How to Catch a Duke (Rogues to Riches #6) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,50

sideboard. “I think not of a great, hairy horse, but of a knee—your knee. Of my hand stroking your knee, and what manner of derangement turns the knee into a source of venereous inspiration?”

“Venereous?”

The house was quiet, suggesting the servants were belowstairs or perhaps on their half day.

“Venereous,” Stephen replied. “That which excites or stimulates sexual desire.”

He stood close enough that Abigail could have stroked her hand over his falls. She didn’t dare. “You wanted to put my letters into your safe.”

“The safe.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Letters. Lest we forget. This way.” He stalked off down the corridor, his cane striking the carpet with particular force.

Abigail followed, noting, not for the first time, the breadth of Stephen’s shoulders and the taper of his hips. His clothing was exquisitely well made, but then, so was he. His older brother was more heavily muscled, while Stephen was both lean and strong.

“The safe is in the most prosaic of hiding places,” he said, leading Abigail to the study, “in plain sight.”

He closed and locked the door, withdrew the letters from his inside coat pocket, and approached a longcase clock built into a corner of the room. He set his cane against his desk and opened the middle compartment of the clock, where nothing but chains or weights should have been. The compartment concealed a combination lock on the face of a steel box.

“Where are the clock parts?” Abigail asked.

“The weights drop behind the safe. There’s exactly one-half-inch clearance.” He spun tumblers and turned the handle, and the safe opened with a soft click. “I put another safe behind that portrait over the fireplace, and I leave a little money in it, but nothing of any import. Everybody puts their safes in the chimney wall. Can’t blame a cracksman for looking there.”

“But you didn’t want to be predictable. Is there a third safe?”

He stashed the letters inside, shut the door, spun the tumblers, and closed the clock panel. “Abigail, you are a constant source of delight. The house has a total of five safes. Two are decoys, and one only Quinn and I have the combination to. I suspect a gunsmith’s daughter could open at least three of them, given enough time.”

He was smiling at her with approval and affection.

“I would rather not spend the next hour getting into your safes, my lord. I’d rather plunder treasure of a different sort.”

He blinked. “The shops. Right. I am your humble—Abigail?”

She had stepped closer, mindful that he wasn’t holding his cane. “You,” she said. “I want to plunder you.”

“Plunder…me.”

“Your person. I want to enjoy your intimate favors. This is not a real engagement, and when it ends, I will go back to being York’s most boringly dressed inquiry agent, while you…”

“While I?”

She passed him his cane. “While you resume the life of a duke’s genius heir, flirting with all the merry widows and straying wives, making fortunes in all the wrong industries, and hiding treasures where nobody will find them. A little trysting with me ought not to impose too much on your busy schedule until you can resume your usual diversions.”

He caught her hand when she would have stalked off across the room, for he appeared to regard her proposition with something less than enthusiasm.

Perhaps that was for the best.

“Abigail.” He kept hold of her hand. “Is this what you want? An illicit affair with a scapegrace lordling who can’t even manage to promenade around a ballroom with you?”

When did anybody, ever, ask Abigail what she wanted? “If you aren’t inclined, you need only say so, but your kisses have been convincing, and you tell me that honesty characterizes—”

He braced his cane across her bum, grasped an end in each hand, and pulled her closer. “I want you. I want you until I am insensate with longing, until you haunt my dreams and preoccupy my waking thoughts. I had to toss myself off in the damned coach on the way to fetch you. That came out wrong.”

“I know what you meant.” And the image of him, falls undone, cock rampant, all that velvet, leather, and lace luxury around him while he…“Shall we find a bed?”

Sexual congress did not require a bed, but Abigail would have few enough opportunities to be intimate with Stephen Wentworth. Some awkwardness was unavoidable. Nonetheless, she wanted their memories to be sweet, not of itchy carpet or a hard desk.

“We have a bed,” Stephen said, easing the pressure of the cane against her backside. “The sofa folds