How to Catch a Duke by Grace Burrowes (most inspirational books .TXT) 📗

sense of relief followed that announcement. “Perhaps I’ll look you up when I return to Town, but don’t think we can resume where we left off, Babette.”

“My name’s Betty. Betty Smithers, purveyor of fine teas and sundries.”

“Betty,” he said, brushing a kiss to her cheek. “Be well and say grumpy things about me.”

She grinned. “You’re an awful man who has no sense of humor and no eye for jewelry.”

“Just so,” he said, lifting the latch. “And I make you late for rehearsal with my endless selfish demands on your person. You are well rid of me.”

Stephen left her smiling by the door. By the time he’d retrieved his horse from a sleepy groom in the mews, his relief at a friendly parting was fading. He liked Babette, of course, and was fond of her, but then, he liked most women, and was fond of all of his lovers.

Years ago, he might have been capable of risking his heart for the right woman, but life had taken him in other directions, and romantic entanglements didn’t number among his aggravations, thank the heavenly powers.

Miss Abigail Abbott didn’t number among his aggravations either. She was more in the nature of a challenge, and Stephen prided himself on never backing down from challenge.

Chapter Three

“You did ask us to wake you at seven, miss,” the maid said. “Shall I come again in an hour?” She was clean, tidy, and cheerful, like every female domestic Abigail had met in Lord Stephen’s abode. The men were also clean, tidy, and cheerful, and the lot of them moved about with more energy than was decent.

Morning sun slanted through Abigail’s window, and elsewhere in the house what sounded like three different clocks were all chiming the seventh hour—in unison. The result was a major triad—do-mi-sol—and the effect unusual, to say the least.

“I’m awake,” Abigail said, sitting up and flipping back the softest quilts ever to grace the bed of mortal woman. “Barely. Oh, you’ve brought tea. Bless you.” No toast, no croissants, though. No hope of escaping breakfast with his lordship. But then, Abigail had come here precisely to secure his lordship’s assistance, hadn’t she?

“Shall I help you dress, miss?”

“I can manage, thank you.”

“I’ll come back to make up the bed and see to the hearth. Your frock is hanging in the wardrobe, and Lord Stephen awaits you in the breakfast parlor.”

Well, drat the luck. Abigail had been hoping to enjoy at least a plate of eggs before she negotiated with his lordship. She ought to have known he’d not simply accede to her plan.

“I’ll be down directly.” Good food and rest had fortified her, and finding that the hem of her dress had been sponged clean and the skirts ironed added to her sense of well-being. She downed two cups of tea as she dressed and tended to her hair.

By the time she joined Lord Stephen in the breakfast parlor, she had resolved to tell him the version of the truth she’d concocted during her journey south.

“Miss Abbott.” He rose. “The sun rises to illuminate your beauty. I trust you slept well.”

He could not know how his levity wounded. “I slept soundly, my lord. And you?”

“I am rested. Help yourself to the offerings on the sideboard. I’d serve you, except handling two canes and a plate is beyond me.”

Walking into the breakfast parlor was like walking into heaven’s antechamber. The windows admitted bright morning light, the scents of toast and butter graced the air, and the room was warm at a time of year when most households were parsimonious with coal. His lordship sat not at the head of the table, but along the side closer to the hearth. Though the day was sunny, autumn had arrived, and a fire crackled on the andirons.

“I am entirely capable of serving myself,” Abigail said. “Have you been out riding already?” Lord Stephen wore riding attire, and he wore it well.

“I enjoy a hack on dry mornings. You are welcome to join me tomorrow if you like to ride.”

Time on horseback was a rare pleasure. Abigail’s cart horse was biddable enough under saddle, but his gaits were miserable, and his sidesaddle manners nonexistent.

“I haven’t a habit with me.” And I won’t be here this time tomorrow.

“A pity. Would you care for tea or chocolate?”

His lordship was a gracious host. Abigail took the place to his left—sitting herself at the head of the table—and settled in to enjoy a fluffy omelet, crisp bacon, buttered toast, stewed apples, and her very own pot of chocolate.

“Your breakfast buffet is impressive,” she said when her plate was empty but for one triangle of toast. “Is this the prisoner’s last meal before you put her on the rack?”

“I am profoundly relieved to know you are feeling more the thing. To see you in less than fighting form daunts a man’s faith. Do you prefer to acquaint me with the facts of your situation in here, or shall you take your cup of chocolate with you to my study?”

Abigail wanted to see his study. From the outside, Lord Stephen’s home was just another staid Mayfair façade, but inside, no expense had been spared to create a sense of order, beauty, and repose. The art on the walls—northern landscapes full of billowing clouds and brilliant blue skies—was first rate. The spotless carpets were decorated with fleur-de-lis and crown motifs that suggested an antique French provenance.

And yet, the house was also stamped with his lordship’s personality. A mobile of lifelike finches and wrens hung over the main entrance, and the slightest breeze made the birds flit about. The transom window was a stained-glass rendering of roses and butterflies that left dots of ruby, emerald, and blue on the white marble floor.

Stylized gilt gryphons had been wrought into candelabra, and a carved owl—the symbol of Athena’s wisdom—served as the newel post at the foot of the main staircase.

Lord Stephen led the way down the carpeted corridor, his progress brisk for all he relied on two canes. Abigail trailed after