How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,104

make that union cordial and successful.

“A son.” His Grace rose easily. “You’re sure?”

“I saw the boy with my own eyes, Lady Champlain confirmed his patrimony. Surely you can see—”

The duke approached and did not stop a cordial distance away. He instead wrapped Abigail in a gentle hug.

“Dukes lead the way into battle, Abigail. Stephen will be a duke one day.”

Quinn Wentworth’s embrace was different from Stephen’s. Abigail did not have to think of anybody’s balance or where a cane could rest without being knocked over. There was no escaping Quinn’s hug, and for the space of several breaths, Abigail let him simply hold her.

“Stephen will be a very f-fine duke, but I cannot be—”

Quinn patted her back. “A wise duchess once told me that dukes ride into battle at the head of armies, Abigail, not alone. Only a fool rides into life’s battles alone when good comrades are on hand to share the challenges. Do you know why a duke is willing to take on the fights that need fighting, even the hard, thankless fights?”

Stephen would do that. He had arranged for his brother’s mining bill to become law and asked nothing for himself.

“I know I must be on that stagecoach tonight,” Abigail said, “and that I detest weepy women.” Which she was very soon to become, if the duke did not give her immediate privacy. She burrowed closer and tried for a steadying breath.

“A duke rides into battle because he must be worthy of the lady riding at his side. Harmonia hasn’t the heart to be Stephen’s duchess, and you do. You are his choice. Let him be yours.”

He kissed her forehead, tucked a monogrammed handkerchief into her hand, and sauntered back into the house. Then and only then did Abigail descend into the garden and call for Hercules.

When the beast trotted out of the rhododendrons, she sank down, wrapped her arms around him, and let the tears come.

“He’s your son.” Harmonia tossed the words at Stephen as if she were calling out the paces at a duel, not presiding over a tea tray.

“Well, that explains it,” Stephen said, setting down his teacup slowly. The meaning of Harmonia’s revelation was plain enough, but for some reason, Stephen’s heart felt trapped in the pause between thunder and lightning.

“Explains what?” Harmonia asked.

“Why Miss Abbott insisted I call on you. Did she know of this?”

Harmonia sat back without pouring herself a cup of tea. “She took one look at him. One look. I didn’t want that woman in my nursery out of, I don’t know, maternal instinct, but I never dreamed she’d see a resemblance between you and your son that easily.”

“Miss Abbott has keen powers of observation. Why didn’t you tell me?” And why wasn’t Stephen angrier? More surprised? Pleased? Something?

“I didn’t want him to be yours,” Harmonia said, “but he is yours. I cannot deny that. When you and I were dallying, Champlain was off in France fiddling with some violinist, or more likely a whole quartet. Champlain congratulated me on conceiving—congratulated me!—and I think he was honestly relieved.”

Still, Stephen could not grasp how he was supposed to feel about this development. “Champlain knew he’d been cuckolded?”

Harmonia poured herself a cup of tea, the hot liquid nearly missing the cup. “He once said that the reason I wasn’t conceiving might be that we didn’t suit in that regard. I could carry another man’s child, he could impregnate other women—and what wife wants to hear that casual admission?—but we were not a mating pair. I hate that term.”

“Doesn’t sit well with me either.” He’s your son. He’s your son. He’s your son. “Does Stapleton realize who the boy’s father is?”

“The marquess will doubtless guess, particularly as Nicky matures. He cocks his head as you do, and he is much cleverer than Champlain or I could hope to be. You have every right to be wroth with me.”

“Do I?” What would Abigail make of this development? More to the point, what had she made of it? What had the most glorious week of lovemaking in Stephen’s generally self-indulgent life been about?

“These things happen in the best families,” Harmonia said primly, as if some venerable uncle had grown a bit vague. “You still had a right to know.”

“We were dallying, Harmonia, each out to prove something by taking our clothes off and falling into the same bed. We were foolish.” Maybe pathetic was the better word. “We need not be foolish now.”

She took a sip of her tea, the cup rattling as she