“Is this why you made Stapleton support the duke’s mining bill? Because children are not chattel?”
“I made Stapleton support Quinn’s bill because…I don’t know why, and that is not the topic under discussion. Nicky is not a thing, a possession that belongs to me because his mother and I shared some passionate moments. She carried him under her heart, she knows his every fear and dream, and she has had the raising of him. Who am I—Who the hell am I?—to strut into his life years later pretending I have a right to order his existence?”
“You are his father.” Abigail’s brow had acquired an encouraging crease, and she spoke with less certainty than she’d enjoyed previously.
“In a biological sense, I am his father, but I will not take the path Jack Wentworth would take and exploit such a relationship for my own convenience. I want to know Nicky, I want to be a father in any sense that contributes to the child’s welfare, but that does not have to be a public undertaking. Then too, there’s the whole business of Harmonia’s wishes. She brought that boy into the world, and she’s the only parent he’s known. Her welfare matters too.”
Abigail was quiet for so long that Stephen’s bum took exception to the hardness of the bench, and yet he waited.
“What did Harmonia have to say about all this?”
“A very great deal. She wants a small estate in Kent and Endymion de Beauharnais’s ring on her finger. She does not want me.”
“She’s daft.”
How I love you. “Perhaps, but de Beauharnais truly has her best interests at heart, and he’s protective of Nicky.”
Abigail gathered up her reticule again. “Harmonia is passing up your tiara to raise sheep in Kent?”
“And perhaps to give Nicky some siblings to boss about. Are you abandoning me yet again?”
“This bench is making my backside ache. I have much to think about.”
Stephen rose and shrugged out of his cloak, then laid it on the bench. “Move closer to me. You’ll be more comfortable.”
Abigail sank onto the bench, and Stephen came down immediately beside her. The next time she tried to bolt, he would seize her by the hand if need be.
“This is complicated,” Abigail said slowly.
“It doesn’t have to be.” He ventured an arm along the back of the bench. “I love you, and I would like to spend the rest of my life with you. I will play whatever role in Nicky’s life best suits his needs, but that in no way precludes me from being a loyal, faithful, and passionate husband to you.”
Abigail’s head came to rest on his shoulder. “You’re sure, Stephen? I have strong opinions, I will not be told what to do, and God help anybody who speaks ill of those I care about.”
He shifted closer and took Abigail’s hand. “Do you know why I hate society balls?”
“Because of the dancing?”
“That too, but mostly because they are just too damned long. Standing about in the buffet line, trying to manage two plates and a cane, standing in the reception line, struggling through a promenade…But when I was your escort, I could lean on you.”
“Lean on me?”
“Physically.” He demonstrated. “Lean on you, and sturdy creature that you are, you don’t even notice. My leg barely hurt at all the morning after the Portman do. Harmonia showed me to the nursery today. It never occurred to her that navigating stairs would be hard for me. She tore around that house like a whirlwind, and I could barely keep up. I don’t have to ask you to slow down. You are inherently considerate, and I treasure that about you.”
Abigail’s fingers closed around his. “Your brother said something to me today.”
“If Quinn was impolite to you, he’s a dead big brother.”
“He was very kind. He said a duke fights the hard battles, the thankless battles, because he wants to be worthy of the duchess riding at his side. He’s a good man, your brother.”
“He’s a good man in part because he found the right duchess.”
Abigail curled closer, scandalously, marvelously close. “I want to be the sort of woman who can inspire a duke to fight the hard battles. The battles in the Lords, the battles for the children, for decency, for wounded soldiers, and so much more. I want to be the sort of woman who can love my husband’s son, even if nobody knows he’s my husband’s son, and who can ride into battle beside the man I love.”
A peace settled over Stephen, and a profound joy warmed his heart. “Say that last part again, please.”
“I love you.”
“Do you know what’s wonderful, Miss Abigail Abbott?”
“You are.”
“Mayhap I am, but what’s wonderful is you don’t expect me to propose on bended knee, and if I were ambitious enough to attempt such a feat, you’d help me up at the conclusion of my soliloquy.”
She peered over at him. “Would you like to propose on bended knee?”
Stephen thought about it, thought about getting mud on his breeches, and making a complete cake of himself in the middle of the afternoon, and of all the times nobody had thought to treasure Abigail for the wonder she was.
“Here we go,” he said, bracing his cane and sliding off the bench to take a knee. “Your hand, Miss Abbott.”
She drew off her glove and gave him her hand.
“Miss Abbott, our association has not been long, but my feelings for you are deep, constant, a trifle naughty, and very sincere. More than a trifle naughty, if we’re to be honest, and we must be or I do hope you will spank me. Will you do me the unfathomably great honor of becoming my wife, the answer to my every prayer, and the fulfillment of my dearest dreams?”
“Spank you?”
“Only if you want to.”
She enveloped him in a hug. “Yes, I will marry you. Yes and yes, and yes.”
Stephen kissed her, and the knee of his breeches grew damp, and he kissed her some more until a goose honked indignantly, and Abigail laughed and helped him back onto the bench. They stayed in the park for a long, lazy hour, discussing parasols that could conceal peashooters and riding crops that could conceal knives. When they made their way back to the coach, they did so arm in arm at the dignified pace of a future duke and duchess.
Epilogue
“Mama needs looser dresses,” Nicholas announced. “Papa Andy says I’m not to notice.”
Stephen had chosen a bench halfway across Berkeley Square from Gunter’s, and thus the boy’s announcement hadn’t fallen on gossiping ears.
“Between us fellows,” Stephen said, “my own dear Abigail might soon be needing looser dresses. Do you know what that means?”
Abigail and Jane were on the opposite bench, and Stephen’s two oldest nieces were kicking a ball across the grass. These afternoon outings with Nicholas had become a weekly ritual when all parties were in Town, though Nicholas had spent most of the winter with his mother and new stepfather on a small estate in Surrey.
On short notice, Stephen hadn’t been able to locate a suitable property in Kent, and Harmonia had fallen in love with one he’d found in Surrey. The immediate neighborhood boasted a marquess, a baron, an earl, and a viscount. De Beauharnais had decided the matter when he’d seen the windows on the northern side of the top floor.
Across the walkway, Abigail took a spoonful of raspberry ice and licked her top lip. She did it on purpose as her slight smile and the small lift of her empty spoon confirmed.
“Ladies wear looser dresses when they are going to get a baby,” Nicky said. “The baby grows inside them and then pops out like a calf or a foal. Papa Andy says Mama will have a baby this summer and we must pray that she comes safely through her travail. Is her ladyship to have a baby too? Will she get a boy baby?”
“Any healthy baby will be a blessing without limit.” And the wonder and terror of that eclipsed anything in Stephen’s experience. His respect for Quinn and Jane—parents to four children—had grown with each passing week. And oddly enough, the succession absolutely did not matter and never would, alas for the peerage’s
priorities. Being Abigail’s devoted husband and the loving father to his children of any description counted for everything. “Is vanilla still your favorite flavor, lad?”
“Yes, my lord. Might I go play?”
Stephen ruffled Nicky’s dark hair. “Of course. You’re outnumbered by the ladies, so give a good account of yourself.”
The boy was off the bench like an arrow shot from a longbow, and his laughter soon joined that of his cousins. Abigail changed benches, coming down beside Stephen.
“What were you two fellows conspiring about?”
Stephen took a bite of melting vanilla ice. The plane maples were leafing out into their spring glory overhead, pigeons strutted on the walkway, and shrieks of childish glee punctuated the air.
“Every time he calls me my lord, I want to howl, Abigail, but then I think about you, who lost a child, or Champlain, whose life was a protracted farce, and my tantrum dies aborning. Nicky and I were talking about babies, and why ladies sometimes have to wear looser dresses. I gather Harmonia is on the nest.”
Abigail set aside her spoon and bowl. “We will keep her in our prayers, of course.”
Abigail and Harmonia had reached some sort of understanding, much as Stephen and Endymion had. The past was the past, an unhappier time that had borne some challenging consequences. The present, however, was a joyous contrast, simplified by a shared desire to see one little boy thrive.
“You know I love you madly,” Stephen said, kissing Abigail on the lips.
“Shameless man. Kiss me when your lips won’t give me frostbite.” Frostbite was apparently an occasion for smiling. “How is today’s experiment working?”
“Surprisingly well, Abigail, but the ultimate test will be whether I can manage to kick a ball, don’t you think?”
Her smiled faded. “Here, in public?”
Stephen had been refining knee braces since last autumn, and some of them had malfunctioned spectacularly.
“Hold my ice, beloved wife. Nicky is defending the honor of young manhood on the playing field, but I daresay he could use some reinforcements.”
Abigail accepted the bowl and spoon. “If you insist.”
Stephen’s wife let him fall on his arse from time to time in pursuit of a more effective knee brace design. She always helped him up, dusted him off, and went on about life as if his infirmity were of no moment.
Increasingly, it was of no moment to Stephen as well. He took up his cane and crossed the grass just as little Elizabeth aimed a kick that sent the ball barreling straight for him.
Stephen trapped the ball between his foot and grass. “Battle stations! Incoming enemy fire!”
The girls squealed, Nicky darted to Stephen’s side, and the ball ricocheted between opposing factions for five loud minutes. Only when Jane called for the girls did three panting, happy children declare a truce.
“That went rather well,” Abigail said, passing the empty bowls to a footman. “Really rather well.”
“You put me on to the essential design element,” Stephen said, setting Nicky’s cap on the boy’s head. “Do you recall asking why I could ride a horse with my bad knee when I can’t reliably walk without canes?”
“You said the horse’s side prevented the joint from dislocating. That the horse provided the support your knee needed.”
“Stabilizing the joint laterally while allowing it to bend in only the required direction became the objective.”
Nicky readjusted his cap. “You use big words, my lord.”
“Come to the parasol factory,” Abigail said, kneeling to button the boy’s coat. “You will hear big words and see tiny, tiny parts. The ladies assemble our products using quizzing glasses because the mechanisms are so small.”
“Parasols are silly,” Nicky said, with the complete assurance of a small boy.
“Parasols that hide swords are not silly,” Abigail said. “We’re working on one that conceals a tiny gun. Ladies must be able to defend themselves from brigands.”
“Bad men,” Stephen said. “Highwaymen and the like.”
“When can I see the parasol shop? Will Elizabeth come too?”
Stephen took Nicky by one hand, Abigail got him by the other. The boy could out-chatter a flock of starlings, and his every word fascinated Stephen.
“We will arrange the outing with your parents,” Stephen said. “Abigail and I must be getting home. We need our rest, for we’ve a ball to attend tonight.”
Nicky shook free and scampered up the walkway. “Balls are where you dance and drink punch and play cards. I am very graceful.” He minced around and bowed to imaginary ladies. “Papa is teaching me some steps. We will surprise Mama.”
“She will be very proud of you,” Stephen said. Abigail sent him a smile as Nicky came back to his side. Her gaze held understanding and humor, which was balm to a man’s soul when he was neither graceful nor a papa of record.
They saw the boy home, and Stephen stole a hug before turning Nicky loose at Harmonia’s front door.
“She looks happy,” Abigail said, when Stephen was again situated in the coach at her side.
“De Beauharnais looks ecstatic. He’s taking commissions for children’s portraits now and gaining quite a reputation. Are we happy, Abigail?”
She peeled off her glove and took Stephen’s hand, a habit of theirs when they were private. “Tonight looms as something of an ordeal.”
“For me too. We shall contrive, my love.” The tailors had been called upon to sew Stephen’s trousers more loosely than was customary. He would eschew the required knee breeches in favor of attire that hid his brace, and he had asked that the dance floor not be chalked.
The rest was in God’s and Abigail’s capable hands. She had agreed to this post-nuptial ball, and if they put it off any longer, her condition would be apparent. Jane had lobbied vigorously for tonight’s date, and taken a firm hand in the planning.
And after a goodly nap—and some time spent in bed not napping—Stephen was taken in hand by Quinn and Duncan, and Abigail was whisked away by Jane and Matilda. For this occasion, Stephen’s sisters, Althea and Constance, had come down from Yorkshire, their respective husbands in tow.
The hour arrived, the receiving line wound down through the foyer, and the Walden ballroom was finally opened.
“Are you nervous?” Abigail asked as the orchestra tuned up.
She had remained at Stephen’s side through the interminable ordeal of the receiving line, her arm frequently linked through his. He could and did lean on her, and not entirely to spare his leg.
“I ought to be nervous,” he said as they lingered at the side of the dance floor, “but I am married to the most stalwart female in creation, and she will not let me fall.”
“Yes, I will, if your hands wander inappropriately. I will also step on your toes, so see that you behave.”
“Or you will spank me. Have I told you lately how profoundly I adore you?”
“Yes.”
“I have?”
She smiled a very, very mischievous smile. “Not with words.”
Quinn caught Stephen’s eye. Stephen nodded, and the first violinist held up his bow before the rest of the ensemble.
“My lady,” Stephen said, taking Abigail’s hand. “May I have the honor of this dance?”
Abigail was the epitome of serene feminine composure, but for a hint of worry in her eyes. “You won’t let me fall on my bum?”
“Not unless I get to land atop you.”
She turned toward the dance floor, her hand over Stephen’s. “Well, then. The pleasure is mine, my lord. Shall we dance?”
Stephen led her out, passing his cane to a footman at the last opportunity. The instant the music concluded, his cane would be returned to him. The entire occasion was to celebrate Stephen’s marriage to Abigail, months after the fact. The bride and groom thus had the dance floor to themselves. The Wentworth siblings and their spouses would join in eventually, but shortly thereafter the music would conclude.
Stephen and Abigail would thus never have to navigate amid a crowd of dancers, and Stephen would be without his cane only for those moments when he and Abigail were in each other’s arms.
The introduction began, a slow triple meter. Abigail curtsied, Stephen effected a minimal bow, and they assumed waltz position. The German waltz was stately compared to its more vigorous English cousin, but it was a waltz, and the melody a lilting benevolence over the hushed crowd of guests.
“We are waltzing,” Abigail said, softly. “Stephen, we are waltzing.”
He managed the steps, though on the turns he had to rely on Abigail for balance. His brace did its job, the maestro resisted any temptation to increase the tempo, and soon, Stephen was waltzing—actually waltzing—too.
“We are indeed waltzing,” he said, when they’d managed another turn. “Nothing in all the world could prepare me for the joy of being your husband at this moment, Abigail.”
“Or the joy of being your wife.”
The other Wentworth couples drifted onto the floor, a pair of nieces giggled from the minstrels’ gallery, and before all of Mayfair, Lord Stephen Wentworth waltzed with his wife, and without his cane. When the final strains died away, and Abigail had again sunk into a curtsy, he drew her to her feet and kissed her soundly.
And she kissed him right back.
Acknowledgments
I have had such wonderful fun writing the Rogues to Riches stories. When Leah Hultenschmidt, my editor, said to come up with a series completely unconnected to any of my previous efforts, I was at first stumped. Then I bethought myself, “What is the absolute opposite of a polished, privileged duke? I know: a convicted murderer from the slums!” Then I smacked myself, because that’ll never work…except it did. My heartfelt thanks to all the readers who’ve enjoyed the Rogues to Riches series right along with me, and to Leah, and the great team at Grand Central Forever who took that’ll never work and turned it into a half dozen happily-ever-afters. Thanks, from me—and the Wentworths!
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