He touched his mouth to the corner of her lips, which had the maddening effect of making Abigail go still, the better to aid his aim on the next attempt. But he, of course, knew exactly what he was doing and only teased at the other corner of her mouth.

“You will drive me daft, sir.”

“Good. We are making progress.”

The hint of smugness in his tone collided with a thought: Abigail need not sit demurely while Lord Stephen toppled her self-control with practiced skill. He was a mortal if formidable man. His self-restraint could be toppled too.

She slid a hand inside his riding jacket, around the lean warmth of his waist. She urged him closer and felt the surprise of that boldness go through him.

Now they were making progress. When he would have inflicted another one of his off-center kisses on her, she shifted, so their mouths lined up squarely. She anchored her free hand in his hair and held him still while she learned the taste of him.

Stephen Wentworth’s kisses were sweet, warm, and playful. He gave new meaning to the term nimble tongue, and he kept his hand on Abigail’s side, just inches from her breast. She liked that he was bold but not presuming, familiar without harrying her into intimacies beyond what she was prepared to share.

The whole business became so engrossing that Abigail forgot this kiss was meant as a rehearsal or a test case, forgot she was being hounded by an arrogant marquess. She forgot much that badly needed forgetting. Instead, she recalled that she was not yet an old woman, and not simply an inquiry agent with a reputation for thoroughness and discretion.

Lord Stephen drew back, and urged Abigail against his side. This resulted in her head on his shoulder, his arm encircling her. She rested her palm over his heart, which beat a steady and slightly accelerated tempo.

“You offer me a challenge,” he said, his hand smoothing over Abigail’s hair.

The warm glow within died, for all that the embrace was cozy. “This plan was your idea, my lord, and I’m not that hard to kiss. You aren’t exactly conventional in your approach, but I suppose I can manage further displays of affection if I must.” She was blustering, trying to ignore the disappointment she felt. For him the kiss had been an experiment, while for her it had been…

A revelation.

He cradled her cheek in his palm and pressed her face gently to his chest. “You are enthralling to kiss, and God preserve me from convention in any but the most traditional endeavors. Give me your hand.”

He possessed himself of Abigail’s hand. The next thing she knew, her palm was pressed to his falls, and to the hard column of flesh therein.

“Men get this way frequently,” she said, though few men got this way on quite such an impressive scale, at least in her limited experience. “It means nothing. What is your point?”