by Candace Camp
Then, in the next breath she told him that she was leaving him. Not only that, she’d had the gall to act as if he was the one at fault. As if he had asked for it. Damn it, he hadn’t asked for any of it. She was the one who had swooped in and gleefully turned his life upside down. And just when everything was going well, she’d jerked the rug from beneath his feet.
“Don’t pretend you ever wanted me,” she had said. It had been “all duty” to him—oh, yes, clearly that was nothing but duty that had sent him into her bed all those nights.
And if she was so appalled by her father’s actions, if she regretted her own bit of marital coercion, then why the devil was she punishing him by kicking him out of her bed? Where was the logic in that?
While he was reeling under those blows, she had delivered the coup de grâce: she was carrying his child. Sweet heaven . . . his child. A strange warmth blossomed in his chest at the thought, and along with it a rush of anticipation mingled with alarm, even fear. What would it be like to hold his own child in his hands?
He tried to imagine a boy in his image. No, easier by far to see a girl who looked like Abby—black curls tied with pink bows, and a frilly white dress. But how could he possibly manage to be a father? He realized that he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do. And what kind of example was he of anything? Worst of all, what if the baby died? What if Abby miscarried? What if she died giving birth to his child?
Graeme leaned on the desk, bracing his head with his hands. What he wanted most at this moment was to hold Abby, to cradle her in his arms and spill out all the joyous, fatuous, horrific things rattling around in his head. He wanted to lay his hand across her abdomen, dreaming about that fragile life inside her, a part of him nestled beneath her heart. He wanted to kiss her and assure her that he would take care of her and her child.
And that was precisely what Abby had denied him. What the devil was the matter with the woman? Why had this warm, willing, generous creature, this smiling green-eyed temptress who was so eager and adventurous in bed, abruptly turned away from him?
The answer to that was obvious, no matter how galling it was to admit it. She had never wanted him. What she had wanted was a child. Graeme had been nothing to her but a means to an end, and now that her goal was accomplished, she had no use for him anymore. Perhaps he had not been wrong in his original assessment of her. Maybe she really was cold and hard as stone.
But no . . . he remembered the hurt that had flashed across her face when she’d realized who Laura was, the sadness in her eyes, brimming with tears, her stark white face, smudged with blue shadows beneath her eyes. He thought of her smile, of the mischief that danced in her eyes, the soft moans that escaped her lips when he made love to her. No, she was not cold.
It could be her condition. Pregnancy caused women to act peculiarly, didn’t it? The truth was, he had no experience with pregnant women. He was an only child, not married except in name, and he had been careful to make sure such an instance didn’t arise with any mistress he had taken. The married men he knew were not in the habit of discussing their wives, and his grandmother and mother would sooner have swallowed nails than discuss something so indelicate.
Or perhaps it was simply that Abigail was right. They had made an agreement. And this, he knew, was last in his thoughts because it was the one he did not want to examine. But he knew Abby now; she did not lie. With her, there was no subterfuge, no hidden meaning. Their marriage had been a straightforward bargain made between two adults. They both wanted a child and had agreed to conceive one. Now she was pregnant, and their agreement had been fulfilled. There was no longer any need for them to sleep together. No reason to pretend they were a normal couple.
Abigail understood and accepted it. She was simply continuing with their agreement. Only he was foolishly holding on to something that had been form, not substance. He should really be relieved that he could return to the life he’d had before. He should be glad Abby was willing to move forward on her own.
Graeme groped beneath his tumultuous emotions for the resentment he had once held for Abby, the love he had felt for Laura, the independence of living without thought of another person. It must be there underneath all these painful feelings. Surely he could get back to himself. Being with Abby had been fun and pleasurable and easy, shimmering with excitement. But it wasn’t a normal life. It wasn’t something that lasted. It was only an interlude, too intense to live with always.
There. That made sense. That fit. It was just as it should be. His life would return to the way it had been, the way he liked it. And he was certain, absolutely certain, that soon he would no longer feel this hollowness inside.
After spending much of the day brooding over the matter in his study, Graeme approached teatime with some trepidation, unsure what to say or how to act around Abby. It was with a curious combination of relief and disappointment that he saw that only his grandmother was taking tea with him.
He watched Lady Eugenia pour. “Um, Abigail is not partaking? Or Mrs. Ponsonby?” he added hastily. It occurred to him that he should tell his grandmother the news; it was, after all, what she had been hoping for this whole time.
“No. Philomena felt it her duty to stay with Abigail when she learned the countess was feeling under the weather. Philomena is always so insistent on doing her part, but I fear she’ll grow rather thin if she intends to keep this up the whole nine months.”
Graeme refrained from saying that it was more likely Abigail would bar the door against Mrs. Ponsonby after one session of being “entertained” by her. He wondered if the woman had read a section of Pilgrim’s Progress to Abigail to ease her suffering, as she was apt to do with his mother. It took a moment for the import of his grandmother’s words to sink in. He narrowed his eyes. “Wait. You already knew?”
“About Abigail’s delicate condition? Yes, of course.” Lady Eugenia offered a rare unrestrained smile.
“She told you?” Abby had confided in his grandmother before him?
“Of course not. Don’t be foolish. She didn’t have to say anything; I could see the signs. I do have some familiarity with the subject.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Really, Montclair.” She sent him the sort of look that had always pinned him to his chair. “It’s hardly a fit topic for conversation in mixed company.”
“I didn’t see any signs.”
“Of course not, dear, you’re a man.”
“I should have, shouldn’t I?”
“I can’t see why.” She sipped her tea.
“Because . . . I don’t know. Grandmother . . .” He toyed with his spoon. “I don’t know what I should do.”
“Do? I’ll tell you what you should do. Stop all this idiocy about your father’s charity, for one thing. I cannot imagine why you feel the need to seek out everyone who ever had any interest in that fund. It can’t be good for a woman in Abigail’s condition. She should be resting, not digging through trunks or chasing about the city.”
“How could talking to a few people or searching through a cabinet or a trunk hurt her? She’s not lifting anything or shoving things about.”
“I cannot comprehend why you ask me a question if you intend to ignore the answer.”
“Grandmother . . .” Graeme realized he was gritting his teeth and forced himself to relax his jaw. “I certainly don’t mean to ignore your answer. But I fail to see how talking to someone about that alms society would be any different from paying a call.”
“Paying calls is entirely different. It requires no mental effort.”
“I can’t disagree with that, but why—”
“You shouldn’t disturb a woman in her condition. She should have calm and peace; it does not do to distress her. Although I must say, when it comes to Abigail, it’s more likely she is the one distressing others. You, for instance, have not been the same since she arrived. Look at yourself—your cuffs are uneven, your ascot is crooked, and your hair is every which way. You look as if you’
ve been tearing out your hair.”
“I have been tearing out my hair.”
“There you are.” She nodded, pleased at having proved her point. “There’s no good to be had in what you’re doing. If you want to give alms, then pray do so. All this stirring about just muddies the waters.”
“What waters?” He leaned forward, intrigued. “Grandmother, do you know something about what Father was doing?”
“Of course not. I found it best not to know what your father was doing. I can’t imagine what Reginald could have done with that fund that is so interesting, anyway. You have been asking the most peculiar questions. You’re upsetting Philomena.”
This statement, he knew, should be interpreted as, “You’re annoying me.” Gravely he said, “I assure you, I have no desire to upset Mrs. Ponsonby. Though I cannot think why my questions would have done so.”
“It reminds her of her husband. George was a bit of a fool, but she was enamored of him. Reginald was fond of him, as well; I suppose George must have had hidden qualities.”
“What does Mr. Ponsonby have to do with the fund? He was a trustee, I know, but he didn’t do anything special, did he? He wouldn’t have known anything, would he?”
“Really, Montclair, what is this obsession you have with knowing things? It isn’t the fund that upsets Philomena; it’s that time. She hates to be reminded of, well, you know . . .”
“No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “That George took his own life.”
“He did?” Graeme’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought it was an accident. He fell from a cliff.”
“Of course that is what we told everyone. We were hardly going to say he jumped.”
“He did? How do you know? Did someone see it?”
“No. But we all knew he wouldn’t just go for a ramble along the cliffs. He was the laziest man who ever lived.”
“Why would he commit suicide?”
“Must you phrase things so indelicately? You’ve spent too much time around your American wife. George was in despair because he lost all his money in that stock scheme. Your father felt quite guilty about it because of course he had encouraged George to invest in it, thinking to help him. Philomena blames herself; she says George believed he’d failed her. Well, he had, of course, but how that silly man thought it would help her for him to die, leaving her penniless, I cannot imagine.”
“Mm. Thoughtless of him.” Graeme considered what Abby would make of this news. She would be certain it supported her theory that the deaths of fund members were suspicious. In the next instant, he remembered how things were between Abby and him now. He wondered if he would ever have such conversations with Abby again.
His fears were borne out that evening, when he suffered through a stilted, awkward conversation at the dinner table. He and Abby exchanged nothing but meaningless pleasantries along the paths his grandmother chose to follow. He was glad for the respite of the customary glass of port alone while the women retired to the drawing room. By the time he joined them, Abby had already gone to her room.
“Poor dear. She was quite tired. Of course, that’s only to be expected.” Mrs. Ponsonby nodded significantly at him. “I fear she wasn’t feeling herself this afternoon. So pale.”
Graeme thought of Abby’s pale face and shadowed eyes. Had that been because of pregnancy? It seemed more sorrow and lack of sleep that he had seen in her face. But why was she unhappy? She had reached her goal, the conception of a child.
Perhaps her unhappiness came from causing him pain. That would be in keeping with her character. She took too much upon herself; look at the way she suffered for her father’s deeds. If he went to her, if he told her how much he wanted her . . .
And wasn’t that a perfect indication of how low he’d sunk, that he was actually considering trading on her kind nature? He was disgusted with himself.
He wished he could talk to someone about the feelings roiling inside him, but there was no one. He couldn’t discuss such things with his mother, even if she were here, and he could well imagine James’s scornful reaction to such maunderings. There was only one person to whom he could talk freely. Unfortunately that person was Abby.
Graeme went up to bed early. He saw the light under Abby’s door and hesitated, but resolutely passed by. He tried to read but could not. He thought of ringing for his valet, but then he would have to go to bed, and the thought did not appeal. He paced the floor. He flung himself back into his chair.
The sliver of light that came from beneath the door to Abby’s room went out. He stood for a long moment, battling with himself. Finally he walked to the door and took the knob in his hand. It would not turn. The pain that pierced him was unexpectedly sharp. Graeme set his jaw. At least he could act like a man about it.
He turned away.
chapter 26
Abigail started down the stairs. She had breakfasted on tea and toast in her room. The pattern of the past few days was that usually the other members of the household had gone their separate ways by the time she emerged from her bedroom. Graeme retired to his study or sometimes left the house on some piece of business or other. Lady Eugenia and her companion spent the morning in the upper sitting room, leaving Abby the peaceful solitude of the library.
The afternoons required her to make an appearance in the drawing room to greet callers or to venture forth with the dowager countess, paying calls. Before teatime, Abby often escaped to her bedroom for a nap—she was uncharacteristically sleepy these days, but it was also a convenient way to escape Mrs. Ponsonby, who had apparently taken it as her mission to keep Abby’s spirits up.
After that there was tea and later dinner or an evening out. It was then that she was with Graeme, trapped in a miserable charade of marriage. Gone were the intriguing conversations, the laughter, the kisses stolen in alcoves or hallways. There were no more seductions or teasing anticipations, no sweet lovemaking, no long nights wrapped in his arms.
Now there was only the most prosaic of conversation between them. His only touch was a helpful hand up into the carriage or the formal extension of his arm to her as they walked. Graeme had retreated to his former polite, remote behavior, his smile perfunctory, his laughter nonexistent.
There had been a few times when she glanced up and found his eyes on her, and she had felt the familiar breathless certainty that he wanted her, that at any moment he would sweep her up to his bedroom. But then he would glance away and the moment was over. Sometimes during a conversation with others, they would glance at each other, their eyes alight with laughter, and she would feel the old familiar closeness, the shared amusement. When that happened, she ached for what she had once had, no longer hers.
They did not talk about their investigation. Abby knew that Graeme had gone out a time or two to see someone connected to the fund, but he had not asked her to accompany him. And that, she thought, had hurt more than almost anything. Had their closeness been only an illusion?
She had to think that his show of desire for her had been a pretense, too, given how quickly he had accepted her release from their agreement. Even as she set him free, she had hoped deep inside her that he would not want to be released. That he would take her in his arms and tell her that making love to her had never been a burden, that he desired her as much as she did him.
But he had not.
Abby told herself it didn’t matter. She had gotten what she wanted. She had done the right thing, even though it hurt. It was better, really, that it had ended when it did. She had grown perilously close to loving him. Any longer, and she might very well have lost her heart to him. That would have been worse. Surely it would have been worse.
Abby went to the library, as was her custom, but she was unable to settle down to read. She went from shelf to shelf, seeking something that would pull her from her gloom. It was a welcome interruption when Norton announced Mr. Prescott.
“Yes, send him in.” Abby knew a twinge of gui
lt. She had neglected her friend recently.
Norton’s disapproval of her receiving visitors in the library was clear, but he merely looked at her with an expression of long-suffering and bowed out of the room, returning a moment later with David Prescott in tow.
“David.” Abby extended her hand to him, her spirits lifting. “How good it is to see you again.”
“Hello, Abby.” He smiled. “Are you well? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Do I look so awful then?” she asked in a teasing tone.
“No, of course not. You could not be anything but beautiful. But you look a bit . . . thin. The last time I called on you, they said you were indisposed.”
“It’s nothing to worry about. I have been a bit under the weather lately, but it is due to a ‘happy event,’ not illness.”
“Ah. Of course. Then I am very pleased for you.” His face looked more regretful than pleased, but Abby chose to ignore that.
“Thank you. I am, as you must guess, elated.”
“Then you must take especial care of yourself,” he said.
“I am quite cosseted.” Abby saw no reason to add that it was Mrs. Ponsonby and the dowager countess doing most of the cosseting.
“Abby . . .” His tone was serious, and he peered intently into her face as he spoke. “You know that if anything is wrong or you are unhappy or . . . frightened in any way, you need only come to me, and I will help you.”
She raised her brows. “Of course. You are a true friend. But I’m fine, I assure you. It takes more than the prospect of a baby’s birth to frighten me.”
“I wasn’t referring to that. I know you are fearless—too much so. A little caution would be healthy for you.”
“David . . . whatever are you talking about?”
“The other day, the last time I was here, when I could not see you, I talked to your maid.” At Abby’s grimace, he went on hastily. “Do not blame Molly; I asked to speak to her. I wanted to be sure you were all right. She’s concerned about you. She told me there had been a fire in your room.”