Page 32 of A Perfect Gentleman

“A formal setting? You mean—at an attorney’s office? You intend to make a contract?”

“No. No, no, of course not. I just thought . . . perhaps someplace else.”

“I think this is the sort of conversation that would be better served in an intimate setting. Don’t you?” She slipped her hand in his and led him back to the sofa. “Why don’t we sit down and you can tell me your stipulations? Would you care for a glass of wine?”

“What?” He tore his eyes away from her bosom and looked at the carafe and glasses. “Oh, no. That’s perfectly all right. Well, perhaps.”

She sat and leaned forward to pour the wine. Picking up her own glass, she settled back and faced him. “Now . . . what is it you want to make clear?”

“If we have a child, he—”

“Or she,” she interjected.

“Yes, of course, or she—or they.”

“They? Then you are thinking of more than one?”

“Well, I do need an heir.” Color began to rise in his face. “And one cannot be certain . . .”

Abigail smiled. “I see. Then you’re saying we should keep at it until we have a boy?”

His color deepened. Perversely, Abigail felt herself growing more relaxed with each expression of Graeme’s nerves.

“I didn’t mean—I don’t know.” He picked up the glass of wine and took a gulp.

“Well, we can deal with that when the time comes. What else?”

“He—she—must be raised here.”

“In London?”

“In England. I will not allow you to take my child away, to whisk him back to America with you and raise him there.”

“I agree. Your heir should grow up here, where he will inherit the title. I wouldn’t want him to be a foreigner to his heritage, after all.”

“Then . . . then you will continue to live here?” He kept his eyes on the glass in his hand rather than on her.

Cold pierced her chest. She pushed that feeling aside. She had to remain calm and rational. “I will live with my child, of course. However, you need not worry that I shall try to interject myself into your life. I am well aware that our arrangement is a temporary thing. I shall maintain my own household.”

His eyes flew to hers, stony now. “I will not be a stranger to my child.”

“Of course not. There is no question of that. I’m sure we can arrange it so we both can be with the child but not in each other’s company. You have your estate and your home here in London. I might buy a retreat—like the Vanderbilts’ summer home in the mountains. Perhaps in Scotland. It will be easy enough for us to avoid one another.”

“I didn’t say that we must avoid each other.” Graeme frowned.

“There’s no need to explain. You must not worry about tact. My feelings are armored to insults, I assure you,” she lied smoothly. “I have no interest in anything permanent. We are simply two people in a difficult situation—rather stuck with each other.”

“Yes, well . . .” He took another sip of wine, still looking troubled.

“Graeme . . .” Abigail leaned forward to lay her hand on his arm. “I do not want to cause you distress or . . . or inflict something abhorrent on you.”

“No,” he said hastily. “Nothing abhorrent, I assure you. You are obviously quite . . . beautiful. Any man would be honored.”

Abigail raised her finger to his lips, stopping him. “I am not asking for compliments. Least of all lies. I know how little you desired this. I want to make it easy for you.” She reached up and pulled out the lacquered sticks anchoring her hair, letting it uncoil and slide silkily to her shoulders.

chapter 11

Graeme could do nothing but gaze at Abigail, his mouth suddenly dry as dust. From the moment she opened the door, he had been struggling with a throbbing, insistent arousal. To his astonishment, Abigail wore a dressing gown, as if ready for bed—and not only a dressing gown but one that was lush and exotic, with slashed sleeves that invited a man’s hands to slide up her arms. White lace peeked out between the lapels and showed in glimpses as she walked, a continual reminder that she wore only a nightgown beneath the robe.