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

But Ned, like Quinn, was entirely the Duchess of Walden’s creature, and had thus apparently tempered his silence with a judicious slip of the tongue in Jane’s hearing.

“And Stephen has no idea,” Quinn muttered. Neddy’s slip of the tongue neatly placed upon Jane the burden of telling Stephen this news.

She yawned delicately. “This is not how I envisioned their situation resolving, Quinn. You had better have a word with Stephen.”

Well, of course. “Go to sleep, my dear. I will have a word, and love will prevail, if I have to rap Stephen over the head with his own canes to ensure the outcome my duchess prefers.”

Jane dozed off, a warm, beloved weight in Quinn’s arms. Her naps were deep and usually brief, and this one gave Quinn a chance to ponder his brother’s situation with Miss Abbott. They were profoundly in love, of that Quinn was certain. Stephen would not part with his manufactories for any other motivation, but as for Miss Abbott…

Quinn would have a word, and not with Stephen.

Chapter Sixteen

“You are abandoning my brother,” His Grace of Walden said, taking the place beside Abigail on the garden bench. “Why?”

One did not tell a duke to take himself off, not in his own garden, but Abigail dearly wanted to.

“My reasons are my own, Your Grace. I am very appreciative of your hospitality, but my errand here in London is concluded. The time has come for me to return to York.”

She would have called for Hercules and retreated to the house, but His Grace went on speaking as if she’d remarked nothing more significant than the mild weather.

“I have four daughters.” The duke offered this observation with the sort of relish that suggested he stood to inherit the crown jewels.

“Lovely little girls,” Abigail said. “Very dear. I’m sure you’re quite proud of them.”

“I am besotted with my womenfolk, and Stephen is besotted with you. Yet you turn your back on him. Is this your Quaker heritage taking a stand against firearms, Abigail?”

She should scold him for using her given name, but with His Grace of Walden, etiquette worked in reverse. If the duke condescended so far as to use familiar address, the person so addressed was honored, and, besides, Abigail liked that he’d not stand on ceremony with her. Stephen would make the same sort of duke, adept at navigating social subtleties, devoted to his wife and children—blast him to Hades.

“I do not approve of warfare,” she said. “Particularly not aggressive warfare. Stephen is welcome to involve himself in whatever business he pleases. His commercial undertakings are no concern of mine.”

The duke was a larger specimen than Stephen. He was more heavily muscled and took up more of the bench. His scent was pleasant, though not as enticing as the beguiling fragrance Stephen wore. Abigail would not have noticed these differences, but becoming Stephen’s lover had changed how she experienced the world.

Men were either Stephen or not Stephen, and those who were not Stephen could never match the standard he set. For wit, loyalty, fierceness, passion, tenderness…

“Stephen,” His Grace said, “whose affairs are no concern of yours, is arranging the sale of any interest he holds in ventures related to making or repairing firearms of any stripe. I have been urging him to diversify for three years. You come along, and in little more than a fortnight, he’s set about dismantling an empire that could re-arm the French military.”

Oh, Stephen. “His lordship has a flair for drama, and he is a man of dispatch. He will make a fine duke, should that day ever come.”

“Be assured, Abigail, the day will come. I am determined on that score and even my duchess won’t talk me around again. Stephen, however, will make a terrible duke. He will embody all that is loathsome about the species. He will neglect his duties in the Lords, he will be obnoxious and arrogant. He will grow bitter as his leg pains him more later in life, though in fact, it’s his heart that has suffered the severest blow.”

Abigail sat up to glower at the duke. “You insult your brother, and I will not allow that even from you, Your Grace. Stephen is the most estimable of men and a credit to his family.”

Walden bumped her gently with his shoulder. “If you are scolding me so thoroughly, Abigail, then I think you should call me Quinn. Stephen has the potential to be a wonderful duke—he’s already a wonderful person—but that potential is so much smoke in the wind if you desert him now. Mayfair society is not that difficult to manage. Jane excels at it, and she’s a mere preacher’s daughter. Pluck up your courage and marry my brother.”

His Grace was finding new places in her heart to break, the wretch. “My courage is quite plucked up, thank you. I am neither charmed nor intimidated by Mayfair society, and Stephen hasn’t much use for it in any case. He humors Her Grace in that regard, though as a younger man he was apparently more sociable.”

“As a younger man, he was more difficult, if you can imagine such a thing. And speaking of my difficult brother, where is he and does he know you plan to leave London tonight?”

If anybody had told Abigail that she would be discussing her personal affairs with a duke, she would have concluded such a person was addled. She instead concluded that she herself was addled, because not only was she discussing her personal affairs with a duke, she was about to confide in that duke as well.

“I will bid Stephen farewell when he returns from his call on Lady Champlain.” The words hurt, and should anybody inquire, Abigail would inform them that doing the right thing was no deuced comfort at all, not even after a week of desperate, hopeless self-indulgence.

His Grace grew subtly alert. “Why would Stephen bother to call on such a vapid, shallow—”

Abigail glowered