How to Catch a Duke by Grace Burrowes (buy e reader TXT) 📕

She put down the letter opener, shoved out of his chair, and returned to his side on the sofa. “I would not risk my family for anything. You know that, which is why you are herding me into a corner of your choosing. I do not appreciate the manipulation, my lord, so let’s just hear your brilliant plan for thwarting Stapleton’s mischief.”

“Kiss me.”

Her scowl was thunderous. “That is not a plan, my lord. That doesn’t even qualify as a jest.”

“And eau de napping hedgehog is not an enticing fragrance, Miss Abbott. If my plan is to have a prayer of working, you must be able to suffer proximity to my person.”

Wariness joined the disapproval in her eyes. “I am proximate to your person now.”

“A salient fact.” Stephen sat up enough to brush his lips over her cheek, then pulled back to survey her reaction. “That went rather well. If we’re to be engaged, you must weather at least that much affection from me, and it appears you are up to the challenge.”

Oh, damn. Now she was looking bewildered. “You are eccentric. I know that. I counted on that. A near genius, in the opinion of many, but a difficult man. I wanted exactly that sort of help when I came here, and now you are kissing me and spouting nonsense. I had best be going.”

He caught her hand rather than let her fly into the boughs over a mere peck on the cheek.

“Miss Abbott, be reasonable. Stapleton is a marquess. He has breached the citadel of your home. He has sent his minions against you. He thinks you are a mere lady inquiry agent, a member of an obscure profession and one not much respected except by those needing your services. Your family, while doubtless dear to you, has no resources equal to Stapleton’s, but I do.”

He had her attention. God bless a woman with a rational mind.

“Go on.”

“Stapleton will not expect you to recruit an ally whose standing exceeds his own, whose wealth exceeds his own, whose connections in Yorkshire and elsewhere exceed his own. Ally yourself with me, and you are safe.”

She studied their joined hands. Her hands were nearly as large as Stephen’s, but oh, they were so much more lovely. She cared for her hands. When dressed as a man, she doubtless had to wear gloves, or those pale fingers and tidy nails would give up the game.

“You spoke of an engagement, my lord. Why would a duke’s heir choose a Yorkshire nobody for his duchess?”

Did she truly think of herself as a nobody? Stephen knew for a fact that at least one duke and duchess had relied upon her good offices to solve a very, very delicate matter.

“Let us consider the practicalities, Miss Abbott. I must marry, but I was born in the gutter.”

She looked him up and down. “You have overcome your origins rather handily.”

He kissed her knuckles for that. “In your opinion, which I value highly, but not in the opinion of the matchmakers who matter. I cannot dance, I cannot walk in the park, I cannot amble along the wooded paths of Richmond, and otherwise ingratiate myself with the darlings making their debuts each year.”

“You can play cards, you can make witty conversation at formal dinners, you can—” Miss Abbott waved a hand.

“I can engage in the activities leading to procreation?”

Her expression became wonderfully severe. “One surmises you can—and do.”

“One surmises correctly. I am not, however, considered a good catch. Impecunious viscounts can out-court me, and because I can never overcome the circumstances of my birth or the limitations of my disability, that will always be the case.”

Miss Abbott disentangled her fingers from his. “So you’ll bow meekly before your fate and marry an Amazon of humble origins?”

“The Amazons were warrior queens, to a maiden. Quakers are bankers, and His Grace of Walden, being a banker himself, has all manner of Quaker associates. You are from the north—from my home shire, as it were. My family thinks highly of you, which is no small accomplishment, and you will be an original in the Mayfair drawing rooms. You might even—I blush to suggest it—enjoy being my intended.”

This speech was coming off all reasonable and businesslike, but Stephen waited for Miss Abbott’s reply with inordinate anxiety. That Stapleton hadn’t succeeded thus far was due to chance. Stephen had reason to know that the marquess was as stubborn as he was arrogant, and he was very arrogant.

Miss Abbott considered Stephen’s boots, which she’d set neatly next to the sofa. “You do not suggest a real engagement.”

“I would not presume on your future to that extent.” The most honest, humble truth he’d ever offered a lady.

“Kiss me,” she said, half turning to face him. “Kiss me as if you’re stealing a moment with the woman you love. Make it convincing so I’ll know what to expect should such a performance ever be needful.”

In some dimly functioning rational part of his mind, Stephen concluded that Miss Abbott doubted her desirability. Either he inspired her to question that conclusion or he’d have to find some other scheme for keeping her safe.

If she found his advances distasteful, she could lay him out flat with a single unwelcoming shove. That thought brought him some comfort—she’d lay out flat any man whose advances she found distasteful.

Stephen did not want to come up with another scheme, and he did want to kiss her.

Very much. In his present state—randy and sentimental and all that—stage kisses were a stupid idea. But then, he had desired Abigail Abbott from the moment he’d set eyes on her, he esteemed her even more than he desired her, and she was an addled goose to think herself anything less than delectable.

“Very well, then,” he said, taking her hand, “convincing, I shall be.”

“A woman that size does not simply disappear.” Honoré, Marquess of Stapleton, stated that observation calmly. He never raised his voice with subordinates, and Tertullian, Lord Fleming, was a subordinate in every regard.

Fleming was a mere earl’s