Page 23 of A Perfect Gentleman

He pressed his body into hers, imprinting her with the hard lines of muscle and bone. His mouth consumed hers, hot and drugging. Abigail kissed him back, imitating the movement of his lips and tongue. He clenched his hands in her hair, making a soft noise deep in his throat that threatened to melt her very flesh.

It had never occurred to her that her whole body could ache and yearn like this, that a deep insistent throbbing would spring to life between her legs, that she would find herself trembling and scarcely able to breathe . . . and yet wanting more and more. She heard a soft whimper and realized in some amazement that it had come from her.

Graeme rubbed his body over hers, and the ache inside her grew, pleasure and hunger flowing together. His hands slid down her, touching her in shocking places that made her shiver with delight. He cupped one of her breasts, dragging his thumb across the cloth and awakening the nipple beneath. With wonder, she felt her flesh harden beneath his touch, his thumb circling and circling until she thought she would have cried out if his mouth had not been clamped on hers.

His lips went to her cheeks, her ears, her throat. She heard the harsh rasp of his breath, and, like the searing heat of his skin, this evidence of his desire multiplied her own. She had to fight back a moan. She wanted him; she wanted . . . something. Wanted it so badly that she dug her fingers into the cloth of his jacket as if she could pull it out of him.

His fingers fumbled at the buttons of her dress, opening it, and he slid his hand beneath the cloth. The feel of his fingertips on her skin shocked her, thrilled her, and the yearning between her legs blossomed. He roamed over the soft flesh of her breast and delved beneath the lace edging of her chemise. He nipped gently at her neck, circling with his tongue, as his fingers found the hard bud of her nipple. And now she did moan, the sound soft and helpless, and she felt his body shudder against hers in response.

Abby breathed his name, her hand caressing his hair. He raised his head and his eyes locked with hers. His heat surrounded her; his scent filled her nostrils; his hard, rapid breaths brushed her skin. She saw only him, felt only him. And nothing had ever been so right.

“Oh, God.” He let his head drop, and she felt his muscles tighten. He levered himself away from the wall, away from her. He sent her a single fevered look, a volatile mix of anger and desire that should have made her shrink from him but only made her want to pull him back to her.

Graeme swung away, slamming his hand flat against the wall. He strode out of the room, thudding the door closed behind him. Abigail remained where she was, leaning against the wall, her heart racing, breath rushing in and out. Slowly she slid down to sit on the floor, unsure whether to laugh or cry—and knowing what she wanted most was to run after him.

Graeme stretched his legs out in front of him, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingertips, and contemplated the coals glowing on the grate. That woman, he thought with great bitterness, had driven him insane. After he charged out of her hotel suite, he’d walked so long and aimlessly through the streets that he had wound up hopelessly lost. He had been fortunate to find a hansom cab to take him home—and even more fortunate, probably, that some footpad hadn’t seen him, deep in his fog, and decided he was perfect prey.

That would have been all he needed, to be bashed over the head and acquire a large knot to go along with the cuts and bruises from his round of fisticuffs with the American—not to mention the large purplish oval on his ribs from the cosh wielded by his wife. It was no coincidence that she was also an American; there was something decidedly bellicose about those people.

Worse, they seemed to have an extraordinary ability to turn him into someone who was just as mad as they were. Never in his life had he acted as he had the other night with Abigail. If anyone had told him he could be eaten up with hunger that way for a woman whom he disliked with equal intensity, he would have scoffed at the idea.

He was a reasonable man. An even-tempered, polite sort ruled by logic and duty and practicality. He was not unemotional. He felt everything from love to pity to despair and hatred, but not to such excess . . . and not all at the same time! Yet there he had been, pawing her like some lecher, kissing her as if he would consume her—and, Lord, but he had wanted to do exactly that. He wanted to be inside her, over her, around her, driving into her with all the desperation in his soul. Her, of all people—a woman whom he held in contempt. A woman whom he never wanted to see again.

Yet he could not get her out of his mind.

It had been two days since he’d left Abigail, and he had done nothing but think about her. He should apologize; he’d behaved like a lout. Graeme had never handled a woman roughly in his life—though, God knew, it hadn’t seemed to bother her any. Perhaps she was used to men who shoved her against a wall and kissed her wildly, who thrust their hands down the front of her dress. Graeme sighed. He wasn’t sure which he felt more when he thought about his actions, guilt or arousal. The truth was, much as he knew he should apologize to her, he was frankly uneasy at the thought of calling on her. He wasn’t sure what he might do if he was alone with her again.

She was damnably seductive, though he wasn’t sure what she did to lure him. It might have been her laugh, or, no, it was more the teasing way she spoke to him, as if goading him into something outrageous. Perhaps it was that mouth that quirked up at the corners, not quite a smile, but clearly an invitation.

Abigail was no innocent, he was sure of that. A woman who went about making bold proposals as she had, who reacted as she did to his kiss, was a woman of experience. For all her proclamations of unwillingness to get a baby off some other man, she obviously must have had a lover. Lovers. He wondered if the man normally in her bed was Prescott.

His jaw clenched. He should have hit the fellow harder.

“Montclair?” The dowager countess’s voice cut through his gloomy thoughts. “Honestly, child, what are you doing in the dark?” She turned on the wall sconces.

“Sorry, Grandmother.” Graeme squinted in the sudden light.

“You have been acting most peculiarly.” She swept over to stare down at him. “You haven’t been outside this house for days.”

Suppressing a sigh, Graeme rose to his feet with ingrained courtesy. “I apologize if I have worried you.”

“Your grandfather was a moody man. I do hope you aren’t turning out to be like him.”

“A momentary aberration, I assure you. I shall doubtless be sunny again soon.”

“No need for impertinence.” She frowned. “Obviously you don’t wish to talk about whatever is troubling you, at least not to me.”

“Grandmother . . .”

“I know. I know. There are things a gentleman cannot speak of with ladies. Indeed, I am sure I would not wish to hear it. Why don’t you visit your cousin?”

“James?”

“Yes, of course James. The rest of that lot is useless, just like their mother. But James at least is levelheaded.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, really.” He could well imagine how James would react if Graeme started pouring out this welter of emotions to him.

Lady Eugenia sniffed. “It’s up to you, of course, if you choose to act like a bear with a sore paw, snapping at everyone.”