by Candace Camp
Together they studied the results of their efforts in the mirror. Molly let out an appreciative sigh. “Ah, Miss Abby, you’re a picture. If that man doesn’t go down on his knees and beg your forgiveness, he’s a fool.”
Abigail laughed. “Well, that would certainly enliven Lady Pengrave’s ball, wouldn’t it?” She picked up her fan and gloves and paused to let her maid settle the gossamer silk wrap around her shoulders. “Whatever Montclair does, I am quite looking forward to it.”
“Are you sure she’s here?” Graeme asked, scanning the crowded ballroom. “I don’t see her.”
“How could you hope to spot anyone in this crush?” his grandmother retorted. The place was stuffed with people, with only the dance floor relatively clear—and that was being encroached upon by the minute.
Graeme turned back to his grandmother. The dowager countess, square and stout in her usual purple, was a formidable woman. She was not tall, but she was as immovable as a wall, and there were few who dared cross her. Even James did his best to avoid her. Everything about her, from her haughty expression to her firmly corseted form, seemed carved from granite.
“She will be here,” Lady Eugenia decreed.
“Everyone comes to Lady Pengrave’s ball,” added the countess’s companion, who stood just beyond her. Mrs. Ponsonby’s statement was delivered in a soft, die-away voice, as one would expect from her. A small, frail woman, Mrs. Ponsonby was as unlike the countess as it was possible to be. Quiet and soft-spoken, she rarely offered an opinion unless it was to agree with the countess. Living on Lady Montclair’s generosity since her husband’s death, she did her best to be as unobtrusive as possible. It was, Graeme thought, probably the wisest course to take with his grandmother.
“It makes it deuced difficult to find anyone.”
“Don’t swear, Graeme. Now, give me your arm, and let’s stroll about.”
This sort of meaningless social round was exactly the reason he usually spent his time at the estate instead of the London house. He could not refuse to escort his grandmother to parties—courtesy had been too much bred into him for that—but in general he found them a complete bore. However, he had committed himself to this path, so Graeme offered the countess his arm and they began their slow procession about the room, Mrs. Ponsonby trailing along behind them.
“Look for a knot of gentlemen,” the countess instructed him. “Most likely she’s in the center of it.”
“Why? There’s little reason for fortune hunters to hang about a married woman.”
Lady Eugenia sent him a wry look. “There are other reasons for men to hang about a woman.”
“But it’s not as if she’s—”
His grandmother rapped her fan against his arm. “There she is.”
He looked in the direction she indicated. “—beautiful.” His last word came out as little more than a whisper.
Abigail Price had been thin and pale and drab. Abigail Parr, Lady Montclair, was . . . well, stunning.
“Don’t gape,” his grandmother said crisply. “The American mouse has changed.”
“So I see.”
She was still slender, still pale, her hair still black, but there was nothing drab about her now. She wasn’t beautiful, not exactly. Her mouth was a little too wide and her cheekbones more sharp than soft, and she was altogether too tall. But when one saw her, it was hard to look away. Her thick hair, black as night, was swept up into a fashionable pompadour style that looked as if it might tumble down at any moment. Her large eyes sparkled, her mouth curved, and color bloomed along her cheeks. Even her dress drew the eye—a silver concoction with dramatic black chevrons decorating the front and a neckline that showcased her perfect white shoulders.
It was utterly irritating that the first thing he felt when he saw the woman was a swift, sharp stab of lust. Clearly, he thought, casting a jaundiced eye at the men around her, a number of other males felt the same way.
“Excuse me, Grandmother. Mrs. Ponsonby.” Giving them a short nod, he strode over to the knot of men, stopping at the edge. “Lady Montclair.”
The men turned toward him, more than one eyebrow lifting, and Graeme realized how short and sharp his words had come out. Abigail’s gaze went to him, as well. One of the men started to speak, but Abigail cut him off.
“Lord Montclair.” To his surprise, she smiled, her eyes dancing, as if she found the moment amusing. She was enjoying this, he realized with equal parts irritation and disbelief. Abigail turned her smile on the men around her. “Gentlemen, you must excuse me. My husband has first claim to a waltz with me.”
The last thing Graeme wanted was to dance with the woman, but she had caught him neatly. To refute her words would only make him look foolish or churlish, probably both. He forced a tight smile and stood rigidly, watching her as she walked toward him. She moved at an unhurried pace, making no effort to be seductive, but clearly confident in her ability to hold his gaze.
He nodded to the other men, unable to repress a certain sense of satisfaction at the envious expressions on their faces. “Gentlemen.”
Graeme extended his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. He started toward the dance floor, very aware of the warmth of her body beside him and the faintly exotic, supremely tantalizing scent of her perfume. He glanced at her and found her watching the dancers; apparently she felt none of the same vibrating awareness of him. He noticed that nestled in the thick black hair atop her head was a small diamond dragonfly. His fingers itched to reach out and touch it. Farther down, a stray bit of hair had slipped from the puffed roll and lay along the nape of her neck. And that led his thoughts to stray to other places he should not go.
Sternly he pulled his mind back to reality. Now that the moment was upon him, he found himself curiously tongue-tied. Why hadn’t he considered what he should say to her?
“No doubt they are placing bets on whether we shall create a scene here at the ball,” she said, obviously suffering none of his uncertainty, either. She turned her head toward him. “How would you place the odds on it?”
It was an unusual—and somehow intriguing—sensation to look into a woman’s face mere inches below his own. “I have no intention of causing a scene.”
“Of course not; it would be most ungentlemanly. Needless to say, you have no such confidence in me,” she went on in that same light way, as if she found him faintly amusing. No doubt she did—a scene was probably precisely what she hoped to provoke.
“I don’t know what to expect from you,” he told her flatly. “I haven’t the least idea what you plan to do here.”
The music had stopped, and couples were drifting onto and off the dance floor. She turned to face him, smiling. “Why, at the moment, I am going to dance.”
She held up her hand, and he could do nothing but take it. He stepped closer, settling his other hand at her waist. It seemed to take an age for the orchestra to strike up again. He was intensely aware of her hand in his, even through the glove; of the slick satin of her dress beneath his other hand. Sweet heavens, but there was something dizzying in her perfume, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes from straying down to where the lace-edged neckline skimmed over the soft mounds of her breasts.
“I meant in more general terms,” he snapped. “Why the devil did you come back to London?”
“Surely it isn’t unusual for a wife to visit her husband,” she tossed back, widening her eyes a little in faux surprise.
How could he have forgotten the color of her eyes? They were green as new leaves, the pupils ringed with golden starbursts. They disconcerted him as much as the lightly teasing, almost flirtatious way she was speaking to him. Did she think he did not remember what had happened after all this time? That he would overlook the fact that they had blackmailed him into marrying her? That she could smile beckoningly and smell delightful and he would fall in with whatever she wanted?
She might have turned from a wallflower into a seductress, but he’d be damned if he had becom
e such an easy mark. The music finally started, and he swung her into the waltz with rather more vigor than was necessary. It gave him a petty satisfaction to see the surprise flash across her face. Her hand tightened on his shoulder.
“I would find it a trifle unusual,” he responded to her earlier question, “if that wife had not visited her husband in the previous ten years.”
Her eyes sparked with an answering anger, and that, too, gave him a little fillip of satisfaction. “My absence was at your request.”
“Yes. And I would prefer it to continue.”
“I know this will come as a shock to you, but you cannot control who does or doesn’t come to London.”
“Perhaps not, but my wife is under my control.”
She did not answer for a long moment, simply regarded him in a cool, level way that made him feel suddenly foolish and embarrassed. “You gave up your role as my husband long ago, as I remember it.”
He felt a flush rising in his cheeks, which only increased his irritation. “I will not allow you to insinuate yourself into my life. You will not sweep in and take over my home.”
“I would never presume to enter your sacred ancestral home. I am staying at the Langham Hotel.” She held his gaze, her eyes and voice as cool as his were heated.
“It will only cause more talk for you to live in a hotel instead of Montclair House.”
“Really, my lord, you cannot have it both ways,” she said in the tone of one humoring a madman. “I must stay at one place or another.”
“What you can do is leave the city.”
“Oh, I will.” Once again her lips curved up in that delicious way. “When I’m ready.”
chapter 3
It was clear she was trying to goad him. No doubt she hoped to provoke some intemperate response. The only way to counter her was to tamp down even more firmly on his temper. Taking a deep breath, he went on in a lowered voice, “I could not care less where you go or what you do. But I will not stand idly by while you bring scandal to this family.”
“Perhaps you might have considered that before you decided to add me to your family.”
“I can assure you, I did so through no desire of my own.”
“I am well aware of that.” She looked away, and for the first time the lightness leached from her voice.
“I apologize. That was rude.” Guilt snaked through his irritation. Reminding himself that her father, too, had been a master manipulator, he forged on. “Rumor has it you are looking to become a matchmaker.”
“A matchmaker?” She sent him an incredulous look.
“Yes. To find impoverished British nobles to wed American heiresses.”
Her laughter was brittle. “I hardly think my experience in that regard would be any recommendation. Few brides are looking for a husband, aristocratic or otherwise, who will repudiate them on their wedding night.”
“I didn’t—you know very well it wasn’t like that! You were the one—” He stopped suddenly, realizing that his voice had risen.
Abigail quirked a brow. “I thought your purpose here was to avoid a scandal, not precipitate one.”
Graeme clenched his jaw, swallowing the hot words that bubbled up in his throat. “At least before, you weren’t so bloody infuriating,” he muttered.
To his surprise, she began to laugh. And when she laughed, he discovered, her face was entrancing. Graeme could not even begin to identify the feelings roiling inside him. It was all he could do to shove them back down before they tumbled out.
Fortunately the orchestra blared into its last soaring notes and stopped. Graeme dropped her hand as if it burned and took a half step back. He had a cowardly impulse to just walk away, but of course one could not leave one’s partner stranded on the dance floor. Sketching a bow, he offered his arm. She took it, though with such a knowing look in her eyes that he wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her or—well, best not to delve into that.
As they crossed the floor, he kept his lips firmly clamped shut and his eyes turned away from her. It was rather more difficult to ignore the feel of her hand curved around his arm. He wondered where to take her—it was tempting to think of thrusting her on his grandmother and walking away.
A man angled toward them, clearly intent on intercepting them. This, Graeme thought, must be the American with whom his aunt had said Abigail kept company. Something about his carriage marked him as not British, but it was the proprietary, even combative look in his eyes that made Graeme certain the stranger had an interest in Abigail.
Graeme slowed and stopped, regarding the man coolly. He was much older than Abigail, at least forty; his dark reddish hair was graying at the temples. Shorter than Graeme, he was built solidly, and his square face had an equally implacable look.
“Abby?” The man’s eyes went immediately to her. “Are you all right?”
“You are an acquaintance of my wife’s?” Graeme asked before Abigail could open her mouth. Four hundred years of aristocracy colored his voice.
“Yes.” Abigail dropped her hand from Graeme’s arm, shooting him an arrow glance before favoring the other man with a smile. “I’m quite all right, David, thank you.” Americans were, Graeme thought, terribly free with given names. “Allow me to introduce you to the Earl of Montclair. Lord Montclair, this is Mr. David Prescott.”
Prescott gave him a greeting as chilly as his glance, and Graeme replied in kind. “You’re visiting London?”
“Yes, Mr. Prescott was kind enough to escort me on the trip,” Abigail explained.
“Ah, I see.” Graeme shifted, subtly positioning himself between Abigail and the other man. “Then I must give you my thanks for watching over my wife.”
Prescott met his eyes levelly. “I thought someone should.”
“I beg your pardon?” Graeme’s eyebrows soared.
Without the least degree of subtlety, Abigail latched hold of Graeme’s arm and squeezed. She flashed a brilliant smile at both men. “Mr. Prescott also had business in London.”
“Indeed? You are an associate of Lady Montclair’s father?”
“I used to work for him.” His tone was as blunt as the look in his reddish-brown eyes. “But I would say I am more a friend to Lady Montclair now.”
“Are you.” Graeme bared his teeth in something like a smile. Naturally the man would come from Thurston Price’s camp. The insinuation in Prescott’s words was obvious, an insult that made him itch to take the fellow outside. But, of course, that would result in exactly the sort of scandal he was trying to avoid.
It was, he reflected sourly, probably what Abigail was hoping for. And it didn’t matter, not really. He did not care where Abigail might choose to give her favors; indeed, the man was quite welcome to her. It was the insult that annoyed him, the reflection on his name. He was not jealous.
Abruptly Graeme stepped back. “Then I will take my leave so that you may pursue . . . your friendship.” Sketching a bow to the other two, he turned and walked away.
Abigail watched Graeme’s retreating figure, feeling suddenly drained. Prescott studied her with a frown. “Are you all right, really? Shall I escort you back to the hotel?”
She summoned up a smile for the man. It wasn’t his fault that seeing Graeme had left her shaky. “That would be most kind of you. I believe I am a little tired.”
“Of course. I’ll fetch your wrap.”
They left the ballroom. Abigail carefully avoided glancing in the direction Graeme had gone. She refused to let him see that she was looking for him. She had gotten through it; that was the main thing. She had not let him see how the nerves had danced inside her from the moment she saw him standing there.
He was more handsome than she remembered. She wasn’t sure if her memory was faulty or if maturity had honed his looks into a sharper, more vivid image of himself. He had been only twenty-three when she married him, not that much older than she. His form had filled out into the more powerful one of a man in his prime. The square jaw and firm chin were a trifle
harder, the even features tempered by time and experience into something deeper than mere attractiveness. He looked, she thought, like a man in whom one could put one’s trust.
But that, of course, was an absurd thought. Experience had taught her how little she could entrust any of her feelings or hopes to him. She knew Graeme was a man of his word, for he had never wavered in the slightest regarding his vow to stay away from her. No doubt those he loved could rely on him. But someone like her, someone whom he held in disdain, would be a fool to let down her guard.
“Could we walk?” she suggested as they left the house. “It’s a lovely night and not all that far.”
“Of course, if you wish.” Prescott fell in beside her, and she took his arm with easy familiarity.
“I’m glad you came with me,” she went on. “I know I told you I could handle it all without help—and I could have—but it is nice to see a friendly face.”
“Was it very hard meeting him again?”
Abby shrugged. It was impossible to describe the wild mixture of emotions that had flooded her at the sight of Graeme. The rush of excitement and the downward tug of dread, the swift, mindless attraction to his face and form, the effort to keep up the light, unemotional role she had decided to adopt.
“It was . . . odd,” she admitted.
“You don’t have to do this, Abby.” He stopped and faced her, taking both her hands in his. “You needn’t face Montclair.”
Abigail smiled fondly at him. “No. I do need to.” She gave his fingers a gentle squeeze, then let go and started walking again. “I have to go forward with my life. I cannot continue in this limbo forever.”
“I hate that you should have to have anything to do with him. I’m not sure what you hope to accomplish by all this.”
“Frankly, I sometimes wonder myself.”
“I was here before when you fled London in tears. I know your devastation at Montclair’s cruelty and how long it took you to recover. I don’t want that to happen to you again.”
