“Careful, Abigail. You could find yourself flat on your back on this table.” He looked to be considering it too, all dangerous and steamy.

“Or you might find yourself flat on your back, my lord.” She reached for her cider, but Stephen caught her hand.

“I adore you,” he said. “From the bottom of my heart and a few other parts of my anatomy, I adore you.”

What on earth was she to say to that? “I am flattered and fortified, and you are…”

He brushed his thumb across her palm. “Yes?”

“You are not a fribble, my lord. Your attempts to impersonate one fail utterly with me. You are no fribble at all. Let’s start with a toy shop.”

He, of course, knew exactly where the best toy shop in London was, and clearly, the proprietor knew Lord Stephen as a frequent and devoted customer. Abigail browsed, she did not buy, while Stephen chose a number of items for his nieces. He knew each child’s likes and personality, and for the baby he bought a storybook.

Which he would, of course, read to her. Of that, Abigail was certain. They were leaving the shop, and she was about to enlarge on her previous description of him—not a fribble had been a cowardly dodge, after all—when Stephen patted the hand she’d wrapped around his arm.

“Look sharp, Miss Abbott,” he said quietly. “Do you see the four-in-hand idling across the street?”

The boulevard was broad, but the coach in question was impossible to miss. Four matched grays were in the traces, and the coach itself was painted silver-gray with gold trim. The livery on the coachman and groom was purple.

“Those are Stapleton’s colors,” she said. “I don’t recognize the man at the window.”

“That fine specimen is Tertullian, Viscount Fleming. His papa the earl is in wretchedly good health, and Flaming, as he’s known, hasn’t found a lady willing to shackle herself to him. He is entirely Stapleton’s creature and may have designs on the fair Harmonia.”

Did anything happen in London that Stephen was unaware of? “And he’s watching us,” Abigail said, repressing a shudder. “What do we do?”

Stephen leaned close, as if confiding a delicious secret. “We figuratively tell him to bugger himself.”

He straightened, smiled, tipped his hat at Lord Fleming, and sauntered down the walk with Abigail at his side.

Harmonia’s own dear god-mama had termed her god-daughter’s looks “middling pretty.” Mama had been even less complimentary. Champlain had married Harmonia for her settlements and for her earnest assurances that she would not interfere with his “manly pursuits.”

He’d appeared vastly pleased with those assurances and offered Harmonia reciprocal promises to ignore her “little adventures” as well.

She’d been vastly disappointed at his cavalier attitude and had entered into holy matrimony determined to make Champlain so jealous he’d stop his philandering and declare his undying love for her.