How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,22
testiness of his response, the evasiveness, suggested an extraordinary possibility: This gloriously intelligent, handsome, shrewd, wealthy, titled, and clever man was unsure of his own appeal. The test had been not of his ability to appear the doting swain, but of her willingness to appear doted upon—by him.
Abigail would ponder the why of that conclusion later, but in the easy rhythm of Lord Stephen’s caresses and the patience with which he awaited her reply, she accepted that Stephen Wentworth was even more complicated than she’d realized, and not what he appeared to be.
He was more, much more, than an arrogant London lord with a penchant for solving mechanical questions.
“You will forgive my befuddlement,” Abigail said, snuggling closer. “I am unaccountably muddled.”
He squeezed her in a half hug. “Got you stirred up, did I?”
“Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.” He sounded, in fact, relieved.
He kissed the top of her head. “Don’t sound so displeased with yourself. Women have needs. As it happens, I delight in meeting those needs.”
“Nobody needs to be kissed.” She was arguing in part for form’s sake, and in part because it seemed to amuse his lordship. Also because—no harm in being honest—she did not want to leave this couch or leave Lord Stephen’s comfortable, almost friendly embrace.
“Abigail dearest, we all need a little kissing, cuddling, and cavorting. Proving that to you shall be my fondest challenge.”
Abigail closed her eyes, savoring the rare comfort of another’s animal warmth, the utter relaxation Lord Stephen’s touch encouraged. Even as her body quietly hummed with pleasure, her mind faced an uncomfortable truth.
She could pose as the object of Lord Stephen’s affections. She could easily reciprocate his overtures and enjoy his attentions. That playacting would complicate the whole business of the letters, even as it sheltered her from Stapleton’s mischief.
The greater problem was the role Abigail would be inhabiting. She would be impersonating the woman she could never be, the woman Lord Stephen Wentworth loved with his whole, complicated, magnificent, devious heart.
Lady Mary Jane Christine Benevolence Wentworth was perfect, her tiny fingers and toes all present in the proper numbers, her face the envy of Botticelli’s cherubs. In sleep, her mouth worked in a pantomime of suckling, as if even her dreams were of nurture and security.
“Welcome, my lady,” Stephen said, cradling the baby against his heart. “I am your uncle. I will counsel you in the difficult diplomacy of having older sisters. I claim two such siblings, and they are formidable. I am proud to say that your older sisters are terrors, in no small part thanks to my inspiring influence.”
Mary Jane had three older siblings, all robust, clever, darling young ladies, full of the well-loved child’s high spirits and lively curiosity. Their papa and mama—Quinn and Jane—ruled the nursery with loving firmness, and unlike other titled parents, spent considerable time with their children.
“You have chosen well,” Stephen whispered. The nursery had a pair of rocking chairs next to the hearth, and in this setting—and in this setting only—a chair that rocked made sense to Stephen. “I taught Hannah how to pick a lock, and she’ll soon need clocks to take apart. Elizabeth makes up stories for me.” The baby—meaning the third youngest, who was no longer the baby—had yet to manifest her special gifts, but Stephen suspected she’d be highly musical.
He was helpless not to love them, and the little beggars took shameless advantage of his weakness. They loved him back, indifferent to his lurching gait, his tendency to play with their toys, and his frankly nasty outlook on humanity in general.
“You lot ruin all my theories,” he murmured, rocking the baby gently. “Curmudgeonliness becomes impossible with little princesses galloping the corridors of their kingdom and flying down the banisters.” Though sorrow was ever at hand when the nieces were present.
Stephen could not chase Quinn and Jane’s offspring, could not grab them about their sturdy middles as Quinn and Duncan did to hoist them onto the stair railings, could not take them on his shoulders when they began to tire in the park. He could put them up before him in the saddle, but only if an obliging groom lifted the child for him.
“You will not have cousins of me,” he murmured against the baby’s downy crown. “I told your sisters the same thing. Look to Althea and Constance for that madness.” Or to Duncan and Matilda. Duncan was a cousin to Stephen and Quinn, and Duncan, like Quinn, seemed capable of fathering only females.