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

“All these years,” he said, “I’ve thought Stephen spoiled—a contrary, self-indulgent, arrogant, difficult fellow who simply could not put behind him an injury that resulted in nothing more than a bad knee. Jack Wentworth scarred us all, and Stephen spent less time around Jack than any of us.”

Ah, well then. In Jane’s opinion, Jack Wentworth was capable of greater evil than Old Scratch himself. Mention of him would turn any conversation melancholy. Jane stroked Quinn’s hair and drew the covers up over his shoulders.

“You and Stephen were discussing the past?” A difficult topic for any Wentworth.

Quinn hitched closer, and Jane was glad the candles were out and the fire was banked. This was not a conversation to have in daylight.

“All along,” Quinn said, “I thought: My brother is so disgustingly smart. From the kites he makes for the girls to the modifications he’s designed for his saddle, to the cannons and rifles and even a bedamned crossbow. Everything he touches is brilliant. Stephen has so much intelligence, I thought, why must he be bitter about an unreliable knee? Get the hell over it and move on. I was jealous of him. He can read in any language he pleases to, he’s charming, he’s stylish.…”

Another sigh, this one a tad shuddery.

“He loves you, and you love him, Quinn. The rest can all be sorted out.”

A silence stretched, while some strange tension gripped Quinn.

“The problem,” he said, in a near whisper. “The problem was never the bloody knee. What Jack Wentworth shattered was Stephen’s heart.”

Quinn held her in a desperately close embrace, and when Jane stroked his hair again, her thumb grazed Quinn’s cheek. She kept up a slow, easy caress, until his breathing quieted, and his hold on her relaxed.

Only then did Jane admit what her senses told her must be true: Quinton, His Grace of Walden, had cried himself to sleep.

Abigail’s evening had been a revelation, and not a happy one. If she’d entertained any wild fancies about eventually fitting into Stephen Wentworth’s world, they’d died a waltzing, flirting, bejeweled death.

Mayfair was not simply a different strata of society, Abigail reflected as she drew the covers up over herself, it was a different world, and not one she could comprehend. The cost of the ice sculptures alone would have housed many a lamed or blinded veteran. The price of a half dozen pairs of embroidered dancing slippers would have bought many a crossing sweeper a decent pair of boots.

Stephen navigated this perfumed and silk-clad world with ease, for all he needed a cane to get around. His flirtatious ripostes had been humorous without touching the hem of ribaldry, and he knew everybody. All Abigail knew was that a Quaker gunsmith’s daughter had no place among Stephen’s peers.

Everybody in the ballroom had known him, and they’d approached him with the sort of nervous jocularity that indicated respect and more than a little wariness. He was at home in that jungle, and Abigail never would be.

She punched her pillow and admitted that, but for Stephen Wentworth, she would have no wish to learn how to prowl the wilds of Mayfair.

Her bedroom door opened silently and a particular, uneven tread came to her ears.

“You are not asleep,” Stephen said, sitting on the bed. “And I am not tossing the rest of the night away while I pine for your company. We don’t have the letters.”

He shrugged out of his coat, then his waistcoat. His cravat joined the pile of clothing at the foot of Abigail’s bed, then he pulled off his boots.

“Say something, Abigail. You were less than loquacious on the carriage ride home.” Clad only in breeches, he moved behind the privacy screen. Even traveling that distance, he used his cane, though Abigail knew when his leg was paining him worse than usual, and that did not appear to be the case.

“Why didn’t you tell me Lady Champlain is beautiful?” she asked, over the sound of her toothbrush being appropriated. “She’s lovely.” And slender and petite, damn her.

“She’s also a good mother, not vain, and not very accomplished at games of marital revenge. Do you hate her?”

Water splashed against porcelain.

“I couldn’t possibly hate her, though she probably hates me. I’m accustomed to people resenting my work, because I wreck their blackmail scheme or reveal them to be unfaithful. I’m not used to being ashamed of myself because of foolish decisions I made years ago.”

“Harmonia does not hold you responsible for Champlain violating his marital vows,” Stephen said, emerging from the privacy screen. “She disregarded the same promises, and didn’t hold Champlain accountable either, more’s the pity. I suspect she and de Beauharnais will keep company for a time. Stapleton won’t allow them to marry, and for all I know they aren’t inclined to marry.”

Abigail propped herself up on her elbows. “I thought you said de Beauharnais…?”

“He likes some men, he likes some women. There’s no accounting for taste, is there? You like me, for example.”

Abigail flopped back the covers rather than admit that she’d fallen in love with such a magnificent wretch.

“Come to bed. Tell me about the letters.” Because that was a far simpler topic than the dalliances of Mayfair sophisticates—also more important.

Stephen paused by the side of the bed to move the stack of his clothing to the clothespress. “Ned gave it a good try. He and his minions searched Stapleton’s study, bedroom, library, and sitting room. They searched his mistress’s home, and they searched Fleming’s abode. No letters. Plenty of IOUs from stupid MPs, even some impressive sums owed by Fleming’s sister to the wrong sorts of venues, but your letters were not to be found.”

He hooked his cane on the night table, climbed onto the mattress, and sat with his back propped against the pillows.

“I am tired, Abigail.”

She rested her cheek against his thigh. He’d left his satin knee breeches on, which was thoughtful of him, given that she needed to focus on the situation with Stapleton.

“I never realized,” she said, drawing