by Candace Camp
Graeme rose to face him, a flush edging his cheekbones. “I spoke hastily, in anger, I admit. I came to apologize to her for my rudeness the next—”
“For your rudeness?” Prescott took a step closer. “Is that what you call trampling all over a young girl’s feelings? Abigail knew nothing about her father’s schemes. Surely you aren’t so foolish as to think Thurston Price would have taken an eighteen-year-old girl into his confidence? He told no one. I worked for the man. He knew I had invested my savings in the stock, too, but he didn’t breathe a word of warning to me. He sure as hell wouldn’t have let his daughter in on his secrets.”
“You’re the one who’s foolish,” Graeme shot back. “I told her exactly why I had no intention of living with her, and she didn’t deny a word of it. It was clear that what I said came as no surprise.”
“I doubt she was surprised to find out her father had been engaged in underhanded activities. She knew what he was like—she had to live with the man, after all. But I can promise you she didn’t know his plans to maneuver Lord Montclair into bankruptcy. Abigail is nothing like her father, which you would know if you had ever taken the trouble to become acquainted with her. She is kind and generous to a fault. When I left Thurston’s employ, she was the one who helped me.”
“All that proves is that you have reason to be thankful to her. It means nothing to me.”
“I’m sure it does not, since clearly no one matters to you except yourself. Abigail was not privy to her father’s machinations; she certainly did not participate in them. Nor did she give a damn about your sacred title. She had to put up with Thurston Price her entire life, ashamed of the things he did and bullied by him like everyone else. She was hopeful and innocent and desperate to get away from the man. Her only fault was in mistaking you for a knight in shining armor. She thought marrying you was the answer to her prayers. Instead, you repudiated her on her wedding night.”
“Stop saying that!” Anger bubbled up in Graeme, the frustration of the past few days mingling with memories of the fury and pain he had felt on his wedding night. “I didn’t—”
Prescott overrode his words. “And, as if humiliating her in front of two continents was not enough, you completed the devastation by throwing in her face that you loved another woman. You doomed her to a loveless, bitter future. Abigail was eighteen and alone in a foreign country, too young and foolish and starry-eyed to realize that a British ‘gentleman’ is all courtesy and no kindness.”
“Damn it, you’re in love with her, aren’t you?” Graeme flared, too furious to care that their voices had risen until all conversation around them had ceased as everyone turned to stare.
“What if I am? What difference does it make? She’s married to you.”
“Then take her! With my blessing. Take her and leave London. I don’t care if she has an affair with you or any man. I just want her gone.”
Prescott’s fist shot out, catching Graeme on the mouth and sending him staggering back.
chapter 5
Graeme slammed into the wall and came back swinging. His fist connected with Prescott’s chin, snapping his head back, but it didn’t knock him down. Prescott launched himself at Graeme, and they crashed into a small table, knocking it and the decanter of whiskey it held onto the floor. The two men rolled across the floor punching and wrestling as voices rose around them.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” A disgusted voice finally sliced through the others, and someone hooked his hand in the neck of Graeme’s shirt, hauling him up. Prescott came after him, but the gold-knobbed end of a gentleman’s cane in the center of his chest held Prescott off until two other men grabbed his arms.
Graeme turned to look into his cousin’s cool gray eyes, all his momentary fury draining out of him. He was humiliatingly aware of the fact that he was standing, bloodied and disheveled, in the middle of his club, with a circle of gentlemen gaping at him. “Bloody hell.”
“Just so,” Sir James de Vere agreed, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Cousin, you are turning into a veritable fountain of scandal.”
With something like a snarl, Graeme jerked out of his cousin’s grasp and stalked off.
When James caught up with him on the front steps, Graeme didn’t even turn his head. “Go away.”
“You can’t seriously think I am going to allow you to walk off with nothing more than that.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s not your concern.”
“It will be when the dowager countess calls me into her drawing room tomorrow afternoon to account for this little brawl.” He matched his long stride to Graeme’s. “So tell me why I walked into White’s to find you grappling on the floor like a schoolboy. With an American, no less.”
Graeme related the entire conversation to him.
“Ah,” James said when he finished. “I suppose that puts a different slant on one’s view of your spouse.”
“If you believe him,” Graeme said grudgingly. “Well, he does believe it, clearly. It’s whether you believe her.”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t know!” Graeme scowled. Blood trickled down beside his eye, and he wiped it away. “I was sure she knew all about Thurston. When I told her, she didn’t say a word of protest. No denials, no apologies. Then she hied off to New York, didn’t even wait for an apology. Does that sound like a naïve, helpless, innocent girl to you?”
“I try to have as little acquaintance with naïve, helpless, innocent girls as possible.”
Graeme ignored James’s comment, deep in his own thoughts. “I shouldn’t have spoken so harshly to Abigail. I went round the next morning to apologize.”
“Of course you did.”
“Damn it,” Graeme said a little sulkily. “I’m not accustomed to being in the wrong.”
His cousin chuckled. “Oh, one becomes used to it after a while.”
After a moment, Graeme said abruptly, “It was what he said to me.”
“What who said? Prescott?”
“No. Thurston Price. Her father. After he had humiliated Father, ruined him and brought me to heel. Gotten everything he wanted. That evening, after the first waltz, Price pulled me aside.” Graeme’s mouth twisted. “And he said to me—in this complacent, oh-so-jovial voice, as if we were boon companions sharing a smutty jest—‘Now, go on, son, take her upstairs and get to work on producing my grandson.’ As if I were his possession, bought and paid for. Of course I was, but that only made it more infuriating. I thought, I’ll be damned if I let his bloodline into the Parr family.”
They walked on in silence for a moment. Graeme sighed. “Before that, I hadn’t intended to be so sharp with her. So blunt. I would have phrased it differently.”
“Instead you were honest.” James shrugged. “It’s not a crime.”
“Not terribly gentlemanly.” Graeme smiled faintly, then winced as it sent a stab of pain through his split lip. “And as you can see, I am always a gentleman.”
“Mm. Clearly. So, to sum up, you were less than a perfect gentleman. She was a naïve fool who knew nothing about her father’s plans. Or she wasn’t. Now, after a ten-year absence, she is in London again. And her reason for being here, her expectations, her plans—in short, everything about her—is unknown.”
“Yes. And as her husband, however reluctantly, I will be accountable for whatever she does.”
“It seems to me it might behoove you to speak to Lady Montclair again.”
“Yes. I know.” Graeme considered the idea gloomily.
They had reached a corner and James paused, then nodded up the street. “Do you want to come back to my house to clean your wounds? Lady Eugenia will not approve of your condition.”
“No. Grandmother hopefully has gone to bed. But I think I’d like to walk a bit.” Graeme shrugged and discovered that he had hurt his shoulder, as well.
His cousin departed and Graeme walked on alone, too sunk in thought to pay attention to the time or the direction of his steps. It was with some surprise that he gl
anced up and found himself in front of the Langham Hotel. He started toward the brightly lit entrance before he remembered the condition he was in. He’d stormed out of the club without his hat or gloves. A button or two had popped off his waistcoat in the struggle, and his ascot was askew. The pocket that housed his watch had been torn half off, so that his watch dangled loosely on its chain. Not to mention his split lip or the cut above his eyebrow.
He whipped around to leave just as Abigail stepped down from a carriage, her hand in the helping hand of a well-dressed gentleman. For an instant Graeme thought wildly of fleeing, but Abigail glanced over and saw him. Her eyes widened, and she started toward him, her escort trailing uncertainly in her wake.
“Graeme! What happened? Are you all right?” Her green-gold eyes were filled with a concern that he found strangely satisfying.
“Yes, um . . . bit of a dustup.” He shoved back his hair and tugged at his lapels in a futile attempt to bring himself into order. “I beg your pardon for appearing here like this.”
“Lady Montclair, is this man bothering you?” Her companion came up beside Abigail, gazing down the length of his nose at Graeme. His voice was tinged with a foreign accent.
Abigail started to answer, but Graeme jumped in before she could. “This man is her husband. And I assure you, your assistance is not required.” He fixed a stony gaze on the man.
Her escort looked nonplussed. Abigail’s concern changed to irritation. “Honestly, Gra— Montclair. What would your grandmother say about your lack of manners?” Graeme started to speak, but she effectively ignored him, turning to the other man with a smile. “It’s perfectly all right, Monsieur Benoit. You need not worry. I’ll be fine. Thank you for escorting me tonight.”
Graeme watched sourly as she took her leave of the Frenchman, which involved a great deal of smiling and gesturing and bowing over her hand before the fellow finally left and she turned back to Graeme.
“So you’re bringing them in from France now?”
“What?” Abigail looked at him blankly.
“Your swains.” He nodded toward the back of the retreating Benoit. “All the men always dangling around you. I wondered where the devil they came from.”
Her eyes took on a twinkle and she pressed her lips together firmly. “Oh, of course! Those hundreds of men who have escorted me to the theater or a party.” She was laughing at him. It was no wonder, really. He was acting a fool. She went on. “No doubt it would have been more appropriate if I had attended them alone.”
He scowled. They both knew that would have caused gossip. “Oh, devil take it.”
Graeme started to swing away, but Abigail laughed and hooked her hand around his arm. “Come, Lord Montclair, I think we’d better get you cleaned up.”
She smelled delicious, he realized. He would have to bend his head only a little to kiss her. “I don’t remember you being this tall.” Good Gad, what was wrong with him, blurting out things like that? He was beginning to think that Prescott’s blows must have knocked something loose in his head.
Abigail, however, seemed to take no offense, for she only laughed again in her easy way. He had noticed her laugh several times the past week—light and infectious, without self-consciousness. “Well, I haven’t grown, I assure you.”
“Of course not. I beg your pardon—silly thing to say.”
“Not really. The difference is my shoes, I imagine.” They had reached the lift and paused. Abigail lifted her skirts a little, sticking out one foot to show her slipper and turning it this way and that. The shoe matched the deep emerald of her dress and had a raised heel, but Graeme found the sight of her ankle far more interesting.
He pulled his gaze away and saw that the young man operating the lift found the sight riveting, as well. Graeme cleared his throat, and the man jumped, hurrying to open the gate for them. As the lift rose—a sensation Graeme had not yet grown accustomed to, though he’d been in one a few times before—Abigail continued. “I used to wear flat slippers—I was so tall, you see, and I tried to hide it as best I could. But one day I decided, what did it matter? If a lovely shoe had a heel, there was no reason not to wear it.”
“No. I suppose not.” It was a peculiar conversation. Graeme glanced over at the operator of the lift, who was sneaking surreptitious glances at him. Graeme almost laughed. No doubt their conversation or even Abigail exposing her ankle paled in comparison to the battered state of Graeme’s face.
“Now,” Abigail said when they stepped out of the lift and started down the corridor, “I have to wonder, what have you been up to since you left the party? It couldn’t have been much more than an hour since I saw you.”
“Oh.” It seemed an age ago. “Yes, well, I, um.” He shoved his hand back through his hair. “I beg your pardon for my appearance. I’m not usually so—”
“Bloody and bruised?”
“Well . . . yes.” He tried once again to bring his jacket and waistcoat and shirt into order. It was hopeless. Finally he unfastened the dangling watch and chain and stuck them into the pocket of his jacket. “It’s, uh, not my usual custom.”
“Getting into fights?” She lifted an eyebrow. “I am relieved to hear it.”
She stopped in front of a door and took a key from her reticule. Graeme reached out, expecting her to hand it to him to open the door, but she ignored him, inserting the key and turning it. He followed her into the suite. It felt odd, vaguely illicit, to be standing alone with her in a hotel room. It was not inappropriate, of course; they were married. But she was in every way a stranger to him. Only steps away, through the other doorway, was her bedroom. A low light glowed from within it, and he could glimpse the corner of the bed.
Abigail peeled off her gloves and tossed them aside, discarding her wrap, as well. Casually she kicked off her slippers, tossing a grin over her shoulder. “They’re beautiful, but my feet are rebelling.”
His belly tightened. There was an intimacy to her gesture that heightened his vaguely sinful feeling. They stood only feet apart in the soft glow of the gaslight. If he stretched out his hand, he would touch her bare arm. He had a very good notion how it would feel beneath his fingers—the softness, the warmth . . .
The illusion of intimacy was shattered as a short, stocky woman bustled out of the bedroom. “There you are, M—” She stopped, seeing Graeme. “Are you all right, Miss Abby?” Her eyes flickered to Abigail, then back to Graeme, filled with suspicion. “What’s happened?” She drew closer to Abigail, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Has he hurt you?”
Graeme’s eyebrows shot up. “Hurt her! You think I would—”
“No,” Abigail cut through his words, smiling reassuringly at the maid. “I rather think it was Lord Montclair who suffered some damage. Fetch water and a rag for me, would you, Molly? Oh, and ice, iodine . . .” She paused thoughtfully. “Ring for some brandy, as well. Lord Montclair would probably appreciate a drink.”
Molly set her jaw stubbornly, but said only, “Aye, miss, if you want it.” She cast another look of ill will at Graeme and left the room.
Graeme gazed after her in astonishment. “She, um . . . You have an unusual maid.”
“Molly’s much more than a maid.” Abigail smiled. “She was my nurse when I was young, as well. She is rather protective.”
“I saw.” He hesitated. “Surely you do not think that I would hurt you?”
“No, of course not. You would never physically harm a woman.”
He noticed the distinction of physical harm, and once again guilt and doubt twined through him. Abigail seemed so pleasant now, her earlier sharp teasing dropped, so open and candid. So subtly alluring.
Molly popped back into the room, carrying a pitcher of water, small towels draped over her arm. “Here you are, miss.” She set down her burden. “I’ve sent for ice and brandy and some nice hot chocolate for you.” She half turned toward Graeme. “Shall I—”
“No, Molly, that’s fine. You can go back to your room now. I’ll handle this.”
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“I’ll wait in there.” The older woman nodded toward the bedroom. “You’ll be needing help with your things later.”
“No,” Abigail replied firmly. “I’ll send for you when I’m ready to retire.”
“Very well.” The woman shot another warning look at Graeme, but she left the suite.
Abigail wet the cloth and walked over to him. Taking his chin firmly in her hand, she began to clean the blood from the side of his face. She worked in a businesslike way, and Graeme was embarrassed to feel his body respond to her nearness. Her scent went straight to his head, making it difficult to think, and the feel of her fingers on his chin was alarmingly stirring. Even the gentle stroke of the washcloth across his cheek affected him like a caress.
She brushed his hair back from his forehead, and though she was only clearing it from the cut above his eye, the soft intimacy of the gesture shook him. He sought to control his breath, hoping she could not feel the sudden heat in his skin. She went up on her toes to inspect the cut more closely, and he thought of her bare feet, the way she had casually kicked off her slippers. How could that be so seductive?
She was only inches from him, those intriguing gold-green eyes focused on the cut above his eyebrow so that he was looking straight into them. It was deeply disturbing that just being with her had the power to arouse him. Had he been wrong all those years ago? Had he unforgivably wounded a delicate young woman? And why had he never noticed how soft and plump her lower lip was?
The cloth touched the cut directly, and he drew his breath in with a small hiss. Abigail stopped, her eyes going to his. “I’m sorry. But I must clean it.”
“Of course.”
“It’s not deep, fortunately.” She finished cleaning the cut and pulled her hand away. Her knuckles brushed over his cheekbone. “I think you’re going to have a shiner there.”
“A, um, a what?”
“A shiner. You know, a black eye. A bruise.”
“Ah, yes, no doubt.”
“You don’t seem like the kind to get into fistfights.” Now she began to dab at the cut on his lip, and a tremor ran through him, the little dart of pain tangling with a sudden pulsing hunger. He wanted to feel her lips against his, the pain be damned. He wanted her mouth to open beneath his, to slide his tongue inside the warm, wet cave . . .
