She sighed, she snuggled closer, and Stephen’s heart eased in a way he could not describe.

“A new sword cane would be lovely. I was thinking of asking you to design one for me.”

He kissed her temple, and launched into a discussion of features necessary for a lady’s sword cane to be both attractive and serviceable. By the time they reached his town house, they’d had two arguments and four kissing spells, and he was even more hopelessly in love.

Also as hard as an ironwood sword cane.

Running from the Marquess of Stapleton had seemed like a solution to Abigail, but what sort of future did an inquiry agent have if she couldn’t solve her own case? She had agreed to this shopping expedition because she wanted Stapleton to know she was in London, and also—heaven help her—because she wanted to spend more time alone with Lord Stephen.

“The porte cochere isn’t only for privacy, is it?” she said, as Lord Stephen handed her down from his coach. “It’s to keep the cobbles dry for when you alight.”

“Both objectives are important,” he said, offering Abigail his arm.

She liked his escort. Whether his bad knee prevented him from hauling a lady about or he was inherently tactful when handling a woman, he had the knack of keeping pace without interfering with Abigail’s progress.

“Duncan said you are a demon on horseback. How does that work with an unreliable knee?” She was making conversation lest her mind turn back to their last kiss. Stephen had slipped a hand beneath her cloak to rest his palm against her belly, an oddly intimate touch.

“I love to ride,” he replied, holding the door for her. “I love the speed and power and motion.”

“But one must put weight in the stirrups at least some of the time.” The foyer was deserted, and Abigail made no move to take off her cloak because she wanted Stephen to do that for her.

“The problem isn’t putting weight on my knee,” he said. “The problem is the joint itself. The horse stabilizes the joint laterally so it never gives out. The bones or ligaments or whatever can’t slip to the side when I’m gripping the horse with my legs. My knee for once can support me because the horse supports my knee. I find all this talk of anatomy somewhat…” He fell silent while he undid Abigail’s frogs and slid the cloak from her shoulders.

“Somewhat…?” she asked, setting her hat on a hook.

“Somewhat stirring.” He set his hat and gloves on the sideboard. “I think not of a great, hairy horse, but of a knee—your knee. Of my hand stroking your knee, and what manner of derangement turns the knee into a source of venereous inspiration?”

“Venereous?”

The house was quiet, suggesting the servants were belowstairs or perhaps on their half day.