A Perfect Gentleman Read online

  A hunt through the Scottish Highlands for a hidden cache of gold draws in three passionate couples—who discover that love is the greatest treasure of all—in the thrilling new trilogy from New York Times bestselling author

  CANDACE CAMP

  Secrets of the Loch

  Praise for Book Three

  ENRAPTURED

  “With heated love scenes, sensuality and poignancy, this fast-paced read is Camp at her very best.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick)

  “Enraptured captivates with compelling escapades and engaging characters.”

  —Single Titles

  “In many ways this book was like the perfect romance. It had deeply moving chemistry, a grand adventure, and a sharply witted heroine.”

  —Night Owl Romance

  Praise for Book Two

  PLEASURED

  “Candace Camp never disappoints and only gets better with each story.”

  —Single Titles

  “Once again, Camp populates a romance with interesting characters . . . [in this] steamy Scottish historical.”

  —Booklist

  Praise for Book One

  TREASURED

  “Sweet. . . . Entertaining . . . a Highlands version of small-town charm.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Treasured demonstrates Candace Camp’s ability to draw her readers in with strong, well-drawn characters. A legend of hidden treasure, a man who hides behind many façades, and a woman who fights for her birthright form the tapestry of this poignant, sensual, and emotion-packed romance.”

  —RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)

  And praise for Candace Camp’s acclaimed trilogy

  Legend of St. Dwynwen

  THE MARRYING SEASON

  A SUMMER SEDUCTION

  A WINTER SCANDAL

  “Sensuality, intrigue, and Camp’s trademark romantic sparring. . . . Delightful.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A charming courtship. . . . Readers will be captivated.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Sexy and sweet! Beautifully written, with just the right touch of mystery and a generous helping of a scandalous romance.”

  —Coffee Time Romance

  Be sure to read Candace Camp’s dazzling Willowmere novels. . . . Critics adore this breathtaking Regency trilogy of the unforgettable Bascombe sisters!

  AN AFFAIR WITHOUT END

  “Delightful romantic mystery. . . . With clever and witty banter, sharp attention to detail, and utterly likable characters, Camp is at the top of her game.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Sprightly dialogue . . . [and] a simmering sensuality that adds just enough spice to this fast-paced, well-rendered love story.”

  —RT Book Reviews (4½ stars)

  A GENTLEMAN ALWAYS REMEMBERS

  “Intensely passionate and sexually charged. . . . A well-crafted, delightful read.”

  —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “A delightful romp. . . . Camp has a way with truly likable characters who become like friends.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Where the Bascombe sisters go, things are never dull. Candace Camp delivers another witty, heartwarming, and fast-paced novel.”

  —A Romance Review

  A LADY NEVER TELLS

  “This steamy romp . . . will entertain readers.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Well-crafted and enchanting.”

  —Romantic Times (4½ stars)

  “Superbly written and well paced, A Lady Never Tells thoroughly entertains as it follows the escapades of the Bascombe ‘bouquet’ of Marigold, Rose, Camellia, and Lily in the endeavor to make their way in upper-crust London society.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “One of those rare finds you don’t want to put down. . . . Candace Camp brings a refreshing voice to the romance genre.”

  —Winter Haven News Chief

  “Filled with humor and charm. . . . Fine writing.”

  —A Romance Review (4 roses)

  Thank you for downloading this Pocket Books eBook.

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  For my favorite Abby, who keeps these books on track and has an answer for every question

  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 w
as 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

  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 k
nown 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.

  It had been something of a shock ten years ago when he returned to her hotel suite the day after their wedding, armed with an apology for his blunt, even rude, assessment of their marriage the night before, as well as a proposal for living politely apart, only to be informed that his wife had checked out that morning. His astonishment was quickly replaced by relief that, just as he’d thought, Abigail had been interested only in acquiring a title. Having obtained that, she has raced back to her own country.

  She had remained there for ten years, apparently as content as he to live without the burden of a spouse. He had heard, now and then, rumors of how she reigned in splendor in New York society, her parties the most elegant, her invitations the most sought-after, but, in truth, he had little interest in what she did . . . as long as she did it an ocean away from him.

  When he strode into the dining room downstairs a few minutes later, he found the others waiting for him, James standing at the window a few feet apart from the two middle-aged women seated side by side at the table. The sweet-faced woman in black, her brown hair liberally sprinkled with white, was his mother, and she looked up at him with her usual smile. She was a softened, slightly faded, and pleasingly plump version of the woman beside her, whose thick dark hair, startlingly silver eyes, and lush curves still brought men clustering around her.