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

They were, and they weren’t. “Be honest, Abigail. Willow Dorning always sends his dogs off on trial, and if the canine doesn’t suit the owner or the owner doesn’t suit the dog, he takes the beast back.”

Abigail leaned close. “Hercules is my dog now. You cannot have him back, not even when this business with Stapleton is over. A little somnifera would not have slowed Hercules down one bit, would it?”

She aimed that question at the dog, who appeared to reward her faith in him with a toothy smile.

“He’s yours,” Stephen said. I am yours too, if that matters. “Shall we leave Hercules here to get acquainted with Wodin?”

“I suppose we should, but what an impression he would make on the shopkeepers.”

Stephen signaled a groom. “Take him around to the back garden, please, and a bone to gnaw on wouldn’t go amiss.”

Abigail watched the dog trot off, her expression more wistful than one panting, drooling canine deserved. “I will treasure him all of his days, my lord. He is the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever been given.”

Stephen opened the coach door. “Then clearly the wrong people have been giving you gifts. Let’s be off.”

She climbed in and took the forward-facing seat, a minor victory. Stephen came down beside her and thumped the roof with his fist—once, because a sedate walk would give them a longer period of privacy than a brisk trot.

“I’d like to deposit your letters in my safe before we make our obeisance to Bond Street,” he said.

Abigail set her hat on the opposite bench. “They are only approximate copies, my lord.”

“If they should fall into the wrong hands, that won’t matter. Are we shopping for anything in particular? Handkerchiefs, gloves, scent bottles, or fripperies?”

Abigail took his hand, as if that was simply how couples comported themselves when sharing a coach.

“I have no need for fripperies.” She shifted closer. “I love that dog, Stephen Wentworth, and I have missed you.”

He’d parted from her less than twenty-four hours ago. They were alone, she was tucked up beside him, and he had missed her too.

He wrapped his arm around her and gently pushed her head to his shoulder. “You must humor me. A gentleman buys his lady-fair fripperies. You could use a spare sword cane, I trust?”

She sighed, she snuggled closer, and Stephen’s heart eased in a way he could not describe.

“A new sword cane would be lovely. I was thinking of asking you to design one for me.”

He kissed her temple, and launched into a discussion of features necessary for a lady’s sword cane to be both attractive and serviceable. By the time they reached his town house, they’d had two arguments and four kissing spells, and he was even more hopelessly in love.

Also as hard as an ironwood sword cane.

Running from the Marquess of Stapleton had seemed like a solution to Abigail, but what sort of future did an inquiry agent have if she couldn’t solve her own case? She had agreed to this shopping expedition because she wanted Stapleton to know she was in London, and also—heaven help her—because she wanted to spend more time alone with Lord Stephen.

“The porte cochere isn’t only for privacy, is it?” she said, as Lord Stephen handed her down from his coach. “It’s to keep the cobbles dry for when you alight.”

“Both objectives are important,” he said, offering Abigail his arm.

She liked his escort. Whether his bad knee prevented him from hauling a lady about or he was inherently tactful when handling a woman, he had the knack of keeping pace without interfering with Abigail’s progress.

“Duncan said you are a demon on horseback. How does that work with an unreliable knee?” She was making conversation lest her mind turn back to their last kiss. Stephen had slipped a hand beneath her cloak to rest his palm against her belly, an oddly intimate touch.

“I love to ride,” he replied, holding the door for her. “I love the speed and power and motion.”

“But one must put weight in the stirrups at least some of the time.” The foyer was deserted, and Abigail made no move to take off her cloak because she wanted Stephen to do that for her.

“The problem isn’t putting weight on my knee,” he said. “The problem is the joint itself. The horse stabilizes the joint laterally so it never gives out. The bones or ligaments or whatever can’t slip to the side when I’m gripping the horse with my legs. My knee for once can support me because the horse supports my knee. I find all this talk of anatomy somewhat…” He fell silent while he undid Abigail’s frogs and slid the cloak from her shoulders.

“Somewhat…?” she asked, setting her hat on a hook.

“Somewhat stirring.” He set his hat and gloves on the sideboard. “I think not of a great, hairy horse, but of a knee—your knee. Of my hand stroking your knee, and what manner of derangement turns the knee into a source of venereous inspiration?”

“Venereous?”

The house was quiet, suggesting the servants were belowstairs or perhaps on their half day.

“Venereous,” Stephen replied. “That which excites or stimulates sexual desire.”

He stood close enough that Abigail could have stroked her hand over his falls. She didn’t dare. “You wanted to put my letters into your safe.”

“The safe.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Letters. Lest we forget. This way.” He stalked off down the corridor, his cane striking the carpet with particular force.

Abigail followed, noting, not for the first time, the breadth of Stephen’s shoulders and the taper of his hips. His clothing was exquisitely well made, but then, so was he. His older brother was more heavily muscled, while Stephen was both lean and strong.

“The safe is in the most prosaic of hiding places,” he said, leading Abigail to the study, “in plain sight.”

He closed and locked the door, withdrew the letters from his inside coat pocket, and approached a longcase clock built into a corner of the