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

to herself, proof of where mad impulses and foolish dreams could lead the unsuspecting. Now she had to explain them to a man whose intelligence was outstripped only by his curiosity.

And ye gods, by his kisses. Stephen Wentworth knew exactly where and how to touch a woman so she became focused exclusively on him. On his words, on the pitch of his voice, on the stillness he used as effectively as he used his hands. On the slow brush of his lips across her cheek, the heat of his palm along her shoulders.

“That is not why I came to London.” Abigail took stock of her reflection in the cheval mirror positioned in the corner of her bedroom. She wore the same gray coach dress she’d worn upon her arrival, but it had been brushed, sponged, pressed, and otherwise refreshed.

The dress hadn’t changed, but the blue velvet bed hangings, blue brocade curtains, and fancy floral carpet gave the ensemble a borrowed luster. Then too, Lord Stephen’s house had the high ceilings common to the dwellings of the wealthy. The result was more wall space on which to hang expensive art and, in summer, a cooler room.

A tall woman benefited from chambers built on a grander scale, complete with floor-to-ceiling curtains and yards of bed hangings. She looked less out of proportion with her surroundings, more of a piece with good taste, elegance, and comfort.

A maid rapped on the doorjamb and joined Abigail in the bedroom. “Excuse me, miss. Jake’s here to take your valise. Himself awaits you in the porte cochere and himself does not deal well with idleness. Jake, get in here.”

Standing for any length of time doubtless aggravated Lord Stephen’s leg.

A lanky young fellow in sober livery came through the door and offered Abigail a cross between a nod and a bow. She passed him her satchel, took up her sword cane and reticule, and followed the maid down the steps.

“I hadn’t realized this house had a porte cochere.”

“We have tunnels too, and priest holes, and hidden passages. His lordship is clever like that, and this is not his only London residence. He moves about, never biding in one place for long.”

The maid showed Abigail to the side entrance, where his lordship waited, looking impatient and handsome beside a gleaming town coach.

A rolling fortress, he’d said, though the vehicle was also beautiful. Black lacquered panels were trimmed in red, crests adorned the door and boot, and the coachman and grooms all wore black-and-red livery.

“I have never traveled in such style.”

“And I have never known a woman for whom five minutes actually meant five minutes. You impress me, Miss Abbott. In you go.”

A footman held open the door, and Abigail climbed inside. She took the rear-facing seat out of habit, and Lord Stephen took the forward-facing seat.

“Miss Abbott, you are playing the part of a future duke’s sweetheart and you are to be the guest of a duchess. Stop acting like a maiden auntie or paid companion.” He patted the tufted red-velvet seat cushion at his side. “I don’t bite. I do nibble on occasion when offered certain delicacies.”

Abigail switched seats, which in this roomy conveyance was easy. “Stop being naughty.”

“You like it when I’m naughty, and I love it when you are naughty.”

His teasing was preferable to being interrogated about the letters. “I kissed you once to ensure we could support the fiction of a romance between us, and a second time because you caught me unaware.” He hadn’t been playacting the second time, but what had he been up to?

“What excuse will you make for our third kiss, because I very much hope there will be a third kiss?”

So did Abigail. “My justification for further familiarities will be that I am out of the habit of kissing overbearing louts and the business wants some practice.”

His lordship thumped the roof once with a gloved fist and the coach rolled smoothly forward.

“Which overbearing lout had the pleasure of relieving you of your virginity?”

He would ask that. “Relieving me of my ignorance, you mean? I can hardly recall. To whom did you surrender yours?”

He smiled—fondly, damn him. “Her name was Jenny O’Neill. She was four years older than I, a goddess wearing a tavern maid’s apron and a siren’s smile. I learned to spend an entire hour on a single tankard just for the pleasure and torment of watching her flirt with the other fellows.”

The coach was delightfully well sprung, traversing the cobbles as smoothly as a barge crossed a calm lake. “You weren’t supposed to answer that question, my lord.”

“I will always answer your questions, Miss Abbott.”

“Did you break her heart?” Abigail hadn’t meant to ask that. She was merely trying to put off any discussion of the letters.

“She broke mine, gently, sweetly, as all hearts should be broken the first time. I make it a point to stop by her inn when my travels take me back that direction. She has a pair of little boys now, and her husband worships her and the boys equally, else I should have to have a stern word with him. They are trying for a daughter and I expect they will succeed.”

Abigail caught a hint of wistfulness beneath this cheery recitation. “Her inn?”

The shades were drawn, doubtless to protect Abigail’s privacy, but she could see Stephen’s eyes well enough. He sent her a bland look.

“I might have bought the place for her. I can hardly recall, it was so long ago. Shall I tell you about the handsome blighter who stole your heart?”

“You will air your suppositions whether or not I want you to.” His lordship’s mood was hard for Abigail to read, which he doubtless intended.

“He was handsome, because only a man with a bit of arrogance would have the balls to approach you.”

“Language, my lord.” And whatever did he mean?

“You ride atop stagecoaches with ne’er-do-wells and drovers. My language does not shock you. This man, though, whom you can hardly recall, was above your touch too, or you would never