Stephen’s caresses shifted to her face and neck. “I had thought to have a forger replicate the letters you’ve written out, but we need a sample of Champlain’s handwriting if the forgeries are to fool Stapleton.”

Of course Stephen would know competent forgers. “You will have to find some other woman to whom Champlain sent correspondence. Stephen, is something wrong?” The quality of his touch, while gentle, was distracted. The cadence of his speech less than loverly.

“I told Quinn that I killed my father.”

Oh, dear competed with And Quinn had better have taken the news well. “And?”

“Quinn said I did the right thing. He apologized. Said I should never have been put in the position I was in.”

Abigail sat up and laid an arm across Stephen’s shoulders. “Now you are annoyed, because life was so much easier when you had this wall of resentment between you and the duke. He disappointed you by being decent. Wretched of him.”

Stephen turned his face against her shoulder. “Have mercy, woman.” His tone suggested a hint of a smile. “I will have to ravish you simply to still your tongue.”

“I am indisposed.” She had informed him of that by note. He’d replied with a bouquet of scarlet salvia and blue hyacinths. The first connoted consolation and was often sent to sickrooms. The second, if Abigail recalled correctly, stood for a request for forgiveness—or for regret.

Stephen took her earlobe between his teeth. “You are indisposed. I am not put off by a little untidiness, Abigail.”

“You are trying to change the subject, because emotional untidiness drives you barmy. His Grace thwarted your precious fictions about his fragile pride and arrogant indifference, and now you have to like him as well as love him.”

Stephen left off sucking on her earlobe and shifted down to lay his head in her lap. “And I thought Jane was a tad too perceptive. When we marry, will you carry me over the threshold?”

“We will never marry.” Abigail stroked his hair, trying not to let the heartache of that reality ruin the moment. “I truly had no idea how extravagant a society ball is. It’s appalling.”

“You can view it that way—the elaborate food, the gowns worn only once, the casual wagers in the card room—or you can see the beauty in it. The dancing, the music, the sartorial splendor, and laughter—also the sums transferred from wealthy coffers into those of people who work for a living. The kitchen makes certain none of the food goes to waste either. You looked lovely, Abigail, and you are a woman who deserves to dress occasionally in something other than sackcloth and ashes.”

She could argue with him—nobody needed jeweled dancing slippers, for God’s sake—but she didn’t want to argue. She wanted to curl up in his arms and wake up in a world where nobody got in a lather about old letters, and a common inquiry agent could fall in love with a ducal heir.