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

my curiosity about the English vice before I gained my majority.” A person in constant pain wasn’t distracted, much less aroused, by applications of a birch rod to his backside, but Stephen had experimented with erotic pain for a time nonetheless.

One wanted to be thorough in one’s investigations.

“You look splendid,” Babette said. “I’m not just saying that.”

“I look splendid, until I’m required to saunter along, all lordly nonchalance. The second cane rather destroys the fiction.” On good days, he could make do with one cane. Good days were rare when he bided in London.

“You look splendid to me when you’re not wearing anything at all,” Babette said. “Shall I wait for you after Friday’s performance?”

Now came the hard part, the part Stephen hated and was so adept at, but had already put off for too long. “Did I mention I’ll be leaving Town shortly? Hand me my hat, would you?”

Babette passed over a high-crowned beaver. “Leaving when?”

“Possibly by the end of the week. You can catch up on your rest.” He tapped the hat onto his head, then gave it a tilt. Not quite rakish, but a nod toward style.

“How long will you be gone?”

Stephen started for the door, his progress slow. Upon rising, he often overestimated his mobility because his knee hurt less. Pain, by contrast, kept him careful.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. I’m heading north to avoid the Little Season, and the ordeal of making my way to my country dwelling is sufficiently taxing that I dread the return journey. I might not come back to London until next spring.”

That had been his plan before Miss Abbott had arrived, looking haunted and weary.

He made it to the door, then paused, waiting for Babette’s response to his announcement. He preferred a rousing farewell argument, complete with recriminations and curses, and maybe even a stout blow to his cheek. The lady was entitled to make such a display, and the verbal beating assuaged his conscience.

“This is good-bye, then,” Babette said. “I will miss you.”

She was so young and so dignified, Stephen nearly did bolt out the door.

“You will not miss me,” he said. “You will consider yourself well rid of me, but I did buy you a small token of my esteem in the hope that you will recall me fondly.”

He withdrew a folded paper from the pocket of his coat. He’d been carrying this particular paper for several weeks. Preparation was critical to victory in any battle, especially the battle to maintain his reputation for savoir faire.

“What’s this?” Babette said, eyeing the paper.

“It’s not a bank draft,” Stephen said. “If you need blunt, I am happy to pass some along, and if you should find yourself in an interesting condition, you will most assuredly apply to me before you pursue any rash measures, Babette. Promise me that.”

She smoothed a crease on his sleeve. “I’m not in an interesting condition. I take precautions, because the sheaths aren’t reliable.”

“I meant if you ever found yourself in an interesting condition. My solicitors know how to reach me, and you know how to reach them. Your word on this, please.”

She nodded. “Did I do something wrong? Is that why you’re tossing me over?” Such vulnerability lay behind the ire in her gaze.

“Yes,” Stephen said, leaning against the door and mustering a scowl. “Yes, you have done something I cannot countenance. If you must know, I am growing too attached to you, and that will not serve. I have no time for maudlin sentiment or fawning displays, but you threaten my resolve in this regard. I hope you’re pleased with yourself, because German princesses and the most celebrated of the grand horizontales in Paris haven’t accomplished the mischief you’ve caused.”

Babette looked a bit less crestfallen. “You’re becoming too attached to me?”

“A man needs his dignity, Babette.” That qualified as an eternal verity. “With your sheer friendliness, your affection, your laughter…you put me at risk for foolishness. Better to leave before you set your hook and while we are still friends, wouldn’t you say?”

She finally took the paper. “What is this?”

Stephen put a gloved hand on the door latch. “You can read it for yourself.”

She opened the paper before he could make his escape. “This is the deed to a tea shop, my lord. You bought me a tea shop?”

The shop, the inventory, and the articles of the clerk who’d been working there for the past two years. The enterprise was operating at a healthy profit too, and Stephen had topped up its cash reserves and inventory as well.

“Bracelets as parting gifts show an execrable lack of imagination, and the pawnbrokers take ruthless advantage of anybody trying to hock such baubles. A tea shop will generate income and give you an option if you’re ever injured in the course of your profession. There’s a price, though, Babette.”

She tucked the deed out of sight. “What price?”

“You keep the terms of our parting to yourself. Say you inherited a competence from an auntie or that a friend of the family willed you the means to buy the shop. Keep my name out of it. Put it about that I’m off to the grouse moors when I quit Town. Grumble at my pinchpenny ways and tell everybody I’m a bad kisser.”

She peered around at her rooms, which were far more comfortably appointed than they had been several months ago. The carpet was Savonnerie, the drapes Italian brocade. The tea service was Spode—not antique, but certainly pretty.

“You are a splendid kisser, my lord.”

“If you insist on lavishing such compliments on me, I really must be going.”

Babette put her hand over his on the door latch. “You will drop in to buy tea from me from time to time?”

He’d more likely send a spy, at least until she was walking out with some worthy fellow. “You intend to keep the shop yourself?”

“I’ll give notice at rehearsal tomorrow and speak to Clare about coming to work for me. She can dance for only a few more weeks.”

An inordinate