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

She kissed his knuckles. “I do love you, Quinn, and if I knew what to do about Stephen and Miss Abbott, I’d be doing it.”

Quinn linked his fingers with Jane’s. “You let them scamper off on a shopping expedition and declined to send Matilda as their chaperone. I’d say you’re abetting the cause of true love rather vigorously.”

Jane brushed her thumb across his palm. “But will that be enough? Stephen might get up the courage to offer for Miss Abbott, but very few women of modest birth step into the role of future duchess if they have any sense.”

Quinn kissed her wrist. “Being my duchess has been hard, I know. I would not be a duke were you not my duchess, Jane. I’d be just another titled nincompoop with too much money. I showed Miss Abbott the room Stephen used to have.”

Jane came around the table and subsided into his lap. “Clever of you, Quinn. I accepted an invitation to the Portman ball on Stephen’s behalf.”

“He never attends social gatherings if the occasion requires dancing.”

“For Miss Abbott’s sake, I believe he will.”

Days of travel, worry, and upheaval caught up with Abigail, for she didn’t simply nap in Stephen’s arms, she slept deeply. When she awoke feeling warm, relaxed, and safe, Stephen was—true to his word—still ranged along her back, a cozy blanket of semi-aroused male.

“I did dream of you,” she said, returning his hand to the place over her breast. “You were playing fetch with Hercules.”

And Abigail had been there too, as had a small boy in short pants. The scene had been domestic and prosaic in her dreams, but its recollection was painful.

“Hercules knows a lot of tricks,” Stephen said, “and he’s young. He’ll keep you company for years to come.”

“Do I detect an offer from you to keep me company, my lord?” His arousal was becoming more apparent, and Abigail had no wish to rise, dress, and resume the pretenses her situation called for.

“One doesn’t like to impose,” Stephen said, kissing her nape. “But if offered a choice between lingering with you for another half hour or visiting a milliner, I must admit the bonnets come a distant second.”

Abigail rolled her hips back against him. “For me as well.”

Stephen took that for the invitation she’d intended and lazily toyed with her breasts, then explored yet more intimate flesh, all the while rocking gently against her. By the time he eased into her heat, Abigail was ready to pin him to the mattress and have her way with him once more.

“I want to be on top again,” she said, reaching behind her to draw Stephen’s hips close. “This is too cozy, too…” Too sweet and easy and relaxed.

“Hush,” Stephen said. “We can play St. George and the dragon again next time.”

That was the vulgar term for the position Abigail sought, the only one where she maintained the dominant posture.

“I considered waking you like this,” Stephen said, “but I didn’t want to cheat you of rest. I also considered bringing myself off, but—selfish brute that I am—this is infinitely better.”

“You didn’t sleep?”

His hand drifted up to gently palm her breast. “I did not want to miss a moment of your company.”

By the time he’d finished with her, Abigail was lying prone, a pillow under her hips, and Stephen draped over her, in the fashion of a pair of lazy beasts. The pleasure had been nearly unbearable as a result of arriving at the end of a slow build, for Stephen refused to either hurry or relent.

He knew what he was about, the wretch, and Abigail was coming to suspect that Champlain had not known what he was about. Stephen produced a handkerchief from Abigail knew not where and tucked it between her legs, then rolled to his side.

“You have worn me out,” he said, “but fear not. Given present company, my humors should be restored within the quarter hour.”

Abigail lay over her pillow, enjoying the glow of wanton abandon. Lovemaking had never left her so utterly boneless and at peace before.

“Do you fear I’ll leap up and desert you for the shops?”

Stephen lay on his back, Abigail on her belly. He appeared to feel as great a sense of repletion as she did, if the slumberous calm in his gaze was any indication.

“You will abandon me,” Stephen said, “though probably not for the shops. You will return to finding missing nieces and errant husbands, retrieving incriminating letters, or confronting embezzling clerks. Does lovemaking build up your appetite? For food, that is?”

“What will you abandon me for?” Abigail asked, though where the courage to posit the question came from she did not know. Perhaps from Stephen himself.

“You think me a fribble,” he said, reaching over to caress her cheek. “I enjoy fribbling, but I’m also a consultant to the military on all manner of weapons design questions. I am tinkering with steam power for naval vessels, and I am fascinated with locomotives. Steam could be used for everything from sending packets back and forth to Calais—no more waiting on the tide and wind—to reducing the manual labor involved in purse seining. I’m also fiddling with a lift that can be built on to the outside of an existing building, rather than requiring internal renovations.”

The small of Abigail’s back began to protest her position, so she pulled the pillow from beneath her hips and shifted to her side, taking Stephen’s hand in her own.

“Do you support any charities?”

“A dozen or so, mostly to do with returning soldiers, or families whose soldiers did not return. Many of the veterans need medical attention, and I’m not a doctor. I can hire doctors, though, and order them about and build surgeries and clinics for them. The Scots are the closest we have to competent medical practitioners in Britain, so I tend to employ them if I can.”

Abigail tucked closer. “What of children? Are you active in children’s charities?”

“I run two orphanages for the offspring of soldiers. They want more attention than