He began his flirtation with her hands, which were as outsized as the rest of her. In his grasp, her fingers felt fragile and if not exactly petite, at least feminine. He planted a kiss on her palm, holding her hand open, then laying it against his cheek.
He watched her eyes while he did this. If he was looking for signs of repugnance, he was doomed to wait forever.
“Do that again.”
Being Stephen Wentworth, he did not obey her command. Instead he pressed his lips to Abigail’s wrist.
“Was that your tongue?” she asked.
“Mmm.”
He did it again, and Abigail’s insides began leaping about like a flock of starlings at a fountain. Just when she would have told him to cease his teasing, he desisted and moved closer.
“Your hair,” he said, tracing the line of her brow with his thumb, “doubtless falls to your hips. I want to see it down, want to see you wearing nothing but these glorious tresses.”
“These naughty love words are not kissing, my lord.” But oh, the images he brought to mind. The sensations, the longings…
“Haste is the enemy of pleasure, Abigail, and if I cannot pleasure you with my kisses, then I am a failure as a man.”
He touched his mouth to the corner of her lips, which had the maddening effect of making Abigail go still, the better to aid his aim on the next attempt. But he, of course, knew exactly what he was doing and only teased at the other corner of her mouth.
“You will drive me daft, sir.”
“Good. We are making progress.”
The hint of smugness in his tone collided with a thought: Abigail need not sit demurely while Lord Stephen toppled her self-control with practiced skill. He was a mortal if formidable man. His self-restraint could be toppled too.
She slid a hand inside his riding jacket, around the lean warmth of his waist. She urged him closer and felt the surprise of that boldness go through him.
Now they were making progress. When he would have inflicted another one of his off-center kisses on her, she shifted, so their mouths lined up squarely. She anchored her free hand in his hair and held him still while she learned the taste of him.
Stephen Wentworth’s kisses were sweet, warm, and playful. He gave new meaning to the term nimble tongue, and he kept his hand on Abigail’s side, just inches from her breast. She liked that he was bold but not presuming, familiar without harrying her into intimacies beyond what she was prepared to share.
The whole business became so engrossing that Abigail forgot this kiss was meant as a rehearsal or a test case, forgot she was being hounded by an arrogant marquess. She forgot much that badly needed forgetting. Instead, she recalled that she was not yet an old woman, and not simply an inquiry agent with a reputation for thoroughness and discretion.
Lord Stephen drew back, and urged Abigail against his side. This resulted in her head on his shoulder, his arm encircling her. She rested her palm over his heart, which beat a steady and slightly accelerated tempo.
“You offer me a challenge,” he said, his hand smoothing over Abigail’s hair.
The warm glow within died, for all that the embrace was cozy. “This plan was your idea, my lord, and I’m not that hard to kiss. You aren’t exactly conventional in your approach, but I suppose I can manage further displays of affection if I must.” She was blustering, trying to ignore the disappointment she felt. For him the kiss had been an experiment, while for her it had been…
A revelation.
He cradled her cheek in his palm and pressed her face gently to his chest. “You are enthralling to kiss, and God preserve me from convention in any but the most traditional endeavors. Give me your hand.”
He possessed himself of Abigail’s hand. The next thing she knew, her palm was pressed to his falls, and to the hard column of flesh therein.
“Men get this way frequently,” she said, though few men got this way on quite such an impressive scale, at least in her limited experience. “It means nothing. What is your point?”
She removed her hand, and he wrapped her fingers in a snug grasp.
“Abigail, I do not get this way frequently, not anymore. One learns to manage one’s impulses lest one make a fool of oneself. I can appear to court you in all sincerity, steal kisses that I will genuinely treasure, disport with you in secluded alcoves and honestly resent any intrusions. You should know this before you embark on any subterfuges with me.”
He was trying to tell her something, to posit a thesis delicately. Abigail was too bothered with conflicting emotions and bodily sensations to properly dissect his words.
“You are attracted to me?” she asked.
“Need you make it a question?”
The slight 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
