Page 52 of A Perfect Gentleman

Graeme shifted uneasily. He didn’t want to think about that. Or about the fact that this time would pass, and things would return to normalcy. It was easier, better, to simply enjoy the moment. He had liked other women through the years, enjoyed their company, taken his pleasure with them. But none had ever filled up his life as Abby did. Suddenly she was everywhere—in his bed, in his house, in his thoughts.

She excited him, intrigued him. Being with her was like watching a storm approach—wind whipping at him, dark clouds rolling, electricity crackling in the air—stirred by it all even though one knew it wasn’t safe.

It wasn’t just the passion, though God knew that was more bone-deep thrilling than it had been with any other woman. That was part of it, but there was something more that tugged at him. He had tried to analyze it, but, as now, whenever he began to think about Abby, his thoughts devolved into maneuvering to catch her in some deserted hallway or pull her into an alcove and steal a kiss. Better yet, whisking her upstairs to his bed in the middle of the afternoon, as he had the other day.

“Graeme?”

He straightened, realizing that she had asked him something and was waiting for a response. He cast his mind back. “Oh. Well, I’m not sure. When I came into the title, I went through everything here. I don’t remember anything about the soldiers’ fund. Father ended it after he replaced the money; that was a few years before his death. Perhaps he had discarded the papers by then or packed them away.”

He took a key from the top drawer of the desk and unlocked a cabinet. “This is where I keep the account books. It’s possible there’s one for that fund still on the bottom shelf.”

Abby squatted down and began pulling out the logs and peering at the dates. He noticed that she had worn a different sort of dress today, with fewer petticoats and no bustle. More practical attire for stooping and bending and searching through shelves and drawers. Also, he reflected cheerfully, much easier to remove.

He went down on one knee beside her and joined in the search. Unsurprisingly, while there were a few account books dating back more than ten years, there were none pertaining to the Fund for Invalid Soldiers. They moved on to another cabinet, this one made up of a number of shallow drawers, a letter of the alphabet on each.

“I’m certain these are all mine,” Graeme said, though he opened each one anyway and riffled through the letters laid flat inside.

Abby turned her attention to the bookshelves. When Graeme finished the letters and turned to her, he found that she was watching him. He felt faintly embarrassed yet also pleased, with a snaking thread of desire running through it all. He thought of taking her into his arms, but the door of the study stood open. He crossed his arms and tried to be sensible.

“I don’t know where to look. There’s nothing in the desk.” He glanced around. The only other pieces of furniture were the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

“What did you do with the things that were here before?”

He leaned against the desk, considering. “Well . . . I remember burning some old papers, and I think I packed a few things away. I’m not sure what happened to that trunk.”

“Would it be in the attic? A storeroom?”

“If anyone would remember what happened to it, it would be Norton. Let’s ask.”

If the dignified butler was surprised by his employer’s question, no sign of it crossed his face, though Graeme had known him long enough to recognize the touch of chagrin in Norton’s eyes when he could not recall what he had done with the item in question. After some consideration, Norton came to the conclusion that it was most likely to be in the attic, so Graeme and Abigail turned there next.

A narrow set of stairs led from the servants’ corridor on the top floor to the attic above. Carrying a lamp, they climbed the stairs and stepped through into the long, narrow room. Windows at the front and back admitted light to add to the glow of their lamp. Graeme glanced over at Abby and smiled.

“You like this, don’t you? Searching for it.”

“Of course!” She looked surprised. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, there is the dust.” He pointed to the floor. “The cobwebs. The gloom. Mice?”

“Oh, pooh.” She dismissed such things with a wave of her hand. “It’s exciting. And mice, I imagine, will run from us, not vice versa.”

She walked along the central aisle to the window at the far end, and Graeme followed, trying to imagine any other lady of his acquaintance who would have shrugged aside the dust and spiders. Of course, this was a woman who met strangers at a dockside tavern without a qualm.

He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on the post of an abandoned headboard, and they started on their task. They opened trunks and peered into corners and shifted aside old umbrella stands, toys, and whatever other detritus of the past had wound up in the attic. Abby was momentarily distracted by a trunk containing ball gowns from a hundred years earlier, carefully unfolding a gown and holding it up to admire the elaborate embroidery.

“Can’t you imagine what this must have looked like?” She stood, holding it in front of her.

“Indeed, I can.” It was easy to picture her in the vivid blue dress with its stiff bodice pushing her breasts up almost indecently. No doubt her neck would have been draped with sapphires and diamonds, more jewels dangling from her ears and nestled in her hair. It had been an extravagant time, he’d read.

“Of course, it would have been a trifle short.” She cast a laughing look down at the skirt, which ended a good six inches above her ankles. “It must have been a tremendous production to get dressed. The powdered wigs. Painting your face and putting on beauty marks. The panniers out to here.” She held her arms out. “I wonder how they managed to walk through the doorways.”

“You’ve little room to talk, Countess.” He strolled toward her, smiling. “Given your bustles and corsets and countless petticoats.”

Abby widened her eyes in mock horror. “Why, Lord Montclair, it’s quite shocking for you to be discussing such things.”

“Is it?” He stopped very close to her, bracing his hand on one of the attic beams.

“Indeed. I believe gentlemen are supposed to be politely unaware of such feminine items.”