Page 49 of A Perfect Gentleman

Graeme turned her around, tracing the lines. His lids drooped lower as he studied her.

“Beautiful.” His voice was thick. He cupped her breasts, thumbs gently stroking them to hardness. “I could look at you all day . . . if I did not want so much to taste you.”

He pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her, and kissed her. Slow. Deep. Hungry. He worked his lips against her, used teeth and tongue to arouse her. Abby felt him swell against her, hard and pulsing. When he raised his head, his eyes were dark and slumberous, his mouth softened.

“Abigail.” He said her name as if trying it out to see how it felt. His hands moved slowly down her body. “Abby.”

She leaned toward him, and he met her, his mouth hot and eager. He sank his fingers into her hair, popping pins loose and sending her tresses tumbling. He fumbled at the ties closing her undergarments, divesting her of bustle and petticoats. One tie knotted, and she felt his fingers clench in frustration, followed by a snap that meant the ribbon had been torn from its moorings. Abby didn’t care. She loved the feel of his eagerness, his haste, just as she reveled in the heat radiating from his body and the faint tremor in his skin where she touched him.

He walked her back to the bed, his mouth roaming her face and throat. His arms beneath her buttocks, he lifted her, his mouth moving down to fasten on her breasts. Abby bent her head over his, her hair falling down around them like a curtain, as she caressed his shoulders. She tugged impatiently at his jacket, and he set her down to tear off his jacket and unfasten his clothes.

Abby helped by reaching down to the buttons of his trousers. She felt the muscles of his stomach jerk as her fingertips slid beneath the waistband, and she hesitated, thinking she had made a misstep, but he breathed, “No, don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

His flesh pressed against the material as she moved down the line of buttons, and experimentally she delved inside, sliding her hand over the smooth, throbbing flesh. He let out a low noise, his hand reaching down to guide hers. She could hear his breath rasping in his throat, fast and hard. Emboldened, she moved farther, slipping between his legs and taking the heavy sac in her palm.

Graeme put his hands on either side of her face, raising it to his, and he kissed her deeply, shuddering as she stroked him. He pulled away, shoving down his hampering garments and kicking them free. Lifting her, he tumbled her back onto the bed and covered her with his body. Braced on his elbows, his hands cupping her head, he continued to kiss her.

He had managed to unbutton his shirt but hadn’t gotten so far as to pull it off, so that it hung open and loose. The bared skin down the center of his chest was pressed against her; she felt the hard line of his bones, the firm padding of muscle, the tantalizing prickle of chest hair upon her flesh. Abby slipped her hands beneath the sides of his shirt, tracing his ribs and exploring his back. Everything she did seemed to heighten his passion.

Even lost in sensation as she was, another part of her mind was noting his reactions to the things she did and storing them up so that she could please him later. How was it that arousing him could give her so much pleasure?

Untouched as she had been, her ideas about what happened between men and women had been somewhat vague . . . at least until she had had that startling and informative conversation with the woman from the bordello. Certainly she had never dreamed that the whole thing would prove to be so enjoyable. She had wanted a child, but never had she thought that the act of getting one would turn out to be something she longed for, as well.

Now, as Graeme kissed his way down her body, his hands awakening in her such sensations that she felt she must shatter with the delight, she could only wish that she had not waited so long to discover it. Then he was inside her, filling her, moving with long, languorous strokes, and Abigail ceased to think at all.

She moved with him, delighting in his strength, his power, so carefully leashed to please her. Tension coiled within her, but now, knowing the prize that awaited her, she was content to let it spin out until at last she reached the crest and tumbled over the edge. She heard his hoarse cry, felt his body shudder against hers, and she knew that he, too, had found his release.

He collapsed against her, his heavy weight an entirely different pleasure. Heat poured from Graeme, his skin damp with sweat, and his lungs labored for air. Abigail relished his reaction. She kissed his shoulder, and his skin trembled at her touch.

Graeme rolled over, taking her with him, so that she nestled in the crook of his shoulder. His arms were still wrapped around her, his leg anchoring hers to the bed. She felt the brush of his lips against her hair.

This, she thought, was what she had ached for for so long and not even known that she wanted. This, at long last, was happiness.

chapter 17

The following day Graeme and Abby called on Milton Baker’s widow. Their coach carried them into an unprepossessing area, the streets becoming narrower and the buildings less well-tended the farther along they went. By the time they reached the address they sought, the road was so narrow that they had to leave the carriage to walk the last few yards. The driver looked uneasy, and Abby suspected that had it been a cab rather than their own vehicle, the coachman would not have waited for them.

The addresses were not marked, so they had to ask for directions from passersby, but eventually they found the right set of stairs. Graeme knocked, but it was a long time before anyone answered, even though the sound of coughing indicated someone was inside.

A woman opened the door, one hand on the doorjamb for support. She was small—Abby was uncertain whether she was actually short or just bent over so much she appeared that way. She was thin, though the loose hang of her dress hinted that she had not always been so. Shadowed eyes and sallow skin completed the look of ill health. The woman pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and turned away, coughing.

A pang of pity went through Abby. She glanced at Graeme, and he curled a hand around her waist as if she needed support, an entirely unnecessary gesture that somehow made her feel better.

“We are sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Baker,” Graeme began. “We came to offer our condolences.” The other woman looked at him dully. Graeme tried again. “I am Lord Montclair. Your husband worked for my father.”

“I remember. But you didn’t want him.” She seemed more matter-of-fact about it than resentful.

“I already had a business agent.”

“Milton expected it. He knew he’d have no chance with you after he had endorsed your father’s investment. Excuse me, I must sit down. I’m not well.”

There was no arguing with that. Mrs. Baker sank into a chair beside the small stove, burning despite the warmth of the day. It made the small room stifling, but Mrs. Baker huddled next to the stove as if chilled. She gestured toward a nearby chair, a spindly thing that looked as if it might collapse. Abigail sat down in it gingerly, and Graeme came to stand beside her.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Baker looked at Abigail. “The woman he went to see.”

“Yes. He told me he had information for me.”

The other woman nodded. “He did that for me, you know. He wasn’t that kind of man. It was hard for him after Lord Montclair lost the money. Everyone knew, you see, that Milton had been foolish enough to agree it was a good investment. Still, he was able to get a job as a clerk, at least, and we managed on that. Till I came down sick.”