Page 7 of A Perfect Gentleman

“It makes it deuced difficult to find anyone.”

“Don’t swear, Graeme. Now, give me your arm, and let’s stroll about.”

This sort of meaningless social round was exactly the reason he usually spent his time at the estate instead of the London house. He could not refuse to escort his grandmother to parties—courtesy had been too much bred into him for that—but in general he found them a complete bore. However, he had committed himself to this path, so Graeme offered the countess his arm and they began their slow procession about the room, Mrs. Ponsonby trailing along behind them.

“Look for a knot of gentlemen,” the countess instructed him. “Most likely she’s in the center of it.”

“Why? There’s little reason for fortune hunters to hang about a married woman.”

Lady Eugenia sent him a wry look. “There are other reasons for men to hang about a woman.”

“But it’s not as if she’s—”

His grandmother rapped her fan against his arm. “There she is.”

He looked in the direction she indicated. “—beautiful.” His last word came out as little more than a whisper.

Abigail Price had been thin and pale and drab. Abigail Parr, Lady Montclair, was . . . well, stunning.

“Don’t gape,” his grandmother said crisply. “The American mouse has changed.”

“So I see.”

She was still slender, still pale, her hair still black, but there was nothing drab about her now. She wasn’t beautiful, not exactly. Her mouth was a little too wide and her cheekbones more sharp than soft, and she was altogether too tall. But when one saw her, it was hard to look away. Her thick hair, black as night, was swept up into a fashionable pompadour style that looked as if it might tumble down at any moment. Her large eyes sparkled, her mouth curved, and color bloomed along her cheeks. Even her dress drew the eye—a silver concoction with dramatic black chevrons decorating the front and a neckline that showcased her perfect white shoulders.

It was utterly irritating that the first thing he felt when he saw the woman was a swift, sharp stab of lust. Clearly, he thought, casting a jaundiced eye at the men around her, a number of other males felt the same way.

“Excuse me, Grandmother. Mrs. Ponsonby.” Giving them a short nod, he strode over to the knot of men, stopping at the edge. “Lady Montclair.”

The men turned toward him, more than one eyebrow lifting, and Graeme realized how short and sharp his words had come out. Abigail’s gaze went to him, as well. One of the men started to speak, but Abigail cut him off.

“Lord Montclair.” To his surprise, she smiled, her eyes dancing, as if she found the moment amusing. She was enjoying this, he realized with equal parts irritation and disbelief. Abigail turned her smile on the men around her. “Gentlemen, you must excuse me. My husband has first claim to a waltz with me.”

The last thing Graeme wanted was to dance with the woman, but she had caught him neatly. To refute her words would only make him look foolish or churlish, probably both. He forced a tight smile and stood rigidly, watching her as she walked toward him. She moved at an unhurried pace, making no effort to be seductive, but clearly confident in her ability to hold his gaze.

He nodded to the other men, unable to repress a certain sense of satisfaction at the envious expressions on their faces. “Gentlemen.”

Graeme extended his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. He started toward the dance floor, very aware of the warmth of her body beside him and the faintly exotic, supremely tantalizing scent of her perfume. He glanced at her and found her watching the dancers; apparently she felt none of the same vibrating awareness of him. He noticed that nestled in the thick black hair atop her head was a small diamond dragonfly. His fingers itched to reach out and touch it. Farther down, a stray bit of hair had slipped from the puffed roll and lay along the nape of her neck. And that led his thoughts to stray to other places he should not go.

Sternly he pulled his mind back to reality. Now that the moment was upon him, he found himself curiously tongue-tied. Why hadn’t he considered what he should say to her?

“No doubt they are placing bets on whether we shall create a scene here at the ball,” she said, obviously suffering none of his uncertainty, either. She turned her head toward him. “How would you place the odds on it?”

It was an unusual—and somehow intriguing—sensation to look into a woman’s face mere inches below his own. “I have no intention of causing a scene.”

“Of course not; it would be most ungentlemanly. Needless to say, you have no such confidence in me,” she went on in that same light way, as if she found him faintly amusing. No doubt she did—a scene was probably precisely what she hoped to provoke.

“I don’t know what to expect from you,” he told her flatly. “I haven’t the least idea what you plan to do here.”

The music had stopped, and couples were drifting onto and off the dance floor. She turned to face him, smiling. “Why, at the moment, I am going to dance.”

She held up her hand, and he could do nothing but take it. He stepped closer, settling his other hand at her waist. It seemed to take an age for the orchestra to strike up again. He was intensely aware of her hand in his, even through the glove; of the slick satin of her dress beneath his other hand. Sweet heavens, but there was something dizzying in her perfume, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes from straying down to where the lace-edged neckline skimmed over the soft mounds of her breasts.

“I meant in more general terms,” he snapped. “Why the devil did you come back to London?”

“Surely it isn’t unusual for a wife to visit her husband,” she tossed back, widening her eyes a little in faux surprise.

How could he have forgotten the color of her eyes? They were green as new leaves, the pupils ringed with golden starbursts. They disconcerted him as much as the lightly teasing, almost flirtatious way she was speaking to him. Did she think he did not remember what had happened after all this time? That he would overlook the fact that they had blackmailed him into marrying her? That she could smile beckoningly and smell delightful and he would fall in with whatever she wanted?