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

on, “you are soon to be comfortably well off as inquiry agents go. Both Fleming and Stapleton will offer you reparation in the form of bank drafts. I know your pride will tempt you to reject these sums, but I must advise you—advise only, of course—to consider that you are owed every penny.”

He was babbling, mostly for joy, because Abigail’s enemies had been thoroughly routed, but also from a growing sense that something with Abigail was amiss. What had he overlooked about the situation relating to her?

“You aren’t arguing with me. My darling Miss Abbott never misses an opportunity to air her opinions.” His darling Miss Abbott didn’t take that bait, so he blundered on. “Fleming is off for an extended tour of the Continent, or maybe his papa will force him on the diplomatic corps, though he’ll probably start some minor wars, given his dunderheadedness.”

Abigail put her fingers to Stephen’s lips. “Hush. The day did not go as I’d planned. I was sure Fleming had taken the letters.”

Ah, so they were to analyze the battle maneuvers then. “I considered him too, but if he had the letters, why not use them to secure Lady Champlain’s hand in marriage or a return of the gambling markers? Your letters have been missing for months and Fleming took a serious and unnecessary risk interfering with a stagecoach.”

“So he did not have the letters. What made you think of Lady Champlain?”

“She was the logical next choice, having a very great interest in keeping from Stapleton’s grasp anything that imperiled her standing in the household. Perhaps the old boy was growing difficult, perhaps her ladyship had read Champlain’s journals and reached the same conclusion Stapleton did. I hardly care now that the problem is solved.”

Later, when Abigail was smiling and once more on her mettle, Stephen would review the whole matter as he would review a rifle pattern, ensuring every part was labeled accurately and drawn to scale.

Abigail rested her head on Stephen’s shoulder, the gesture weary. “I met Mr. de Beauharnais in the nursery. He’s very attractive. Has all the heroic features.”

Gracious. Was this what troubled her? Stephen most assuredly did not want to talk about Endymion de Beauharnais’s excellent nose.

“If you must know, I think his great good looks are a problem for him. The merry widows plague him ceaselessly and the gay blades want a discreet go at him. All he longs for is to create good art and— Abigail, was that a yawn?”

“Sorry. I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

“I haven’t been sleeping at all.”

She closed her eyes. “Have you dreamed of me anyway?”

“Yes.”

“I dream of you too.”

What was a fellow to make of that? Stephen let Abigail drift off, or pretend to. Her breathing was regular and slow, but he’d spent a night in her arms and knew the difference between real and feigned sleep. Abigail’s reaction to a case solved and a marquess put in his place was apparently fatigue. Perhaps good spirits would come later.

Perhaps she was due for a nap.

Perhaps something had gone badly awry between her and Harmonia or her and de Beauharnais, in which case, no force on earth would pry confidences from Abigail Abbott until she was ready to share them.

When the coach pulled up before the Wentworth town house, Stephen escorted Abigail inside and sent word to Jane that the letters had been retrieved without incident. After Quinn and Duncan returned, there would doubtless be a round of brandy in the library, but first, Stephen would enjoy a private interlude with his beloved—and with whatever she was keeping from him.

Inspiration struck as he drew off Abigail’s cloak: Perhaps she was the sort to have a private little fit of the weeps after vanquishing a foe. That would explain much.

“Upstairs with us,” he said, when Abigail’s cloak and bonnet were on their respective hooks. “We’re entitled to share a tray in your sitting room.”

Abigail held the packet of letters in her hand. The paper was yellowing, the ink already fading. The red ribbon binding them together was fraying on the ends.

“I want to burn these,” she said. “But I can’t. A tray is a good idea.”

She preceded Stephen up the steps and led him into her sitting room. He locked the door behind them, and when she would have reached for the bell pull, he plucked the letters from her hand and kissed her.

“Food and drink can wait, Abigail. I have a voracious, burning need of you and hope you are similarly interested in enjoying an intimate interlude with me. I will grovel on my knees—my good knee, anyway—to win your favors, and never have I more fervently wished for the ability to literally sweep a woman off her feet.” More than that, though, he wanted her to talk to him, to confide in him, to tell him where it hurt so he could love it better.

Those daft sentiments were extraordinary for their sincerity. Stephen had flirted with, propositioned, and been propositioned by many lovers, and it all had been so much posturing. If the other party wasn’t inclined, he’d smile, wave, and design them a music box, deriving about the same degree of pleasure from that exercise as he would from a casual tumble.

With Abigail, he wanted to design the rest of their lives.

“I have missed you,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “Very much. We’ll take each other to bed, shall we?”

God, yes. “Take me to bed hard, Abigail. Take me to bed until I can’t think or move.”

She clasped his hand and they moved to the bedroom. “Take me to bed sweetly, Stephen.” She punctuated that command with a brush of her hand over his falls. “Sweetly and hard.”

Stephen, you have a son. Abigail had been unable to get the thought from her mind. You have a gorgeous, healthy son with a lively mind and no worthy adult male to show him how to go on in life. Your son needs you.

She had spent the coach ride home tormenting herself