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose,” Lady Eugenia agreed doubtfully.

  “I didn’t know that was still in existence,” James offered.

  “You know anything about it?” Graeme turned to his cousin, but James only shrugged.

  “Nary a thing. It wasn’t something Sir Laurence was interested in.”

  “Oh, your father contributed to it, too,” Aunt Tessa assured him.

  “Uncle Laurence was involved in it?” Graeme looked at her, surprised.

  “No, not in the running of it, as Reginald was,” Tessa responded. “But one gave to it, of course. It was simply something one did.”

  “Who else was involved?” Graeme asked. “In running it, I mean, not just contributing.”

  “I’m not sure.” Tessa looked at Lady Eugenia. “Do you remember?”

  “It’s been ten years.” The old woman looked thoughtful. “There was some military man—who was it? Rogers? Robertson? Rollins. Colonel Rollins. I believe he died a few years ago. Lord Fortenberry, perhaps. There was a vicar, too.”

  “Our vicar?” Graeme asked.

  Lady Eugenia shook her head. “No, the fellow had the living from Lord Fortenberry, as I remember. Reginald got letters from him. Reginald was always corresponding with someone about it or meeting someone. It was my opinion Reginald did it mostly as an excuse to socialize with people when he was at Lydcombe. He always grew bored at the Hall.”

  “Mr. Ponsonby,” Tessa offered. “He was involved with it, wasn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes.” Mrs. Ponsonby spoke up, surprising Graeme, who had forgotten she was there. “Dear George and Montclair were always so close.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  Lady Eugenia glared at Tessa, then transferred her disfavor to Graeme. “I am sure you can find a worthy charity yourself without digging up painful memories.” Having thus declared the subject closed, the dowager countess rang for Norton to clear away tea.