Page 2 of A Perfect Gentleman

1881

There was someone in his room.

Graeme’s eyes flew open, and he found himself staring at a massive square head on a level with his eyes. The dog regarded him unblinkingly, its graying forehead creased as if in deep concern. Graeme, muscles instinctively tensed, relaxed, letting out a sigh.

“Good Lord. James . . .” Graeme turned his gaze toward the man in the doorway, shoulder carelessly braced against the frame. “A fellow could have a heart attack, waking up with that beast staring at one. And what the devil are you doing in my room at the crack of dawn?”

“Hardly the crack of dawn, cousin.” The lean, dark man snorted and strolled farther into the bedroom, his gray eyes reflecting an icy amusement. “We’ve already eaten breakfast and driven over from Grace Hill. Even my mother is up and about, and you know Tessa is never seen before noon.”

Graeme sat up, wincing, and raised a hand to his head. “I had trouble going to sleep last night.”

“Too much brandy, eh?” James crossed to the window and thrust aside the draperies, letting in a shaft of light that stabbed straight into Graeme’s eyes.

Graeme turned his head away, but with a sigh swung his legs out of bed and stood up. “I thought you were in London.”

“We returned yesterday.” James picked up the dressing gown lying on the back of the chair and tossed it to Graeme.

“That doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my house.” He pulled on the robe, adding darkly, “Or why Fletcher let you come up to roust me out of bed.”

“Oh, he tried to stop me.” James tugged at the tasseled cord to summon Graeme’s valet. “Surely you don’t think I listened.”

“Of course not.” Graeme rubbed his hands over his face, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together. “You say Aunt Tessa is here, too?”

“Indeed.”

“But why?” Was it possible he had so overslept? He had consumed a good deal of brandy last night. He had been somewhat at loose ends—well, he might as well admit it, he had been crushingly bored. But surely he could hold his liquor better than that. Graeme glanced toward the clock. “It’s barely ten. I’ve never known Aunt Tessa to venture out before noon.”

“Ah, but we have been charged by the dowager countess to deliver a message to you. Mother would never miss that opportunity, even if she had to rise at your proverbial crack of dawn. Gossip, after all, is her métier.”

“Gossip? What are you talking about?”

“Get dressed and come downstairs, and I’ll tell you in detail.” James strolled to the door, slapping his hand against his thigh to summon the gigantic mastiff, which had grown bored with the talk and was now stretched out on the floor, taking up what looked to be a third of the room. “Your mother is, of course, insisting on laying out a second breakfast for us all.”

“James . . .” Graeme said through clenched teeth, letting his words drop one by one like stones. “What in the bloody hell is going on?”

“Lady Montclair is in London.”

“My grandmother?” Graeme frowned in confusion. “But—well, of course she’s in London; you just said she’d given you—”

“I’m not talking about the dowager countess. I meant the other Lady Montclair.”

“My mother? But she’s—”

“I meant,” James said with heavy emphasis, “the third Lady Montclair. Your wife.”

With that parting shot, Graeme’s cousin turned and walked out, the mastiff padding at his heels.

Graeme stared after him, frozen. His wife! He sat down hard on the ottoman in front of the chair. The pounding in his head increased its beat. His wife.

He tried to summon up an image of the woman he had married ten years ago. Tall, thin, and drab, her black hair a stark contrast to pale skin. Quiet and always dressed in white, she had faded into the background. He had paid little attention to her looks, other than to see she was nothing like Laura. She had large eyes. He could not recall their color, but he remembered them fixed on him, watching, measuring. He’d had no idea what was in her head; in truth, he hadn’t cared to know. She had, he thought now, sat like a spider in her web, waiting while her father pulled him in.

Resentment and anger, long buried, stirred in him. They had wanted a title, Abigail Price and her father, and they’d had the money to pay for it. And if their fortune was not enough to secure it, they had other means.

Graeme had known he had to marry wealth to save the estate. He’d been prepared to do his duty, even if it meant giving up Laura, the woman he loved. What he hadn’t expected was that they would blackmail him into it. But Thurston Price was not the sort to leave anything to chance.

Grimly, Graeme rose and began to dress, not bothering to wait for his valet. What had possessed the woman to come back? His life had been . . . well, maybe not happy, but comfortable with her far away in New York. It was not the cozy future he had once envisioned with the woman he loved—raising their children, growing old together—but at least he was spared the daily presence of the wife he’d never wanted. There had been a bit of a scandal, of course, what with his bride fleeing on their wedding night. And one couldn’t explain to everyone that he was happy to see her gone. But the family had weathered that. He had kept the estate intact. He had concealed the stain on the family name. And he had his solitude, his undisturbed peace.

What could Abigail Price want from him now? He had given her the name she and her father had so desperately coveted. She had the life she wanted in the far-off city where she belonged.