Abigail untied Stephen’s cravat and unbuttoned his shirt, then his waistcoat. A wife performed these courtesies for her husband, but they weren’t mere courtesies, they were privileges.
“Your hooks,” Stephen said, twirling his finger.
Abigail gave him her back, and he soon had her dress and stays undone. How glad she was to be making love in broad daylight, the better to memorize the gradual unveiling of Stephen’s body. He waited until Abigail had shimmied out of her dress and petticoat to drape his cravat around her neck. The silk was warm with his heat and scented with his fragrance.
“I want your cravat,” Abigail said, sniffing the silk. “I want it as a token of today.”
“You may have both the neckcloth and the man who wore it,” Stephen said, hanging his coat over the back of her reading chair. His waistcoat and shirt followed, then he sat on her vanity stool to remove his boots.
“Did you mean what you said in the coach?” Abigail asked, taking the reading chair to remove her half boots.
He set his footwear aside. “I was babbling in the coach, but I hope I was babbling honestly.”
“About…” Abigail found it necessary to roll down her stocking very slowly. “Dreaming of me? Did you dream anything in particular?”
Stephen tilted his head to the side and smiled wickedly. “I doubtless dreamed of you taking shocking liberties with my willing person. Perhaps if you toyed with me a bit, I might recall the details.”
He occupied the vanity stool like the king of carnal delights upon his throne, casually naked from the waist up, legs slightly splayed, the fabric of his breeches temptingly tented. Abigail considered taking off her chemise in retaliation but instead knelt between his legs and unbuttoned his falls. His mood was buoyant.
Hers was both sad and fierce.
She wanted these memories with him, and if that made her selfish and greedy, she would be selfish and greedy for an entire week. Also bold, demanding, and—if Stephen’s stamina was anything like she suspected it to be—a little sore in the most delicious places.
Stephen touched her cheek. “You do as you please with me, Abigail. If this is where you want to start, I am your willing servant. If you’d rather take me to bed and cuddle up, I will delight in your affections.”
Abigail considered his offer, and considered his comfort. If they had to move to the bed in the middle of their pleasures, Stephen would need his cane and the transition could introduce an awkward moment.
“Onto the bed,” she said. “On your back.”
“I will spend from anticipatory bliss,” he said, getting to his feet and giving her a hand up. He did use his cane to cross to the bed, and hooked it over the bedside table. “I’ve considered designing walking sticks that can be used to conceal bedroom toys. My family would disown me, but I suspect the results would be very profitable.”
“Your family will never disown you. Lie down.”
“I really must remember not to leave my riding crops around our bedroom,” he said, stretching out with a sigh. “Your inherent confidence gives you a natural aptitude for—Abigail?”
She’d rested her head low on his belly, pushed his breeches out of the way, and swiped her tongue experimentally over the tip of his aroused cock.
“Behold, he is rendered speechless,” she murmured.
Stephen remained silent for a long while, except for the occasional groan or sigh after he’d peeled off his breeches. By the time Abigail’s curiosity was sated, she was more than a little bothered herself. She had no sooner relinquished her prize than Stephen sat up, hoisted her back against the pillows, and draped himself over her.
“Did you like it?” she asked, tracing her fingers over his chest. “One suspects some practice is required.”
“One damned near had me spending at the first taste, you fiend. If this is how you react to solving cases, then I hope many more difficult conundrums find their way to your door. Hold on to me.”
That was her only warning before Stephen fused his mouth to hers, entered her in a gloriously sure thrust, and sent her on a breathless upward spiral.
“Let go, Abigail,” he whispered. “For God’s sake, I haven’t a sheath, and just—let go.”
She did not want to let go. Not of him, not ever. She wanted to hold fast and never turn him loose.
“Stay with me.” She locked her ankles at the small of his back to emphasize the point. “Please.”
“But I cannot—”
She kissed him and, by sheer force of will and the main strength of her sturdy female body, she overcame his determination. Their pleasure was spectacular, protracted, and vigorous.
Also…stolen. Abigail would think about that later, when the little shocks of after-joy stopped racking her, when she could breathe normally, and when Stephen’s weight wasn’t the most comforting bodily reality she’d miss all the way back to York.
“You are naughty,” he said, kissing her nose. “Naughty, naughty, naughty. Where have you been all my life?”
“Yorkshire. Are you angry with me?”
He rolled, taking her with him, which effected an intimate un-joining and put Abigail atop her lover.
“I’m furious,” he said. “Aghast at your audacity. Give me ten minutes and you may enrage me again all you please. Sweet, hard, any way you like. Every way you like, in fact.”
Abigail curled down onto his chest. “Ten minutes?”
“Well, fifteen then. You have rendered me the veriest weakling, I admit it. A happy weakling, though. Enraptured, in fact. Perhaps I am among the celestial beings as we speak.”
“Hush.” Abigail raised up enough to draw off her chemise and used it to tidy them both. “Hold me.”
Stephen hooked a blanket from the foot of the bed with his toes and drew it over Abigail’s shoulders.
“Sleep, Duchess.” He kissed her cheek. “You have earned your rest. A sweet and hard loving is satisfying but exhausting. I believe it’s my new favorite.”
“You are my favorite,” Abigail said, cuddling close.
He drew patterns on her back—naughty walking sticks?—while she drifted closer to sleep. Her last thought before she slipped into dreams was that no short week of pleasure with Stephen, no matter how wild, would be enough to comfort her against all the years she would endure missing him.
“I consider myself a tolerant woman,” Jane began, “but your brother has been carrying on like a stag in rut for the better part of a week.” She paced the length of the sitting room, her skirts swishing in a way that made a new father start counting days.
“Stephen is a Wentworth male in his prime,” Jane went on. “Certain allowances must be made, but Quinn…I believe his enthusiasm for Miss Abbott’s company exceeds even my devotion to you at the outset of our marriage.”
“I am in my prime,” Quinn interjected, and who was to say brothers more than a decade apart in age could not both be in their primes?
Jane speared him with a glower. “Of course you are, as the state of our nursery will attest. Try to focus, Quinn. This is important.”
Stapleton supporting the mining bill was important. The talk in the clubs was one part amazed, one part disbelieving, and all parts in awe of Quinn’s negotiating ability. The credit belonged to Stephen, of course, and Stephen would disown Quinn if he mentioned that. Stapleton was as good as his word, offering clear if terse support for Quinn’s bill. Fleming’s titled father had enjoyed a similar shift in perspective.
“Stephen has fallen in love,” Quinn said, patting the arm of his wing chair. “He’s behaving like a Wentworth male in love. This Wentworth male would enjoy a snuggle with his duchess, if she’s so inclined.” A snuggle doomed to the platonic side of the marital continuum, alas.
“But must Stephen be so passionately in love under our very roof?” Jane countered.
“Miss Abbott is under our roof, and thus Stephen is underfoot as well. He has asked if I would finance the sale of his munitions works.”
Jane’s p
ace slowed. “He’s selling off his gun manufactories?”
“And his foundry, which he uses mostly to make cannon and gun barrels. I know of some American investors who would love to get their hands on a British munitions works, and they have the means to acquire one too.”
“This is not good,” Jane said, coming to rest on the arm of Quinn’s chair. “Stephen loves his weaponry. Cranes for the navy and circulating saws and the like are all well and good, but he delights in the intricacy of firearms.”
Quinn took her hand and kissed her fingers. Never had a woman been more fiercely devoted to family, and never had a family benefited so greatly from a lady’s loyalty.
“Stephen loves his weaponry, but he loves Abigail Abbott more. He can now delight in the intricacy of the female mind, or one female mind in particular.”
“He seems content to delight in Miss Abbott’s body, Quinn. I heard laughter when I passed by her sitting room last night.”
Quinn tugged on Jane’s hand, and that was enough to bring her down into his lap. “Jane, what is this about? Stephen never laughs. He is ironic, sarcastic, and droll, but he doesn’t laugh. If Miss Abbott provokes him to laughter, we should rejoice. Napoleon has been reduced to a bad, soon-to-be-glorified memory, and the military has more soldiers and guns than it needs. He should be selling off his military investments. I’ve been telling him that for three years.”
Jane scooted around, which did nothing to quiet Quinn’s doomed longings. “A composer doesn’t stop hearing orchestras in his head,” she said, “just because symphonies have gone out of fashion. Stephen is selling off his firearms businesses because Miss Abbott has Quaker leanings. She isn’t above carrying defensive weapons, but the taking of human life always violates a Commandment in her theology.”
Quinn waited for Jane to settle, which she eventually did, her legs over the arm of the chair, her bottom nestled against his…lap.
“You think Stephen is selling up to placate his future duchess?”
“Stephen doubtless thinks that’s what he’s doing.”
“Jane?”
She rested her head on Quinn’s shoulder and quieted against him. “I miss you, Your Grace.”
“We can last another three weeks, Jane. We’ve managed before.” Though they would be the longest three weeks in marital history.
“I feel like a heifer. I’m suited for nothing of late but grazing and production. I will never fit into my dresses again, and that child has the appetite of a dragoon.”
Oh, how I love you. “You are beautiful to me, Jane, and you always will be. That our baby is healthy and thriving is my second greatest joy after being your husband.” As a younger man, Quinn had been too shy and backward to give his wife the words she needed. Thank heavens Jane was, indeed, a patient woman.
“It’s not fair.” Jane sighed against Quinn’s neck. “With every child, you grow more handsome and distinguished. I become fat and irritable.”
Quinn kissed her cheek. “You talk this way when you’re tired. It’s very bad of Stephen to be courting his Abigail while you are recovering from childbed. Duncan is grumbling because Stephen hasn’t spared him even a single game of chess.”
“Stephen will have time for chess again soon. I do believe I am about to steal a nap.”
“Jane, what aren’t you telling me?”
She was silent for a moment. Quinn had learned to wait for her replies.
“Ned is fond of Miss Abbott.”
“We all are.” Quinn did not understand exactly what drew Stephen and Abigail to each other, but the lady was clearly a match for Stephen’s intellect and for his heart.
“She asked Ned to procure her a ticket on the Wednesday night Northern Flyer. Ned had sense enough to make it an inside ticket. She booked two seats all the way to York—one for Hercules, if you can imagine that—and asked Ned to tell no one.”
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 credi
t 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 at him again. “Do not judge her ladyship. She protected her child. I am trying hard to respect her for that, and I predict Stephen will be making the same effort very shortly.”
The duke gazed over the garden, to outward appearances a man at peace. “I want to hear the rest of this tale, Abigail, but anything you tell me will be shared with Jane.”
“Stephen has warned me that you and Her Grace are in each other’s confidence.” Why must the day be so pretty, and why must Stephen be such a decent, dear man? “I expect Stephen will acquaint you both with the situation soon enough, but it has already become apparent to me that the child in Lady Champlain’s nursery is Stephen’s son, and that her ladyship went to extraordinary lengths to hide the boy’s paternity from his natural father.”
How to Catch a Duke Page 26
