Page 1 of A Perfect Gentleman

prologue

1871

Abby tucked her hand into Graeme’s arm, and they started up the stairs. Everyone was watching them. Afraid she might stumble or do something equally embarrassing in front of them all, she was grateful for his support. She cast a shy glance up at the man beside her and was struck all over again by how handsome Graeme was—the clean-cut profile and firm masculine chin, the full mouth that could curve up in a smile that made her heart lift in her chest, the blue eyes rimmed by sinfully thick lashes a shade darker than his brown hair. More amazing still, he was hers.

She ducked her head to hide the little smile of pleasure. She was Mrs. Graeme Parr now—no, Lady Montclair. No, that couldn’t be right, either, for he would not be Lord Montclair until his father died. All the names and titles were confusing. It was best to avoid the subject altogether—Abigail had found that in London, the wisest course of action was to keep one’s mouth shut.

Not that Graeme was ever unkind. He was a perfect gentleman, the sort hostesses relied on to dance with the wallflowers or spend a few minutes talking to the old ladies. Unfailingly pleasant and polite, he treated her, as he did everyone, with quiet courtesy. He had not once gotten that supercilious look on his face that other English people did when she said a name wrong—how could anyone expect Worcester to be pronounced like that!—and he kept a polite expression on his face the few times she did say something, no matter how banal it was.

He did not love her, of course. Abby was well aware that her attraction lay in her father’s fortune, not her face and figure. And, in truth, between the chaperones and social activities, the two of them hadn’t been alone enough to become more than acquainted. But Graeme would be good to her. Kind. And she would earn his love; Abby was certain of that. She was now a married woman, out from under her father’s thumb, with a husband who would not scold or try to rule her every movement.

She stole another look at her groom. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and he had shadows beneath his eyes. Like her, she thought, he had been unable to sleep well recently. How could one, with the myriad of things to do before a wedding? All the running about, meeting so many people it made her head swim . . . the nerves that would not quiet.

Still, the set look on his face seemed too grim for mere weariness. Was he angry? Only minutes ago she had noticed him talking to her father. Thurston Price had a way of infuriating people, snapping out orders as if one must scurry to do his bidding. Of course, most people did. Including her.

But it didn’t matter. She was free of her father now. They were free of him. Tomorrow they’d be off on a monthlong tour of the Continent. Alone. Just as they would be tonight. Her fingers tightened on his arm. For the first time, she would be truly alone with her husband. The thought was intoxicating . . . and a little frightening. She was decidedly uncertain of the details; no one would say anything clear about what went on. Even her maid, Molly, on whom she could usually rely, was little help, having been a spinster all her life.

“Just trust in his lordship,” was Molly’s best advice. “He seems like a gentleman even if he is British.” Molly, whose mother hailed from Glasgow, had an inbred distrust of all things English.

Molly was right, of course. Graeme was a perfect gentleman. Unlike her father, he would not roar at her over a mistake. Still, she could not help but wish that this night was over, that it was tomorrow morning and they were starting out on their life together.

Abigail had looped the train of her wedding dress over her arm to make certain she did not trip over it, and it was beginning to weigh on her arm. The long veil and the intricate hairstyle beneath it were heavy, as well, and her corset, fastened more tightly than normal to create the perfect wasp waist, made it impossible to draw a full breath.

Leaving the stairs, they started down the long hallway to their suite. It seemed to Abby that Graeme’s pace picked up, and she wondered if it was eagerness or merely the same excess of nerves she felt. Her heart was pounding as he opened the door and stepped back, politely ushering her into the room. She walked inside, hearing the door close heavily behind them.

She wasn’t sure what to do, much less what to say. Her cheeks flushed as the silence stretched, and finally, curiosity overcoming her shyness, she turned to look at him. He stood facing her, that same tense look on his face. The nerves in Abigail’s stomach tightened.

“What—” she began, not even sure what she was asking. “Are you—is something wrong?”

He let out a short, humorless huff of a laugh. “What isn’t wrong?”

The blood drained from her face, and a buzzing began in her ears, so loud she could not make out his words. She clenched her hands, drawing a deep breath, willing herself not to faint.

“. . . but I’m not dancing to his tune,” Graeme was saying when her ears cleared. His eyes were hard in a way she’d never seen them. “Or yours.”

“Excuse me?” Her voice came out barely more than a whisper.

“Your father may have bought you a husband, but he did not buy a puppet.”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“Then I shall make it as clear as I possibly can.” He took a long stride toward her, his eyes implacable. “The two of you have the title you wanted so much, the name you coveted. But that is all you acquired. I am not here to provide him with future earls carrying his bloodline. I made this bargain to save my family, not to stand at stud for the Prices.”

Abigail drew in a sharp breath, as stunned as if he had slapped her.

“That surprises you? Are you so incapable of human feeling?” His words came out fast and furious, raining down like stones on her bruised heart. “Did you honestly think, knowing I loved another, that I would just slide into your bed? That I would be your lapdog? You’d best think again. I will never be a husband to you in anything but name.”

Abby could not speak, could not move, could only stare at him in bleak horror. It took every ounce of will to keep her trembling knees from collapsing under her. Graeme despised her. This perfect gentleman, this kind husband who she had thought would be her lifelong shelter, in fact wanted nothing to do with her. He loved someone else.

Graeme paused, watching her as if he expected a reply. Pain and loss and fury swirled inside Abby, almost choking her. “I see.”

His mouth twisted. “I thought you would.”

Turning on his heel, he strode to the door. He tossed the hotel room key onto the lamp table and walked out of the room.

Abigail continued to stand, gazing at the blank expanse of the door, still too stunned to move. Her legs began to tremble until they could not hold her any longer, and she sank to her knees, a low cry escaping her. Reaching up, she wrenched the delicate veil from her head and, at last, she gave way to sobs.

chapter 1