Page 72 of A Perfect Gentleman

“What? Oh.” Laura Hinsdale’s telltale pale skin could not hide the blush that rose in her cheeks. “No, no, indeed, I haven’t heard anything about you. I am not usually in London; I’m visiting one of my cousins for a few weeks.” She bent over the ruffle again, her fingers moving swiftly and surely. “I, ah, am acquainted with the Parr family.”

“Are you? That’s splendid. You know my husband?”

“Yes. That is, somewhat.”

“We shall have to find him when you are done. I am sure he would be pleased to see you again.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.” She finished the stitch and snipped off the thread. “There. All done. I should look for my cousin. No doubt she is wondering where I’ve gotten to.”

There was the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Abby!” Graeme came into view and stopped. “Ah, there you are. What are you—”

At the sound of his voice, Laura sucked in her breath in a sharp hiss and whirled around. Graeme stopped midsentence. The color drained from his face.

“Laura,” he said at last, staring at Abigail’s companion. “I . . . I . . .”

Suddenly Abby knew: this was the woman her husband loved. The pretty, helpful Miss Hinsdale, the woman Abby had liked on sight, was the woman Graeme had wanted to marry, the one with whom he had been eager to share his life. And she realized, with a hard, swift stab of pain, that she had been building her life on quicksand.

Breaking the tableau, Abby jumped to her feet and fled from the alcove. She heard Graeme’s voice behind her, calling her name, but she didn’t stop, didn’t even pause. She slipped past the clot of women at the doorway of the cloakroom, and, remembering the second door at the other end of the long, narrow room, she hurried through it and emerged into a side corridor.

She didn’t bother to grab her cloak along the way. Her only thought was to get away, to be alone, where there was no one to see her, no one to hear her. Away from Graeme and the pain of seeing that expression on his face.

Abby walked quickly, head down, and took the back staircase to the ground floor. Emerging in the hallway outside the kitchen, she startled a footman carrying out a tray of food. He began to spout apologies, but Abby waved them away.

“Is there another door out? A tradesman’s door?”

He nodded, puzzled. “Yes, miss, in the kitchen, but—”

“Thank you.” She cut him off and hurried through the door he had just exited. She passed through the kitchen, and though everyone in it stopped what they were doing and stared at her, none moved to stop her. Outside, she found herself in a narrow walkway running down the length of the house.

It was chilly without a wrap, but Abby barely registered the discomfort. She ran to the street and looked up and down, finally spotting the Parr carriage. With relief, she gathered up her skirts and ran to it. The coachman, gossiping with the other drivers, gaped at her, then rushed forward.

“My lady! Is aught the matter? Where is Lord Montclair?” He glanced around.

“He’s still inside. I want to go home. I’m, ah, not feeling well.”

“Of course, my lady, of course.” He hustled over to open the door for her and help her inside. Then, with a last puzzled glance toward the house, he picked up the weight holding the horses and climbed up onto his high seat.

The carriage rumbled off, and Abby fell back against the seat. She realized now that she was shivering, and her heart was racing along as rapidly as her breathing. She felt utterly scattered and jumpy—scared—and her cheeks were wet with tears she had not even known she was crying. She struggled to compose herself. The driver had probably decided she was a trifle strange; she didn’t want to run through the house like a madwoman, alarming all the servants.

By the time they pulled up in front of Montclair House, Abby had wiped her cheeks dry, tucked away the flying bits of her hair, and pulled her face into some semblance of calm. Stepping down from the carriage, she said, “Please return to the party. Lord Montclair and the dowager countess will need the carriage later.”

He tugged at his cap and left without protest. When she opened the door and walked inside, she gave a regal nod to the footman, who had jumped up from the entry bench in surprise. She managed to make it all the way up the stairs before the tears began to leak from her eyes again. How could she be so supremely happy one moment, and only minutes later feel her world collapse around her?

Running down the hall into her bedroom, she yanked at the bell pull. She was desperate to get out of these clothes and into bed, to drag the covers up over her head and cry her heart out. She didn’t want to see anyone; she would not have rung for Molly if she had been able to get out of the multitude of fastenings down the back of her dress by herself.

The last person she wanted to see was Graeme. She could not bear it. She didn’t consider why, at the same time, it made her heart squeeze with pain to think he might not pursue her. She started to lock the door but realized that Molly would need to get in. She crossed to the connecting door to Graeme’s room and turned the key in the lock.

Sitting down before the vanity, Abby pulled the pins from her hair, her fingers clumsy and trembling. She had to stop now and then to wipe the tears from her cheeks—she refused to break down in sobs, but she could not keep the tears from seeping from her eyes.

The door opened, and she whipped around, thinking, Graeme. But it was, of course, her maid. And suddenly she could not hold back any longer; she began to cry in earnest.

“Miss Abby!” Molly ran to her and enfolded Abby in her arms. “What happened? It’s him, isn’t it? And I’d begun to hope he’d—och, I might have known.” Molly’s eyes flashed.

“No.” Abby gulped, doing her best to rein in her sobs. “It isn’t him. It’s just . . . oh, Molly!” She jumped up, unable to sit still a moment longer, and began to pace aimlessly about the room. “I saw her tonight.”

“Who? Who did you see?” Molly followed her.

“Laura Hinsdale.”