“I want to burn these,” she said. “But I can’t. A tray is a good idea.”

She preceded Stephen up the steps and led him into her sitting room. He locked the door behind them, and when she would have reached for the bell pull, he plucked the letters from her hand and kissed her.

“Food and drink can wait, Abigail. I have a voracious, burning need of you and hope you are similarly interested in enjoying an intimate interlude with me. I will grovel on my knees—my good knee, anyway—to win your favors, and never have I more fervently wished for the ability to literally sweep a woman off her feet.” More than that, though, he wanted her to talk to him, to confide in him, to tell him where it hurt so he could love it better.

Those daft sentiments were extraordinary for their sincerity. Stephen had flirted with, propositioned, and been propositioned by many lovers, and it all had been so much posturing. If the other party wasn’t inclined, he’d smile, wave, and design them a music box, deriving about the same degree of pleasure from that exercise as he would from a casual tumble.

With Abigail, he wanted to design the rest of their lives.

“I have missed you,” she said, resting her forehead against his. “Very much. We’ll take each other to bed, shall we?”

God, yes. “Take me to bed hard, Abigail. Take me to bed until I can’t think or move.”

She clasped his hand and they moved to the bedroom. “Take me to bed sweetly, Stephen.” She punctuated that command with a brush of her hand over his falls. “Sweetly and hard.”

Stephen, you have a son. Abigail had been unable to get the thought from her mind. You have a gorgeous, healthy son with a lively mind and no worthy adult male to show him how to go on in life. Your son needs you.

She had spent the coach ride home tormenting herself with a recalled conversation. If I get a woman with child, decency alone dictates that I marry her, and my conscience would insist on that course as well.…Children matter, Abigail. My children matter to me…or they would if I had any.…

Well, Stephen had fathered a child and now he could marry the mother—though he wasn’t anybody’s husband yet.

Abigail untied Stephen’s cravat and unbuttoned his shirt, then his waistcoat. A wife performed these courtesies for her husband, but they weren’t mere courtesies, they were privileges.

“Your hooks,” Stephen said, twirling his finger.

Abigail gave him her back, and he soon had her dress and stays undone. How glad she was to be making love in broad daylight, the better to memorize the gradual unveiling of Stephen’s body. He waited until Abigail had shimmied out of her dress and petticoat to drape his cravat around her neck. The silk was warm with his heat and scented with his fragrance.

“I want your cravat,” Abigail said, sniffing the silk. “I want it as a token of today.”