Page 17 of A Perfect Gentleman

“I didn’t say that. Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“You needn’t worry. I am aware of which fork to use. I bought my clothes in Paris last month, so I shan’t look provincial. I am careful not to wear more diamonds than British ladies. Perhaps the people who invite me to their parties do so in hopes of obtaining gossip. Perhaps the aristocracy all laugh at me behind my back. You would know about that better than I, since you are one of them. But if they do, they won’t blame you for my failings. They’ll pity you for your misfortune.”

Abigail shrugged, as if none of this mattered. It was true that the English nobility’s barely concealed disdain no longer burned. It had been foolish to let it bother her so much ten years ago. “But none of them will dare snub me. They’re hopeful that through my connections they can sell their sons to American heiresses.”

Graeme’s lips tightened, and she saw that her barb had found its home. “I realize that you hold me in contempt for marrying you as I did.”

“No,” Abigail replied honestly. “I thought you were rather noble, actually, for making the sacrifice. Saving your family estate and all that.” She made a self-deprecating moue. “I was hopelessly romantic then, as only an eighteen-year-old girl can be.”

His eyes narrowed. “You knew, then . . .”

“That you did not love me? Yes, of course. I wasn’t so deluded as to believe you married me for anything other than my father’s money. However, I was not aware that you had already pledged your heart to another woman. I didn’t realize you were giving up all hope of happiness.” It was difficult to keep her smile from wobbling, but she managed it. “I would not have agreed to my father’s wishes if I had known how you felt.”

Graeme studied her for a long moment, then offered a ghost of a smile. “I must be thankful that you did not, or I would have truly been in the basket.”

Abigail relaxed, and her answering smile was, for the first time, natural. She saw that he still held the small bundle of ice in his hand, and she stepped forward, taking it from him. “Here, you better put this on, or you’ll be even more sore tomorrow.”

She moved in closer, raising it to gently lay it against his split lip. He reached up, his hand covering hers, and for a long, breathless moment, they stood that way, her eyes unwaveringly on his. Then a soft noise came from behind him, and Abigail quickly pulled back her hand, turning toward the door. A square envelope like the one she had found the other night lay on the floor. Someone had slid it beneath her door.

Graeme went to pick up the envelope. Abigail hurried after him, and as he turned to hand it to her, she almost snatched it from his hand. He looked startled, but she ignored him, rushing to open the door. She stepped out into the hall and peered up and down the corridor. There was no one. She turned back and found Graeme watching her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“What? Oh.” She glanced down at the envelope. The writing on the front was the same. She forced a little laugh. “No. Just another invitation, I’m sure.” She crossed to the small spindly-legged desk and slid the missive into the shallow drawer. In this moment of tenuous truce between them, the last thing she wanted was to introduce a mysterious note purporting to offer her the “truth” about their marriage. “Well . . .”

“Yes. Um . . .” He glanced around vaguely. Silence stretched between them. “I’m glad everything is straight between us now.”

“Is it?” Abigail asked lightly. She wasn’t sure why she continued to tease him, like a child who wanted to provoke a response, any response, to get one’s notice.

“Thank you . . . for, um . . .” He waggled the bundle of ice, then set it down on the table.

“You’re welcome. But perhaps you should keep it.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He picked it up again. “I suppose I couldn’t look any more foolish than I already do. And thank you for the brandy.”

“You didn’t even have any.”

“That’s true.” He picked up the glass and downed it.

Abigail laughed. “I didn’t mean that you must.”

He shrugged. “Mustn’t let good brandy go to waste.” He paused again. “I should go now. You were most kind to tend to my wounds. I’m sorry for making a shambles of your evening.”

“I didn’t mind.”

“Well . . .” He nodded to her. “Good-bye, then. I suppose I won’t see you again.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” She smiled and sailed over to open the door. “Good night.”

He hesitated, the frown returning, and she thought for a moment he was going to question her statement, but he only sketched a bow to her and strode from the room.

Abigail closed the door, leaning back against it. Her knees were suddenly trembling and her heart pounding. Silly to fall to pieces now she had gotten through the scene relatively unscathed. She had concealed her alarm at his bruised and bloody state; it would not do to let him glimpse any weakness. She had managed to keep her manner light and dispassionate even after he began to talk about their wedding night.

He couldn’t have guessed from her tone how crushed she had been at his rejection, how she had crawled into a hiding hole like a wounded animal. It was the impression she must give him; indeed, it was what she must feel. What she wanted would not work unless she could remain free of emotion.

It had surprised her a bit to feel the old pain and anger welling up in her as she talked. She had believed herself rid of them years ago. But she didn’t think her resentment had showed through her words . . . or at least only a little. She had meant to prick his pride with that remark about the nobility selling their sons to American heiresses. Abigail smiled to herself. No doubt it was wicked to feel satisfaction at the expression on his face.

All in all, it had worked out well. Graeme had come to her. He had apologized. She had handled it with apparent sangfroid . . . at least until that blasted note had been shoved under the door. The way she had snatched the letter from him had not been calm and controlled.