Abigail set her boots aside, undid her garters, and rolled down her stockings. “I want to kiss you, want to shove you to your back and run my hands all over you, but if I stop for that now, I will never get you out of those breeches.” She rose from the sofa and held out her hand. “Boots, Stephen.”

He sat and held out his bad leg to her first, then the other one. “When we go shopping, I will buy you some chemises that do more to inspire a man’s imagination. Every trousseau needs a few dainty negligees and wedding night—”

Abigail straddled his lap and kissed him into silence. They would never have a wedding night, but they could have a consummation. When she sensed hesitance in Stephen’s kisses—not delicacy, but a hesitance—she desisted.

“Abigail?”

“I’m marshaling my self-control, and you are being a goose, my lord.”

“More of a gander, actually.”

“Ganders don’t care what their knees look like,” she said, standing, “and I don’t care what your knee looks like.”

He peered around at his study, which now resembled a theater dressing room. Abigail’s stockings were draped over the back of the reading chair, her dress adorned the desk. Stephen’s waistcoat and shirt were half falling off the bookshelf, and his coat graced the reading table.

“The knee is ugly,” he said. “I’ve tried ignoring it, but then the lady eventually catches sight of the scars, and she’s horrified, so I’ve tried keeping my breeches on, and that limits the opportunities. There’s always waiting for dark and moonless nights, but—I hate this.”

“You hate being imperfect.” Abigail knelt and started on the buttons of his falls. “I’m none too keen on some of my shortcomings either. My breasts are different sizes. I never noticed, until Champlain kindly pointed it out to me.”

“He pointed it out to you?”

She finished with his falls. “He made something of a study of the matter, and even wanted to measure…It’s all ridiculous. Do men go around measuring their cocks?”

“Some of us, figuratively if not literally. Promise me you won’t run shrieking for the carriage?”

Abigail wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek to his bare chest. “I won’t run shrieking to the carriage.”

“There’s something else. About my canes.”

She swiped her tongue across his nipple. “Hmm.”

“I can’t…you know…unless my cane is within my reach. That feels lovely.”

She teased him for a moment, long enough to get herself stirred up—more stirred up—then she sat back. “I will take off my chemise when you remove your breeches.”

“Dear God, Abigail, that’s rather…Oh, very well. You first.”