How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,19

can engage in the activities leading to procreation?”

Her expression became wonderfully severe. “One surmises you can—and do.”

“One surmises correctly. I am not, however, considered a good catch. Impecunious viscounts can out-court me, and because I can never overcome the circumstances of my birth or the limitations of my disability, that will always be the case.”

Miss Abbott disentangled her fingers from his. “So you’ll bow meekly before your fate and marry an Amazon of humble origins?”

“The Amazons were warrior queens, to a maiden. Quakers are bankers, and His Grace of Walden, being a banker himself, has all manner of Quaker associates. You are from the north—from my home shire, as it were. My family thinks highly of you, which is no small accomplishment, and you will be an original in the Mayfair drawing rooms. You might even—I blush to suggest it—enjoy being my intended.”

This speech was coming off all reasonable and businesslike, but Stephen waited for Miss Abbott’s reply with inordinate anxiety. That Stapleton hadn’t succeeded thus far was due to chance. Stephen had reason to know that the marquess was as stubborn as he was arrogant, and he was very arrogant.

Miss Abbott considered Stephen’s boots, which she’d set neatly next to the sofa. “You do not suggest a real engagement.”

“I would not presume on your future to that extent.” The most honest, humble truth he’d ever offered a lady.

“Kiss me,” she said, half turning to face him. “Kiss me as if you’re stealing a moment with the woman you love. Make it convincing so I’ll know what to expect should such a performance ever be needful.”

In some dimly functioning rational part of his mind, Stephen concluded that Miss Abbott doubted her desirability. Either he inspired her to question that conclusion or he’d have to find some other scheme for keeping her safe.

If she found his advances distasteful, she could lay him out flat with a single unwelcoming shove. That thought brought him some comfort—she’d lay out flat any man whose advances she found distasteful.

Stephen did not want to come up with another scheme, and he did want to kiss her.

Very much. In his present state—randy and sentimental and all that—stage kisses were a stupid idea. But then, he had desired Abigail Abbott from the moment he’d set eyes on her, he esteemed her even more than he desired her, and she was an addled goose to think herself anything less than delectable.

“Very well, then,” he said, taking her hand, “convincing, I shall be.”

“A woman that size does not simply disappear.” Honoré, Marquess of Stapleton, stated that observation calmly. He never raised his voice with subordinates, and Tertullian, Lord Fleming, was a subordinate in every regard.

Fleming was a mere earl’s heir, his family’s fortune barely qualified as modest, and his intellect was similarly limited. He was loyal, and he longed to marry Stapleton’s widowed daughter-in-law. Harmonia was, of course, free to remarry wherever she pleased, provided her son remained in the care of his doting grandpapa.

For the sake of the Stapleton succession, Stapleton would hound Miss Abbott to hell’s front door, if necessary.

Fleming stood at attention, though he’d never bought his colors. “Miss Abbott has been known to wear disguises, my lord.”

“I am aware of that. She’s a professional snoop, but we must out-snoop her, mustn’t we?” Two searches of her home had yielded nothing. Not so much as an overdue bill from a greengrocer.

“She might simply have gone to her covert, my lord. Just because she hasn’t been seen doesn’t mean she isn’t at home, tatting lace or embroidering handkerchiefs.”

Fleming disapproved of this whole venture. He had a softhearted view of women and probably kissed his dogs when nobody was looking. He would be putty in Harmonia’s hands, and happy, devoted putty.

“Abigail Abbott wouldn’t know what to do with an embroidery needle if you threaded it for her and…”

A tattoo of heels on the parquet foyer had Fleming’s head coming up.

“Fleming, attend me. You may join Lady Champlain upon the conclusion of our interview and not before. Harmonia never goes out this early in the day.”

Fleming assumed parade-rest posture—chin up, hands behind his back. “Perhaps Miss Abbott doesn’t have the documents, my lord. Some time has passed, after all, and paper burns easily.”

“Does it? Does it truly?” Stapleton sat forward, linking his hands on the desk blotter. “Paper burns easily. Well, I had no idea. Thank you for enlightening me, Fleming. You put my mind at ease. I will simply trust that some very sensitive information has been twisted into