How to Catch a Duke

by Grace Burrowes

  She let go of Stephen’s hand and peered out the window. “You are taking me to Gunter’s?”

  “You sound like Bitty, though my niece is growing like a beanstalk and we will shortly have to find her a new nickname. Her favorite flavor is barberry.”

  Abigail let the window shade drop. “You gave me the best, sweetest puppy ever. You are taking me to Gunter’s. You bought out half that toy shop and told Lord Fleming to…to take himself to Coventry.”

  To bugger himself. “Figuratively,” Stephen said. “I would like to hear you use naughty language, Miss Abbott.” To whisper it in his ear.

  The coach rolled to a halt and Abigail pulled on her gloves. “I will dream of you tonight, when I’m alone in my bed. Perhaps I’ll dream up some naughty talk. But I must ask you, if this is how you go about showing a pretend interest in a lady, what would your genuine courtship entail?”

  “My interest is genuine, Abigail.”

  She smiled and gathered up her parasol and reticule. “But your courtship is not. I would love a vanilla ice. What is your favorite flavor?”

  My favorite flavor of treat is Miss Abigail Abbott.

  Chapter Ten

  “De Beauharnais.” Harmonia curtsied.

  Her guest bowed. “My lady, a profound pleasure as always.”

  Endymion de Beauharnais was one of those rare people with whom nature had been lavishly generous. He was a bit over average height, but not so tall as to create awkwardness on the dance floor. His proportions were a tailor’s fondest dream, from broad shoulders to a trim waist and an equestrian’s muscular legs. His hands were those of an artist, while his features invited the eye to linger and delight. Straight blade of a nose, periwinkle blue eyes, defined chin.…

  And his lips. Harmonia set great store by a man’s lips. By what came out of them—de Beauharnais was witty, tolerant, and well educated—and by how he applied them to a lady’s person. De Beauharnais had been gifted with a full mouth, a warm smile, and a way of bussing a lady’s cheek that made Harmonia feel about sixteen years old.

  “I’ve brought some sketches for you to look at,” he said, brandishing a satchel. “Your portrait has been much on my mind.”

  “Mine too, of course. Shall I ring for a tray?” In Harmonia’s experience, artists rarely turned down free food.

  “A tray would be appreciated. Was Lord Fleming calling upon you?”

  If only de Beauharnais were asking out of something other than politeness. “Fleming and Stapleton are conspiring over some intrigue or other. Next week Stapleton’s schemes will involve a feckless viscount or a silk nabob.” She tugged the bell pull twice and seated herself in the middle of the sofa. “I am expiring with curiosity over these sketches.”

  De Beauharnais took the place beside her but didn’t open his satchel. “Fleming’s call put you out of humor somehow. Your countenance shows the worry here”—he stroked his thumb down the center of her brow—“and here.” His next caress glossed over the corners of her mouth.

  How lovely, to be on the receiving end of a man’s warm and gently flirtatious touch. “Stapleton is ever threatening to take Nicky from me,” Harmonia said. “Champlain did what he could to safeguard my maternal interests, but Stapleton is ruthless, while I…”

  De Beauharnais stroked his thumb across her lips. “While you…?”

  “I can be ruthless, though I’m not good at it. I’m better at being agreeable while I quietly go about my business.” That approach had worked thus far, though Stapleton and his dratted meddling could prove troublesome.

  De Beauharnais turned her chin toward the window, and Harmonia was reminded that he was a talented portraitist. His boldness was probably more artistic curiosity than flirtation. The notion was lowering, and Stapleton’s foolishness with Fleming was worrying, and Harmonia was abruptly ready to cry.

  Blast all men to Hades anyway. The tea tray arrived, sparing her from the humiliation of pointless tears.

  She poured out while de Beauharnais chatted about the symbolic objects that should be included in her portrait. Should Champlain’s presence be hinted at in a sketch hanging on a back wall? Ought there to be a child’s rattle or storybook on a side table?

  “May I tell you something?” Harmonia asked when they’d done justice to a plate of cakes and sandwiches.

  De Beauharnais set aside his cup and saucer. “You may tell me anything, my lady. By the nature of our work, portraitists make good confidants. We hear more than you think, and because we are underfoot in a client’s house for days at a time, we see a lot too.”

  No guile colored that comment, no innuendo—and no threat.

  “I don’t care two figs about my portrait. Well, maybe two figs, but I’m having it done mostly to twit Stapleton. He would erase me from Nicky’s life if he could, and I am very much afraid he’ll get away with it. I want my son to recall what I look like when Stapleton banishes me to the north again.”

  De Beauharnais studied her, then rose and closed the door.

  Prudent of him, and Harmonia purposely received guests in one of the few parlors without a vent, dumbwaiter, peek hole, or other means of spying.

  De Beauharnais resumed his place beside Harmonia, right beside her, in fact. “Are you in fear for your safety, my lady?”

  Was she? Harmonia hadn’t wanted to face that question. “I don’t trust Stapleton. My husband and I lived independent lives, but I knew Champlain would always take up for me if his father grew difficult. Now…” Now life had grown complicated, and Stapleton, as always, was at the root of the complication.

  If only he could leave well enough alone and content himself with his parliamentary schemes.

  “Now?” De Beauharnais prompted.

  “Now I worry all the time,” Harmonia said, getting up to pace. “I have done things I’m not proud of, de Beauharnais, foolish things, angry things. Stapleton can hold the lot of it against me, and I have virtually no way to return fire.” No way she was willing to return fire.

  De Beauharnais rose as well, as any gentleman would. “Stapleton’s hands are hardly clean, my lady. He’s what’s politely termed old school, meaning a pattern card of old corruption. From his enclosure acts, to his battle against reforms in the mines, to his tendency to buy up an unsuspecting MP’s vowels, Stapleton plays dirty and mean.”

  Harmonia drew the draperies closed, lest even the gardeners report on her to Stapleton. “You relieve my mind in a way. I know Papa-in-Law is arrogant, that he regards himself as above the law and above society’s strictures, and you tell me this is common knowledge, not my fanciful imaginings. You also give me more cause to worry.”

  “Stapleton is dangerous, but you have allies, my lady.”

  “I do?”

  He took her hands in his. “I am an ally, however humble. I have a few connections, and they are not uniformly humble. Stapleton needs to be reminded that you have a place in society independent of your late husband’s standing. You are an earl’s daughter. You were Lady Harmonia before you were Lady Champlain. You are the mother of the next marquess. Stapleton is without exception disliked and distrusted, while you are…”

  I am tired. I am overwhelmed. I am stuck in my father-in-law’s household if I want to see my son grow up.

  “I am…?”

  He kissed her forehead and drew her close. “You are charm, lightness, benevolence, feminine grace, and good things. You take on Stapleton not for yourself, but for the boy, and I admire that.”

  Harmonia allowed herself to be held in a pair of strong masculine arms, allowed herself to be comforted. De Beauharnais was doubtless safeguarding his blasted commission, but his handsome speech wasn’t all for show, and he made sense too.

  “You are saying I should resume socializing.”

  “Your period of mourning is long past, even second mourning is behind you. You have been missed.”

  That was a bit of a stretch—wasn’t it? “I would like to go to the Portmans’ ball on Wednesday. Will you escort me?�
�

  De Beauharnais was apparently the sort of man who could hold a woman, stroke her back, and converse with her, all without pushing his hips at her as if her highest aspiration should be to entertain him sexually.

  “Escorting you would be my honor, my lady. If you’d like to attend the Veaters’ musicale, I am also available on Friday afternoon.”

  Old habits stirred. At one time, Harmonia had carried a calendar in her head, right alongside a copy of Debrett’s and a map of weekday at-homes. She’d kept Champlain’s itinerary in another mental cupboard, and Stapleton’s appointments in yet another. Now, her life revolved around the nursery and enduring Stapleton’s bile.

  “You are a good friend,” she said, stepping back. “Do you suppose I ought to remarry?”

  De Beauharnais brushed the side of his thumb along her temple. “Do you want to remarry, or is this another ploy to spike Stapleton’s guns? If you married into another titled family, Stapleton would have to tread carefully.”

  That thought had occurred to her, and yet…“I miss the sense I had with Champlain of being allies, de Beauharnais. My husband was a hound, a daredevil, a complete gudgeon in many respects, but he was my gudgeon and I was his wife. I tell myself that in another five years, we might have settled down into a different sort of relationship.”

  De Beauharnais took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “He did not deserve you.”

  A pause followed, while Harmonia let de Beauharnais hold her hand, though she knew this whole conversation needed to be brought back to more sensible ground.

  How tired she was of limiting herself to sensible ground.

  “Champlain tried to take me to bed once,” de Beauharnais said, watching Harmonia carefully. “I declined his offer.”

  “You were one of the few, then. His flirtations drove Stapleton halfway to Bedlam, which is why I never protested them too loudly.”

  “You aren’t appalled?”

  “By Champlain’s behavior? I was devastated to think I could not be enough for him, that his appetites were so voracious and worldly, and all I had to offer was boring old wifely devotion. I got past that phase, to the one where I pretended amusement and near indifference, as he kindly directed both at my peccadillos.” This recitation made Harmonia sad, for herself mostly. “I should have boxed Champlain’s ears. He was appalling.”

  “I declined his offer. I’ve accepted those of other women—and men.”

  De Beauharnais was asking a question, about whether this would be his last call upon her, about whether she’d withdraw her commission. Being de Beauharnais, he put the questions to her through innuendo, leaving it to her to give an answer or make light of the whole exchange.

  She looked him up and down, and liked what she saw very much. An adult male, not an adolescent in a protracted frenzy of self-gratification. A man willing to develop a talent into a profession, one who took her situation to heart.

  She kissed his cheek. “I am long past judging others for where they turn for pleasure and company. Let’s pay a visit to the nursery, shall we? Time with Nicky always improves my mood. We can kidnap my son to the garden and have a look at your sketches there.”

  She needed to see Nicky, to hug him and let him restore her sense of balance. De Beauharnais had surprised her with his honesty and his loyalty. If she were similarly forthcoming with him, he might be the one appalled.

  “Do you mind jaunting up to the nursery with me?” she asked.

  He smiled, a purely friendly and startlingly attractive smile. “I love children. They are the most enjoyable commissions by far. To the nursery, my lady, but I will also look forward to escorting you to the Portmans’ ball on Wednesday.”

  “I will look forward to that too.” Harmonia paused before opening the parlor door. “De Beauharnais, are you acquainted with Lord Stephen Wentworth?”

  “I am. As it happens, I consider him a friend. Why do you ask?”

  “No particular reason. I overheard Stapleton mention him. Lord Stephen and I are acquainted, though our paths haven’t crossed for some time.”

  And that, quite frankly, was an enormous relief.

  Stephen handed Abigail down from the coach, torn between insisting that she take his advances seriously—they were lovers, for God’s sake—and a hesitance to dispel her lighter mood.

  He ordered a raspberry ice, Abigail chose vanilla, and she took charge of carrying their sweets out to the benches on the square. Opposite them across the walkway sat a young couple, clearly of modest means. The husband held a fat, jolly baby on his lap, while the wife nibbled at an ice.

  “What do you suppose the infant’s name is?” Abigail asked, stealing a bite of Stephen’s treat. “She looks like a Georgina to me, little Georgie to her family.”

  An inquiry agent would pay attention to her surroundings, and yet, Stephen had the sense Abigail would never ignore a baby.

  “Georgina, possibly, or Georgiana,” Stephen said, emphasizing the first a, “like the late duchess. She’s a merry little shoat.”

  The baby smacked her papa’s chin, and he pulled back in mock dismay. The mother smiled at him—a tender, indulgent smile—and at her baby, whose nose she touched with a playfully admonitory finger.

  Stephen had just taken a spoonful of raspberry ice when a thought chilled him from within. “Abigail.”

  She cocked her head. “My lord?”

  “I did not…” Stephen looked around, then lowered his voice. “I did not withdraw.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  How could he have been such a heedless, rutting, idiotish, imbecilic, hopelessly stupid, inconsiderate, foolish, thundering dolt as to not withdraw?

  “I always withdraw, or wear a sheath, or wear a sheath and withdraw. I did not withdraw. I cannot beg your pardon humbly enough. Do you take precautions?”

  She set her spoon in her empty bowl and put it aside. “I am not entirely certain of your meaning.”

  “Pennyroyal tea, ginger tea. Rue can work to prevent conception, but I don’t favor it. The effective dose can be dangerous.”

  Abigail gazed at the gurgling baby and doting parents, her expression vaguely puzzled. “You refer to avoiding an interesting condition.”

  “I do. I apologize for having behaved abominably, but this is not a topic to ignore. I do not seek to become a father, but neither am I willing to be a monk. I compromise by taking precautions and resigning myself to the knowledge that, should fatherhood befall me, I will do the responsible thing.”

  “Your ice is melting.”

  My brain has melted. “You finish it.” He passed her his raspberry treat. “If I use my cane to start beating myself, do you suppose anybody would notice?”

  Abigail took a bite from his spoon. “Champlain and I carried on for the better part of a year before I conceived. I don’t believe I’m particularly fertile, and I doubt we have anything to worry about.”

  “You are admirably calm, Abigail. Babies create the opposite of calm. They are noisy, demanding, regularly un-fragrant, frequently hungry…” And dear. So very, very dear. And any baby Stephen made with Abigail would be…the idea stopped the forward progress of all his mental processes, produced a lump in his throat, and rendered his heartbeat akin to a kettledrum.

  “If I get a woman with child, decency alone dictates that I marry her, and my conscience would insist on that course as well.” Particularly if that woman were Abigail. “Children matter, Abigail. My children matter to me. Or they would, if I had any.” Stephen fell silent lest he descend into outright gibbering.

  “Does Her Grace know of these herbs?” Abigail asked.

  The family across the way got up to leave, the father holding the child against his shoulder with one arm and taking his wife’s hand too. The baby smiled at Stephen over her papa’s shoulder, and Abigail waved farewell to her.

  “Jane knows everything,” he said, blowing the baby a kiss, “but if you ask her, she will tell Quinn. Quinn will denounce me to Duncan. The whole family w
ill know our business. I hate that.” Stephen also, though, trusted his family to do their utmost to look after Abigail.

  “What of Ned?” Abigail asked. “Can he be discreet?”

  “Brilliant suggestion. Neddy can be discreet, and he will enjoy having me in his debt. I will send around to my preferred apothecary and have them deliver the package to Ned. I am sorry, Abigail. I am sorry and ashamed of myself.”

  She finished his ice, rose, and collected her empty bowl. “If you’d bring my parasol, please?”

  Her parasol could double as a second cane. Stephen managed it easily, and soon they were again seated side by side in the coach.

  Abigail took his hand before he could think to take hers. “I have had a wonderful day. Your plan is working. Stapleton knows I’m in London, and he will soon deduce that I am a guest of the Wentworths. We now know that Lord Fleming could be involved in Stapleton’s schemes, and that is progress. I very much enjoyed the toy shop and the ices.”

  She was trying to tell him something, but Stephen was still too appalled with himself to parse the subtleties.

  “Abigail, I have failed you. I have failed honor itself and banished myself from the land of gentlemanly sensibilities. If there are consequences—”

  “I lost one child,” she said, squeezing his fingers. “Despite everything, I wanted my baby, Stephen. I am not a grand lady to be brought low by a common human contretemps. I’d leave York for a time, then come back with a baby in my arms, claiming that a widowed cousin in Cornwall had succumbed to a lung fever and orphaned her husband’s posthumous child. Everybody would know I’d mis-stepped, though nobody would much remark it provided I was a good mother and didn’t repeat the error.”

  The carriage rolled along through tree-lined streets, the autumn sunshine slanting from the west. Stephen’s panic gradually subsided to worry and familiar self-loathing.

  He would cheerfully, enthusiastically, marry Abigail, but he would not use a baby to entrap her. “When are your courses due to start?”

  Abigail sent him an exasperated look. “Is nothing beyond the scope of your curiosity?”