Page 91 of A Perfect Gentleman

When Abby walked out the front door the next day, she was confronted by a tableau of the dowager countess facing down Sir James and an enormous brindle dog. None of them appeared happy. Watching them from the side was Graeme, who merely looked weary. Abby’s heart clenched in her chest at the sight of him as Graeme turned to look at her, his face the same remotely polite mask he had worn all yesterday. Not, of course, that she had caught sight of him very often—only at dinner.

She had started more than once to go to him, to try to make him understand that she never believed he had tried to hurt her. But each time, before she’d made it to his door, she had thought of how he had run to Laura when she beckoned, and anger had boiled up in her chest all anew. What did it matter if he thought she misjudged him? That was better than showing him her bruised and battered heart. His anger was preferable to his pity.

“I am not accustomed to sharing a carriage with a beast,” Lady Eugenia was saying as Abby came down the steps to the sidewalk.

“He’s quite good at warming one’s feet,” James replied mildly, which earned him a frown from the dowager countess.

“I see no reason for levity,” Lady Eugenia snapped. “He can ride in the wagon with the servants and the baggage.”

The dog made a noise low in his throat. James laid his fingertips lightly on the animal’s head. “Dem . . .” The sound turned into a grunt. The animal sat down, but he and the dowager countess continued to regard each other with disfavor.

“The servants are frightened of him.”

“And you think we are not?” Lady Eugenia countered.

“Countess, I don’t believe you are frightened of anything.”

“Och, for pity’s sake,” a voice said on the stairs behind them, and they all looked up at Molly, tromping down the steps, a basket on her arm. She snapped her fingers at the mastiff. “Come along with me, you great beast.”

The huge animal trotted off beside her, tail wagging and eyes riveted to her basket. The others stared after them, slack-jawed.

“Well, I suppose that settles the matter,” James said drily and opened the carriage door.

Graeme handed his grandmother up into the carriage, then turned to Abby. Abby thought she might break down in tears if she stood here another moment looking at him. Averting her face, she put her hand in his and stepped up into the vehicle.

She sat down beside Lady Eugenia and turned to gaze back out the open door. Graeme said nothing, just nodded to her. She could not speak; her throat felt swollen shut, a storm of tears churning in her chest. Abby wanted to reach out to him, but she kept her hands clasped tightly together in her lap. She would not make a scene in front of all these contained Englishmen.

James climbed in after them, taking the seat across from the women, and Graeme closed the door. Abby kept her gaze on her hands, but at the last minute, she could not keep from glancing up. Graeme’s face was as smooth and remote as marble. Abby swallowed hard, determined not to cry. She was all too aware of Graeme’s cousin watching her with a coolly assessing gaze.

Graeme’s grandmother had brought a full quiver of barbed remarks for the journey, though thankfully most of them were directed at Sir James, not at Abby. James, with his cold gray eyes and sardonic expression, seemed well-armored against them. It was almost enough to make Abby miss the company of Mrs. Ponsonby, who, however banal she might be, at least was friendly. But Mrs. Ponsonby had been sent with the servants and luggage, Lady Eugenia having decided that four people in the carriage was entirely too many for her nerves.

Abby was inclined to wish she had gone with the servants, as well. The rocking movement of the coach, along with the turns and rises and falls, soon threatened to make her queasy stomach revolt. It had been less than two hours when she had to ask James to stop the carriage.

He took one look at her ashen face and rapped on the roof. They rolled to a stop. Before Lady Eugenia could get out a question, Abby opened the door and scrambled down, hastening away from the carriage.

She drew slow breaths, eyes fixed on the horizon. The cool breeze caressed her cheeks, and gradually her jumping stomach settled. She heard a noise behind her and glanced back. Sir James strolled toward her. “Countess.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Better to stop than the alternative.”

She wondered if the slight movement of his mouth was a smile. “Yes, I suppose it would be.”

“Would you like to sit? We could haul one of the trunks down.”

“No. I’m fine. I can sit over there on the wall if I need to.” She nodded toward a low stone wall with a stile marching over it.

“A mite rustic.”

Abby laughed. “I think I can manage it. Right now, I believe a stroll might be best.” She started along the dirt path to the stile. To her surprise, James followed. “You needn’t come. I’ll be fine.”

“Montclair would have my head if I let you wander off into the fields alone. I am, after all, here to protect you.”

“I doubt anyone is going to attack me in the meadow.” Abby climbed up and over the stile, taking a narrow dirt path that led toward a small copse of trees.

“Probably not. But I would be quite red-faced if someone did, now, wouldn’t I?” He paused, then went on, “Unless, of course, I’m in on the plot with your husband and plan to do you in once we get out of sight of the carriage.”

Abby shot him a sardonic glance. “I am aquake with fear.”