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

I were ambitious enough to attempt such a feat, you’d help me up at the conclusion of my soliloquy.”

She peered over at him. “Would you like to propose on bended knee?”

Stephen thought about it, thought about getting mud on his breeches, and making a complete cake of himself in the middle of the afternoon, and of all the times nobody had thought to treasure Abigail for the wonder she was.

“Here we go,” he said, bracing his cane and sliding off the bench to take a knee. “Your hand, Miss Abbott.”

She drew off her glove and gave him her hand.

“Miss Abbott, our association has not been long, but my feelings for you are deep, constant, a trifle naughty, and very sincere. More than a trifle naughty, if we’re to be honest, and we must be or I do hope you will spank me. Will you do me the unfathomably great honor of becoming my wife, the answer to my every prayer, and the fulfillment of my dearest dreams?”

“Spank you?”

“Only if you want to.”

She enveloped him in a hug. “Yes, I will marry you. Yes and yes, and yes.”

Stephen kissed her, and the knee of his breeches grew damp, and he kissed her some more until a goose honked indignantly, and Abigail laughed and helped him back onto the bench. They stayed in the park for a long, lazy hour, discussing parasols that could conceal peashooters and riding crops that could conceal knives. When they made their way back to the coach, they did so arm in arm at the dignified pace of a future duke and duchess.

Epilogue

“Mama needs looser dresses,” Nicholas announced. “Papa Andy says I’m not to notice.”

Stephen had chosen a bench halfway across Berkeley Square from Gunter’s, and thus the boy’s announcement hadn’t fallen on gossiping ears.

“Between us fellows,” Stephen said, “my own dear Abigail might soon be needing looser dresses. Do you know what that means?”

Abigail and Jane were on the opposite bench, and Stephen’s two oldest nieces were kicking a ball across the grass. These afternoon outings with Nicholas had become a weekly ritual when all parties were in Town, though Nicholas had spent most of the winter with his mother and new stepfather on a small estate in Surrey.

On short notice, Stephen hadn’t been able to locate a suitable property in Kent, and Harmonia had fallen in love with one he’d found in Surrey. The immediate neighborhood boasted a marquess, a baron, an earl, and a viscount. De Beauharnais had decided the matter when he’d seen the windows on the northern side of the top floor.

Across the walkway, Abigail took a spoonful of raspberry ice and licked her top lip. She did it on purpose as her slight smile and the small lift of her empty spoon confirmed.

“Ladies wear looser dresses when they are going to get a baby,” Nicky said. “The baby grows inside them and then pops out like a calf or a foal. Papa Andy says Mama will have a baby this summer and we must pray that she comes safely through her travail. Is her ladyship to have a baby too? Will she get a boy baby?”

“Any healthy baby will be a blessing without limit.” And the wonder and terror of that eclipsed anything in Stephen’s experience. His respect for Quinn and Jane—parents to four children—had grown with each passing week. And oddly enough, the succession absolutely did not matter and never would, alas for the peerage’s priorities. Being Abigail’s devoted husband and the loving father to his children of any description counted for everything. “Is vanilla still your favorite flavor, lad?”

“Yes, my lord. Might I go play?”

Stephen ruffled Nicky’s dark hair. “Of course. You’re outnumbered by the ladies, so give a good account of yourself.”

The boy was off the bench like an arrow shot from a longbow, and his laughter soon joined that of his cousins. Abigail changed benches, coming down beside Stephen.

“What were you two fellows conspiring about?”

Stephen took a bite of melting vanilla ice. The plane maples were leafing out into their spring glory overhead, pigeons strutted on the walkway, and shrieks of childish glee punctuated the air.

“Every time he calls me my lord, I want to howl, Abigail, but then I think about you, who lost a child, or Champlain, whose life was a protracted farce, and my tantrum dies aborning. Nicky and I were talking about babies, and why ladies sometimes have to wear looser dresses. I gather Harmonia is on the nest.”

Abigail set aside her spoon and bowl. “We will keep her in our prayers, of course.”

Abigail and Harmonia had reached some sort of understanding, much as Stephen and Endymion had. The past was the past, an unhappier time that had borne some challenging consequences. The present, however, was a joyous contrast, simplified by a shared desire to see one little boy thrive.

“You know I love you madly,” Stephen said, kissing Abigail on the lips.

“Shameless man. Kiss me when your lips won’t give me frostbite.” Frostbite was apparently an occasion for smiling. “How is today’s experiment working?”

“Surprisingly well, Abigail, but the ultimate test will be whether I can manage to kick a ball, don’t you think?”

Her smiled faded. “Here, in public?”

Stephen had been refining knee braces since last autumn, and some of them had malfunctioned spectacularly.

“Hold my ice, beloved wife. Nicky is defending the honor of young manhood on the playing field, but I daresay he could use some reinforcements.”

Abigail accepted the bowl and spoon. “If you insist.”

Stephen’s wife let him fall on his arse from time to time in pursuit of a more effective knee brace design. She always helped him up, dusted him off, and went on about life as if his infirmity were of no moment.

Increasingly, it was of no moment to Stephen as well. He took up his cane and crossed the grass just as little Elizabeth aimed a kick that sent the ball barreling straight for him.

Stephen trapped the ball between his foot and grass. “Battle stations! Incoming enemy fire!”

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