The duke was watching her closely, and not with any particular expression of dismay. “Stephen has a son?”

“A beautiful, healthy, smart, and charming little boy. As it happens, the child’s mother is widowed and of suitable rank to marry a ducal heir.”

For the privilege of raising the son who should never have been hidden from him, Stephen would make that union cordial and successful.

“A son.” His Grace rose easily. “You’re sure?”

“I saw the boy with my own eyes, Lady Champlain confirmed his patrimony. Surely you can see—”

The duke approached and did not stop a cordial distance away. He instead wrapped Abigail in a gentle hug.

“Dukes lead the way into battle, Abigail. Stephen will be a duke one day.”

Quinn Wentworth’s embrace was different from Stephen’s. Abigail did not have to think of anybody’s balance or where a cane could rest without being knocked over. There was no escaping Quinn’s hug, and for the space of several breaths, Abigail let him simply hold her.

“Stephen will be a very f-fine duke, but I cannot be—”

Quinn patted her back. “A wise duchess once told me that dukes ride into battle at the head of armies, Abigail, not alone. Only a fool rides into life’s battles alone when good comrades are on hand to share the challenges. Do you know why a duke is willing to take on the fights that need fighting, even the hard, thankless fights?”

Stephen would do that. He had arranged for his brother’s mining bill to become law and asked nothing for himself.

“I know I must be on that stagecoach tonight,” Abigail said, “and that I detest weepy women.” Which she was very soon to become, if the duke did not give her immediate privacy. She burrowed closer and tried for a steadying breath.

“A duke rides into battle because he must be worthy of the lady riding at his side. Harmonia hasn’t the heart to be Stephen’s duchess, and you do. You are his choice. Let him be yours.”

He kissed her forehead, tucked a monogrammed handkerchief into her hand, and sauntered back into the house. Then and only then did Abigail descend into the garden and call for Hercules.

When the beast trotted out of the rhododendrons, she sank down, wrapped her arms around him, and let the tears come.

“He’s your son.” Harmonia tossed the words at Stephen as if she were calling out the paces at a duel, not presiding over a tea tray.

“Well, that explains it,” Stephen said, setting down his teacup slowly. The meaning of Harmonia’s revelation was plain enough, but for some reason, Stephen’s heart felt trapped in the pause between thunder and lightning.

“Explains what?” Harmonia asked.

“Why Miss Abbott insisted I call on you. Did she know of this?”

Harmonia sat back without pouring herself a cup of tea. “She took one look at him. One look. I didn’t want that woman in my nursery out of, I don’t know, maternal instinct, but I never dreamed she’d see a resemblance between you and your son that easily.”