He smoothed his hand over her shoulder, just for the pleasure of learning her contours. “I hear a fellow call out to Lord Stephen at the club, and I think: Who let some damned nob in here when I’m trying to enjoy a quiet meal with another inventor?”

She smiled at him, the first such benediction Stephen could recall from her. “I wonder if anybody ever feels entirely themselves?”

“You can be yourself with me.”

Her smile dimmed into something more complicated. “Thank you. I trust you will do me the same honor—of being yourself with me.”

“You enjoy the company of barbarians? Perhaps this is the result of dwelling in proximity to the Scots.” The Scots did not deserve Stephen’s humor. They were better physicians, more skilled inventors, and wiser philosophers than their southern neighbors, and they brewed up hellfire in a glass which even their elderly ladies consumed as if it were Christmas syllabub.

“I enjoy the company of a gentleman with a lively mind and sweet kisses,” Abigail said, stepping back. “You are a very bad influence, my lord.”

“Happy to be of service, and might I add, you have a similarly salubrious effect on my own overly taxed self-discipline.”

The moment had turned, becoming superficial and wary. Stephen wanted to drag Abigail back into his embrace and kiss her senseless—or drag her to the sofa, where kissing would be the tamest aspect of their exchange.

“Shall I fetch my satchel?” she asked.

“Please. I’ll have the coach brought around. Jane is expecting you, and she has Matilda—Duncan’s wife—to abet her schemes where you are concerned. When I left yesterday, they were conferring about fabric.”

Abigail stepped away. “Fabric, my lord?”

“I told them you prefer subdued colors and no flourishes. You aren’t quite dressing plain, Abigail, so don’t attempt to hide behind Quaker eccentricities at this late date.”

“I compromise,” she said, leaning over to sniff at a bouquet of roses on the windowsill. “I need pockets for my work, but I eschew the ruffles, lace, and flounces most ladies indulge in. I wear no jewelry and own nothing of brocade or silk.”

Embroidery, then, was fair game, and velvet wasn’t out of the question. A watch for her bodice might be allowable, or nacre hairpins.

“I will leave the wardrobe questions to you and the duchesses.”

Abigail straightened. “Matilda is a duchess too?”

“Maybe not now in the strictest sense, but she’s the widow of some pumpernickel duke, and she is the equal of any duchess I know. You will get on well with her.”

“They will try to fancy me up.”

Stephen maneuvered himself away from the sofa and hassock. “They’ve been trying to fancy me up for years, all to no avail. To have a fresh challenge will do them good. Before I throw you to the lionesses, though, I did have a few questions for you about the letters Stapleton is so keen to get hold of.”

Abigail’s gaze went from guarded to absolutely composed. “Questions, my lord?”