He set his footwear aside. “I was babbling in the coach, but I hope I was babbling honestly.”
“About…” Abigail found it necessary to roll down her stocking very slowly. “Dreaming of me? Did you dream anything in particular?”
Stephen tilted his head to the side and smiled wickedly. “I doubtless dreamed of you taking shocking liberties with my willing person. Perhaps if you toyed with me a bit, I might recall the details.”
He occupied the vanity stool like the king of carnal delights upon his throne, casually naked from the waist up, legs slightly splayed, the fabric of his breeches temptingly tented. Abigail considered taking off her chemise in retaliation but instead knelt between his legs and unbuttoned his falls. His mood was buoyant.
Hers was both sad and fierce.
She wanted these memories with him, and if that made her selfish and greedy, she would be selfish and greedy for an entire week. Also bold, demanding, and—if Stephen’s stamina was anything like she suspected it to be—a little sore in the most delicious places.
Stephen touched her cheek. “You do as you please with me, Abigail. If this is where you want to start, I am your willing servant. If you’d rather take me to bed and cuddle up, I will delight in your affections.”
Abigail considered his offer, and considered his comfort. If they had to move to the bed in the middle of their pleasures, Stephen would need his cane and the transition could introduce an awkward moment.
“Onto the bed,” she said. “On your back.”
“I will spend from anticipatory bliss,” he said, getting to his feet and giving her a hand up. He did use his cane to cross to the bed, and hooked it over the bedside table. “I’ve considered designing walking sticks that can be used to conceal bedroom toys. My family would disown me, but I suspect the results would be very profitable.”
“Your family will never disown you. Lie down.”
“I really must remember not to leave my riding crops around our bedroom,” he said, stretching out with a sigh. “Your inherent confidence gives you a natural aptitude for—Abigail?”
She’d rested her head low on his belly, pushed his breeches out of the way, and swiped her tongue experimentally over the tip of his aroused cock.
“Behold, he is rendered speechless,” she murmured.
Stephen remained silent for a long while, except for the occasional groan or sigh after he’d peeled off his breeches. By the time Abigail’s curiosity was sated, she was more than a little bothered herself. She had no sooner relinquished her prize than Stephen sat up, hoisted her back against the pillows, and draped himself over her.
“Did you like it?” she asked, tracing her fingers over his chest. “One suspects some practice is required.”
“One damned near had me spending at the first taste, you fiend. If this is how you react to solving cases, then I hope many more difficult conundrums find their way to your door. Hold on to me.”
That was her only warning before Stephen fused his mouth to hers, entered her in a gloriously sure thrust, and sent her on a breathless upward spiral.
“Let go, Abigail,” he whispered. “For God’s sake, I haven’t a sheath, and just—let go.”
She did not want to let go. Not of him, not ever. She wanted to hold fast and never turn him loose.
“Stay with me.” She locked her ankles at the small of his back to emphasize the point. “Please.”
“But I cannot—”
She kissed him and, by sheer force of will and the main strength of her sturdy female body, she overcame his determination. Their pleasure was spectacular, protracted, and vigorous.
Also…stolen. Abigail would think about that later, when the little shocks of after-joy stopped racking her, when she could breathe normally, and when Stephen’s weight wasn’t the most comforting bodily reality she’d miss all the way back to York.
“You are naughty,” he said, kissing her nose. “Naughty, naughty, naughty. Where have you been all my life?”
“Yorkshire. Are you angry with me?”
He rolled, taking her with him, which effected an intimate un-joining and put Abigail atop her lover.
“I’m furious,” he said. “Aghast at your audacity. Give me ten minutes and you may enrage me again all you please. Sweet, hard, any way you like. Every way you like, in fact.”
Abigail curled down onto his chest. “Ten minutes?”
“Well, fifteen then. You have rendered me the veriest weakling, I admit it. A happy weakling, though. Enraptured, in fact. Perhaps I am among the celestial beings as we speak.”
“Hush.” Abigail raised up enough to draw off her chemise and used it to tidy them both. “Hold me.”
Stephen hooked a blanket from the foot of the bed with his toes and drew it over Abigail’s shoulders.
“Sleep, Duchess.” He kissed her cheek. “You have earned your rest. A sweet and hard loving is satisfying but exhausting. I believe it’s my new favorite.”
“You are my favorite,” Abigail said, cuddling close.
He drew patterns on her back—naughty walking sticks?—while she drifted closer to sleep. Her last thought before she slipped into dreams was that no short week of pleasure with Stephen, no matter how wild, would be enough to comfort her against all the years she would endure missing him.
“I consider myself a tolerant woman,” Jane began, “but your brother has been carrying on like a stag in rut for the better part of a week.” She paced the length of the sitting room, her skirts swishing in a way that made a new father start counting days.
“Stephen is a Wentworth male in his prime,” Jane went on. “Certain allowances must be made, but Quinn…I believe his enthusiasm for Miss Abbott’s company exceeds even my devotion to you at the outset of our marriage.”
“I am in my prime,” Quinn interjected, and who was to say brothers more than a decade apart in age could not both be in their primes?
Jane speared him with a glower. “Of course you are, as the state of our nursery will attest. Try to focus, Quinn. This is important.”
Stapleton supporting the mining bill was important. The talk in the clubs was one part amazed, one part disbelieving, and all parts in awe of Quinn’s negotiating ability. The credit belonged to Stephen, of course, and Stephen would disown Quinn if he mentioned that. Stapleton was as good as his word, offering clear if terse support for Quinn’s bill. Fleming’s titled father had enjoyed a similar shift in perspective.
“Stephen has fallen in love,” Quinn said, patting the arm of his wing chair. “He’s behaving like a Wentworth male in love. This Wentworth male would enjoy a snuggle with his duchess, if she’s so inclined.” A snuggle doomed to the platonic side of the marital continuum, alas.
“But must Stephen be so passionately in love under our very roof?” Jane countered.
“Miss Abbott is under our roof, and thus Stephen is underfoot as well. He has asked if I would finance the sale of his munitions works.”
Jane’s pace slowed. “He’s selling off his gun manufactories?”
“And his foundry, which he uses mostly to make cannon and gun barrels. I know of some American investors who would love to get their hands on a British munitions works, and they have the means to acquire one too.”