“Perhaps we should set a watch in Timbuktu and Calcutta, then. I hear the American wilderness can swallow up even giantesses. She would be daft to come to London.”

“She could be here already, my lord, and you none the wiser. Once she disappears into the stews, you’ll never find her.”

This show of spirit would have been gratifying were it not so nonsensical. “In the stews, where the average female is about four feet tall, Miss Abbott will stand out like a maypole. She’s not in London, I tell you. Now, be off with you until you have something more encouraging to report. Harmonia is in the blue salon entertaining some portraitist. Try not to make too great a fool of yourself. Her ladyship genuinely grieved for Champlain, and as far as I know, she’s not looking to find his successor yet.”

Fleming bowed curtly and withdrew, leaving Stapleton to consider the prospect of Miss Abigail Abbott in London. The Romans had had a saying about even a blind dove finding the occasional pea. Perhaps a footman sent to loiter about Clerkenwell’s coaching inns might not be a bad idea—though Stapleton would never admit as much to Fleming.

Abigail had never in her entire interesting life commanded a man to kiss her. Lord Stephen had spoken the truth, though: She was weary of flight, bewildered, and not herself. She’d noticed Stephen Wentworth the moment she’d set eyes on him, noticed his watchfulness and the way his family kept their distance rather than intrude on his privacy.

Then there was his height and general air of substance. Nobody trifled with this man, and for Abigail, that sense of self-possession was more attractive than all the artfully styled tailoring or graceful pirouettes in Mayfair.

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.”