Page 14 of A Perfect Gentleman

“Instead you were honest.” James shrugged. “It’s not a crime.”

“Not terribly gentlemanly.” Graeme smiled faintly, then winced as it sent a stab of pain through his split lip. “And as you can see, I am always a gentleman.”

“Mm. Clearly. So, to sum up, you were less than a perfect gentleman. She was a naïve fool who knew nothing about her father’s plans. Or she wasn’t. Now, after a ten-year absence, she is in London again. And her reason for being here, her expectations, her plans—in short, everything about her—is unknown.”

“Yes. And as her husband, however reluctantly, I will be accountable for whatever she does.”

“It seems to me it might behoove you to speak to Lady Montclair again.”

“Yes. I know.” Graeme considered the idea gloomily.

They had reached a corner and James paused, then nodded up the street. “Do you want to come back to my house to clean your wounds? Lady Eugenia will not approve of your condition.”

“No. Grandmother hopefully has gone to bed. But I think I’d like to walk a bit.” Graeme shrugged and discovered that he had hurt his shoulder, as well.

His cousin departed and Graeme walked on alone, too sunk in thought to pay attention to the time or the direction of his steps. It was with some surprise that he glanced up and found himself in front of the Langham Hotel. He started toward the brightly lit entrance before he remembered the condition he was in. He’d stormed out of the club without his hat or gloves. A button or two had popped off his waistcoat in the struggle, and his ascot was askew. The pocket that housed his watch had been torn half off, so that his watch dangled loosely on its chain. Not to mention his split lip or the cut above his eyebrow.

He whipped around to leave just as Abigail stepped down from a carriage, her hand in the helping hand of a well-dressed gentleman. For an instant Graeme thought wildly of fleeing, but Abigail glanced over and saw him. Her eyes widened, and she started toward him, her escort trailing uncertainly in her wake.

“Graeme! What happened? Are you all right?” Her green-gold eyes were filled with a concern that he found strangely satisfying.

“Yes, um . . . bit of a dustup.” He shoved back his hair and tugged at his lapels in a futile attempt to bring himself into order. “I beg your pardon for appearing here like this.”

“Lady Montclair, is this man bothering you?” Her companion came up beside Abigail, gazing down the length of his nose at Graeme. His voice was tinged with a foreign accent.

Abigail started to answer, but Graeme jumped in before she could. “This man is her husband. And I assure you, your assistance is not required.” He fixed a stony gaze on the man.

Her escort looked nonplussed. Abigail’s concern changed to irritation. “Honestly, Gra— Montclair. What would your grandmother say about your lack of manners?” Graeme started to speak, but she effectively ignored him, turning to the other man with a smile. “It’s perfectly all right, Monsieur Benoit. You need not worry. I’ll be fine. Thank you for escorting me tonight.”

Graeme watched sourly as she took her leave of the Frenchman, which involved a great deal of smiling and gesturing and bowing over her hand before the fellow finally left and she turned back to Graeme.

“So you’re bringing them in from France now?”

“What?” Abigail looked at him blankly.

“Your swains.” He nodded toward the back of the retreating Benoit. “All the men always dangling around you. I wondered where the devil they came from.”

Her eyes took on a twinkle and she pressed her lips together firmly. “Oh, of course! Those hundreds of men who have escorted me to the theater or a party.” She was laughing at him. It was no wonder, really. He was acting a fool. She went on. “No doubt it would have been more appropriate if I had attended them alone.”

He scowled. They both knew that would have caused gossip. “Oh, devil take it.”

Graeme started to swing away, but Abigail laughed and hooked her hand around his arm. “Come, Lord Montclair, I think we’d better get you cleaned up.”

She smelled delicious, he realized. He would have to bend his head only a little to kiss her. “I don’t remember you being this tall.” Good Gad, what was wrong with him, blurting out things like that? He was beginning to think that Prescott’s blows must have knocked something loose in his head.

Abigail, however, seemed to take no offense, for she only laughed again in her easy way. He had noticed her laugh several times the past week—light and infectious, without self-consciousness. “Well, I haven’t grown, I assure you.”

“Of course not. I beg your pardon—silly thing to say.”

“Not really. The difference is my shoes, I imagine.” They had reached the lift and paused. Abigail lifted her skirts a little, sticking out one foot to show her slipper and turning it this way and that. The shoe matched the deep emerald of her dress and had a raised heel, but Graeme found the sight of her ankle far more interesting.

He pulled his gaze away and saw that the young man operating the lift found the sight riveting, as well. Graeme cleared his throat, and the man jumped, hurrying to open the gate for them. As the lift rose—a sensation Graeme had not yet grown accustomed to, though he’d been in one a few times before—Abigail continued. “I used to wear flat slippers—I was so tall, you see, and I tried to hide it as best I could. But one day I decided, what did it matter? If a lovely shoe had a heel, there was no reason not to wear it.”

“No. I suppose not.” It was a peculiar conversation. Graeme glanced over at the operator of the lift, who was sneaking surreptitious glances at him. Graeme almost laughed. No doubt their conversation or even Abigail exposing her ankle paled in comparison to the battered state of Graeme’s face.

“Now,” Abigail said when they stepped out of the lift and started down the corridor, “I have to wonder, what have you been up to since you left the party? It couldn’t have been much more than an hour since I saw you.”

“Oh.” It seemed an age ago. “Yes, well, I, um.” He shoved his hand back through his hair. “I beg your pardon for my appearance. I’m not usually so—”