“I have promised you honesty,” Stephen said, “and the healthy male form honestly delights me, and so have a few healthy males in particular. I mentioned the painter to you—Endymion de Beauharnais. He’s everything I’m not. Athletic, artistic, charming, beautiful, socially deft. I am a skilled draftsman and something of a flirt, but that man can make dragons fly and dowagers simper. I like him very much, though when it comes to the actual passionate part…”

He steered the horse around a bend in the path, and London might have been magically transported a hundred miles away. The quiet was deeper here, the sunlight more golden.

“I found intimate congress with men worth a casual investigation,” Stephen went on. “I find parasols, guns, poisons, cannon, lifts, anatomy, locomotives, canals, codes, alchemy, locks, clocks…I find much interesting. Endymion was genuinely attracted to me—a nearly incomprehensible notion, I know—while I was mostly tired of earls’ daughters groping me under the card table. My darling Jenny will always hold a place in my heart, while Andy…I am fond of him. In answer to your question, I do not prefer men in the sense you allude to, but I have enjoyed a passing hour or two with a specific few fellows.”

And Abigail sensed Stephen would tell her if his interest was more than avid and lusty curiosity. That degree of honesty was attractive, also troubling.

He steered the gig up onto the verge, which was carpeted with fallen leaves. “I have shocked myself.”

“I can keep a confidence, my lord. My livelihood depends upon it.”

He drew the horse to a halt. “I have shocked myself because I do not part with confidences ever—at all. That business with de Beauharnais.…I was eighteen, he was twenty-two. Sophisticated men of the world, or so we thought ourselves. I don’t discuss it, don’t think of it, don’t bring it up when he and I share a meal, which we do every few months. I’ve never so much as hinted about it to Duncan even when in the dregs, and Duncan has seen me in the dregs many a time.”

A gust of wind stirred the carpet of leaves, a dry, chilly sound, though the sun was warm and the grass a lush green.

“I have not been entirely forthright with you,” Abigail said. She had deliberately misled him, which had cost her the past three nights’ sleep.

“Are you married, Abigail? Are you Stapleton’s runaway marchioness? His illegitimate daughter? He’s a tiny cockerel, but my own father wasn’t nearly as tall as I am. Please tell me you aren’t married.”

Lord Stephen seemed genuinely distressed, and Abigail was genuinely ashamed. “If I had a husband, would you put aside our sham engagement before it’s announced?”