Abigail took off her other glove and clasped Stephen’s hand between both of hers in her lap. “You think her ladyship might look favorably on a fellow who destroyed evidence of her late husband’s infidelity? What if it’s Lady Champlain whom Fleming seeks to blackmail with the letters?”
The knuckles of Stephen’s right hand rested perilously close to the juncture of Abigail’s thighs. That three or four layers of fabric lay between his flesh and hers interfered with his imagination not one bit. That he’d made love to Abigail twice in the past several hours was also of no moment.
He wanted her again, while she wanted to plant Stapleton a facer.
Stephen longed to plant the marquess a facer as well, but only after locking himself and Abigail into a commodious bedroom for a month or two.
Stephen rapped on the roof twice, directing John Coachman to pick up the pace. “I don’t know as Champlain’s widow would bother buying his old love letters. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I doubt you were his only inamorata.”
Champlain had doubtless had a lover in literally every port, and Harmonia hadn’t been exactly parsimonious with her favors either.
“Champlain tried to tell me that his wife had a very understanding nature,” Abigail said, stroking her fingers over Stephen’s knuckles. “He said they had a modern marriage.”
“You take a dim view of modern unions?”
“I most assuredly do. The mischief I have seen between people who vowed to love and cherish each other beggars description. Hurt feelings, drama, children caught in the middle, family members taking sides or not speaking to each other, vast sums spent in retaliation for minor slights. You and your brother might not have the warmest affection for each other, but your family at least treats its members with loyalty and good faith.”
Abigail was so fierce, sensible, and passionate. How dare Stapleton or Fleming or whoever disturb her peace?
“Whatever is afoot with your letters, Abigail, we will get to the bottom of it. Berkeley Square approaches. Have you considered sharing an ice with me?”
She let go of Stephen’s hand and peered out the window. “You are taking me to Gunter’s?”
“You sound like Bitty, though my niece is growing like a beanstalk and we will shortly have to find her a new nickname. Her favorite flavor is barberry.”
Abigail let the window shade drop. “You gave me the best, sweetest puppy ever. You are taking me to Gunter’s. You bought out half that toy shop and told Lord Fleming to…to take himself to Coventry.”
To bugger himself. “Figuratively,” Stephen said. “I would like to hear you use naughty language, Miss Abbott.” To whisper it in his ear.
The coach rolled to a halt and Abigail pulled on her gloves. “I will dream of you tonight, when I’m alone in my bed. Perhaps I’ll dream up some naughty talk. But I must ask you, if this is how you go about showing a pretend interest in a lady, what would your genuine courtship entail?”
“My interest is genuine, Abigail.”
She smiled and gathered up her parasol and reticule. “But your courtship is not. I would love a vanilla ice. What is your favorite flavor?”
My favorite flavor of treat is Miss Abigail Abbott.
Chapter Ten
“De Beauharnais.” Harmonia curtsied.
Her guest bowed. “My lady, a profound pleasure as always.”
Endymion de Beauharnais was one of those rare people with whom nature had been lavishly generous. He was a bit over average height, but not so tall as to create awkwardness on the dance floor. His proportions were a tailor’s fondest dream, from broad shoulders to a trim waist and an equestrian’s muscular legs. His hands were those of an artist, while his features invited the eye to linger and delight. Straight blade of a nose, periwinkle blue eyes, defined chin.…
And his lips. Harmonia set great store by a man’s lips. By what came out of them—de Beauharnais was witty, tolerant, and well educated—and by how he applied them to a lady’s person. De Beauharnais had been gifted with a full mouth, a warm smile, and a way of bussing a lady’s cheek that made Harmonia feel about sixteen years old.
“I’ve brought some sketches for you to look at,” he said, brandishing a satchel. “Your portrait has been much on my mind.”
“Mine too, of course. Shall I ring for a tray?” In Harmonia’s experience, artists rarely turned down free food.
“A tray would be appreciated. Was Lord Fleming calling upon you?”
If only de Beauharnais were asking out of something other than politeness. “Fleming and Stapleton are conspiring over some intrigue or other. Next week Stapleton’s schemes will involve a feckless viscount or a silk nabob.” She tugged the bell pull twice and seated herself in the middle of the sofa. “I am expiring with curiosity over these sketches.”
De Beauharnais took the place beside her but didn’t open his satchel. “Fleming’s call put you out of humor somehow. Your countenance shows the worry here”—he stroked his thumb down the center of her brow—“and here.” His next caress glossed over the corners of her mouth.
How lovely, to be on the receiving end of a man’s warm and gently flirtatious touch. “Stapleton is ever threatening to take Nicky from me,” Harmonia said. “Champlain did what he could to safeguard my maternal interests, but Stapleton is ruthless, while I…”
De Beauharnais stroked his thumb across her lips. “While you…?”
“I can be ruthless, though I’m not good at it. I’m better at being agreeable while I quietly go about my business.” That approach had worked thus far, though Stapleton and his dratted meddling could prove troublesome.
De Beauharnais turned her chin toward the window, and Harmonia was reminded that he was a talented portraitist. His boldness was probably more artistic curiosity than flirtation. The notion was lowering, and Stapleton’s foolishness with Fleming was worrying, and Harmonia was abruptly ready to cry.
Blast all men to Hades anyway. The tea tray arrived, sparing her from the humiliation of pointless tears.
She poured out while de Beauharnais chatted about the symbolic objects that should be included in her portrait. Should Champlain’s presence be hinted at in a sketch hanging on a back wall? Ought there to be a child’s rattle or storybook on a side table?
“May I tell you something?” Harmonia asked when they’d done justice to a plate of cakes and sandwiches.
De Beauharnais set aside his cup and saucer. “You may tell me anything, my lady. By the nature of our work, portraitists make good confidants. We hear more than you think, and because we are underfoot in a client’s house for days at a time, we see a lot too.”
No guile colored that comment, no innuendo—and no threat.
“I don’t care two figs about my portrait. Well, maybe two figs, but I’m having it done mostly to twit Stapleton. He would erase me from Nicky’s life if he could, and I am very much afraid he’ll get away with it. I want my son to recall what I look like when Stapleton banishes me to the north again.”
De Beauharnais studied her, then rose and closed the door.
Prudent of him, and Harmonia purposely received guests in one of the few parlors without a vent, dumbwaiter, peek hole, or other means of spying.