Page 29 of A Perfect Gentleman

They continued the conversation in this manner, lurching from stilted pleasantries to hidden (and sometimes not so hidden) barbs, with Graeme struggling to maneuver a safe path between. Graeme wondered more and more why his grandmother had invited Abigail. Lady Eugenia was acting rather high-handed even by her standards. It put him in the position of having to defend Abigail—though, in truth, she did not seem to need any help.

It was a relief when the curtain went up. Of course, the dim quiet brought a problem of its own, for now his mind was free to wander wherever it wanted—and where it wanted was Abigail. There was the constant temptation of her perfume and the white swell of her bosom above her dress, the soft upsweep of her hair, so heavy and insubstantially pinned it seemed likely to tumble down at any moment.

Graeme thought of the other night, Abigail’s hair falling down all over her shoulders. He remembered the passion that had pulsed in him, mingling with anger and frustration into an explosive mix. He must apologize for that kiss, for the way he had handled her with such familiarity and so little gentleness. Impossible to do so, of course, with his grandmother sitting beside them. And if he didn’t stop thinking about it soon, he would be in a sorry state, indeed.

Eventually the evening passed. Graeme got through the intermission by rushing out to procure refreshments for them. Of course, when he returned, it seemed half the crowd was in his box. It made it easier, for Abigail’s attention was taken up by others, but somehow that irritated him, as well. The play crept by, though he followed it in the most disjointed fashion, having to pull his attention back time and again to the stage.

At last it was over, and Graeme sprang to his feet in relief. But when he escorted the ladies outside, he learned that Abigail intended to take a hansom cab home. Predictably Lady Eugenia reacted with horror to the idea, and Graeme had to agree with his grandmother.

“Go home unescorted? No, I cannot allow it. You must ride with us,” he told her.

“I will be perfectly safe,” Abigail assured him. “I have trespassed on your good nature long enough already.”

The polite social bickering continued until finally he won out, and Graeme handed Abigail up into the carriage after the dowager countess. He politely took the backward-facing seat opposite the women, frankly grateful that courtesy allowed him to thus separate himself from their conversation. With the sound of the carriage wheels on the pavement and the various noises from outside, he could hear only snatches of their discussion. At least it seemed amiable enough, as the dowager countess dissected the ingénue’s performance, with Abigail spiritedly insisting that the blame lay more on the older actress who repeatedly upstaged her.

Watching Abigail laugh at something Lady Eugenia said and his grandmother manage a tiny smile in response, he had to marvel at Abigail’s ability to hold her own. Many women, including his own mother—perhaps he should say especially his own mother—wilted under the dowager countess’s sharp tongue.

When they reached the hotel, Graeme stepped out to give Abigail his hand in descending, then offered her his arm.

“You don’t have to escort me inside,” she told him, though she took the proffered arm. “I am quite safe here, I believe. Your doorman, after all, would rush to defend your wife.”

“He’s not my—” He gritted his teeth. “I will see you to your door.”

As they walked through the lobby, Graeme rehearsed in his head what he must say to her. As soon as they stepped from the lift, he began. “I wanted to speak with you. I could not with my grandmother there, of course, but I have been remiss. I should have come to see you immediately. The other evening, when you proposed that we—that I—that is to say, that we alter the arrangements of our marriage . . .”

“You mean sleep together?” Abigail suggested.

He gave her a pained look. “Are you always so blunt?”

“I don’t know.” She grinned, mischief lighting her eyes. “I have never discussed the matter with anyone before, you see.”

“Good Gad, I should hope not.” He sounded, he realized, like a pompous old fogy, and he could feel heat rising up the back of his neck. How did he always wind up feeling awkward and embarrassed around Abigail? He cleared his throat and plowed ahead. “What I mean to say is that I acted inappropriately. I was angry. I should never have—I am not in the habit of forcing my attentions upon a woman, and I must apologi—”

“Stop it!” Abigail jerked her hand from his arm and whirled to face him. The color was high on her cheeks, and her eyes flashed. “Just stop it.” She reached out and dug her hands into the lapels of his jacket, crumpling them, and stared straight into his eyes. “Don’t you dare apologize for kissing me.”

Still holding the front of his jacket with a death grip, she stepped in closer and went up on her toes and kissed him. Graeme stood still, too stunned by her action to move, as her mouth closed soft and warm on his. A quiver ran down through him.

She pulled back, her breath coming as swiftly as his, heat shimmering between them. “You kissed me the other night because you wanted to.” She moved in again, and this time he seized her waist and pulled her up into him.

Their lips met, hungry and fierce, and she let out a satisfied little sigh that swamped him with heat. Her hands slid up his chest and neck, sinking into his hair, and every movement made his flesh tingle. He was immediately, achingly hard. When at last she pulled back, it took all his strength of will to relax his arms and release her.

“You wanted to kiss me,” she whispered. “And you want more than that. Can’t you for once stop playing the gentleman and tell the truth? At least ten years ago you were honest.”

Abigail whirled and walked rapidly away. He watched, his mind a jumble, as she opened her door, then turned to him. “I’ll be here tomorrow evening if you want to accept my offer.”

She stepped inside and closed the door.

chapter 10

Graeme ran a shaky hand back through his mussed hair and glanced around. He was relieved to find the hallway empty. His hat had wound up on the floor. He bent over to pick it up and absently brushed a piece of lint from it.

She had finally driven him to madness. Kissing her right in the middle of the hotel corridor, where anyone might have come along and seen them. Bizarrely, the thought sent another sizzle of arousal through him.

He took the stairs down, unwilling to face the lift operator, and paused for a moment to gather his wits before leaving the hotel. Hoping that nothing of what he’d just done showed on his face—the dowager countess had eyes like an eagle—he smoothed his hands down the front of his jacket and set his mind to think of anything other than that moment in the hall outside Abigail’s room.

“Goodness, Montclair, you’ve left me sitting here an age,” his grandmother greeted him. “You might have a little more consideration.”

“You might have had a little more consideration than to invite Abigail to join us,” he shot back, his nerves too ragged for courtesy.