Page 106 of My One and Only Duke
Jane stroked a hand over Quinn’s right shoulder.
“He could have killed you, Quinn. He could have taken you from me, when I’ve already gone and fallen in love with you. I could not have borne…” She folded down over him and kissed him—the right cheek, then the left—and wrapped her arms around him. Quinn rested his cheek against Jane’s thigh, surrounded by her warmth and the fragrance of lemon verbena. He pushed aside the terror he’d endured when she’d faced Tipton’s gun, and instead clung to pride in her courage.
She sat back and Quinn took the place beside her on the trunk. Her relenting came as a profound relief, though the discussion wasn’t over. Somehow, he must tell his duchess that he loved her. He’d never said the words, not to anybody, not even to Bea in a moment of maudlin excess.
Thank God.
“You want to be free of your past, Quinn, but I think you will have to assist her ladyship if you’re to achieve that result. Tipton has doubtless held her indiscretion over her head for years, while he went lifting skirts all over the Continent. A woman can only bear so much.”
“I’m willing to pursue any course you please, Jane, but I’d as soon be spared any further dealings with her ladyship.”
By rights, Jane should hate the countess, but something of Beatrice’s circumstances had come clear to Quinn. She was a captive to her station, neglected and scorned by a man to whom she was bound to grant intimate favors. Her ladyship was also without true friends and allowed only an occasional season in London to alleviate her boredom.
“You should settle a sum in trust for her,” Jane said. “Give her enough to live separate from the horror she’s married to. The woman wants rescuing, Quinn, though I expect that butler of hers will accompany her to any household she establishes.”
“Rescue her?”
“She’ll have a good deal less trouble forgiving and forgetting you if she’s the toast of the gentry in Cornwall and you’re here in London. An estrangement will make life splendidly awkward for the earl.”
Quinn kissed Jane’s cheek, because even his tolerant duchess had a sense of justice. “A set of prison bars would make life awkward for the earl.” A peer could be arrested for criminal wrongdoing, but he’d be tried in the Lords and possibly acquitted. Perhaps that privilege had inspired Tipton’s timing where Quinn’s downfall had been concerned. The House of Lords would hesitate to convict a duke, while a jury of twelve commoners adjudicating the fate of an upstart nabob had been easy for Tipton to sway.
“Your family’s name would come up if you pressed charges,” Jane said, “and Tipton would of course tell the world why he’d carried a grudge. Whoever assisted him to empty the Walden coffers has doubtless decamped for foreign parts. We must be creative about this.”
We, the most beautiful word in the language. “As long as I can guarantee the safety of my family, I’m willing to be as creative as you please.”
Jane cradled his hand in her lap, and for a moment, the only sound was the rumbling of the black cat, who’d curled up on a pile of woolen horse blankets.
“Rescue the countess, then, but as your wife, I have a few things I need to tell you too.”
* * *
Jane had castigated Quinn for being too battle-ready, too willing to confront all foes, but his fault was that he was too devoted to those he loved. He’d stuck his neck in a noose rather than put his liberty before his family’s wellbeing, and today he’d faced a bullet from the same man who’d schemed, connived, and bribed to send Quinn…
Jane could not bear to finish that thought.
“Are you in need of ginger biscuits, Your Grace?” Quinn asked, bumping his shoulder gently against hers.
“I’m in need of absolution, Quinn. I lost my temper with Papa.”
He kissed her fingers, such a casual, intimate, husbandly gesture. “Did you hurl a knife at him across the breakfast parlor? Not exactly at him, but close enough so as not to matter?”
“Be serious.” Jane wanted to tuck her face against his shoulder and breathe him in, but some words needed saying. “I had Papa thrown out of the house. He’s not to come back until he’s patched things up with his bishop or otherwise found gainful employment.”
When she put the situation in plain English, her decision didn’t sound so awful. Wastrel sons were cast out into the world frequently, and for the most part, they grew up or at least acquired some humility.
“He must have provoked you.”
“I don’t want to tell you how.”
“Jane, you just stood beside me in front of a loaded gun and all but ordered a titled swine to bugger himself. What could you possibly fear to tell me?”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Jane’s throat ached. “I don’t want to admit to you that I was wrong. That sometimes, we must call others to account and demand that they behave honorably. We must fight sometimes, even when we don’t want to, because…”
Hot tears slid down her cheeks. Quinn brushed them away with his thumb. “I’m glad you fought for me, Jane. If you hadn’t shown up…”
“I almost didn’t!” Jane stormed off the trunk, startling the cat, who leapt from its pile of blankets. “I almost left you to face your enemies alone, because you were trying to spare me any cause for worry. Then Papa came by, spouting his daft notions about taking guardianship of the baby, and I could not listen to him. I could not bear to be under the same roof with him.”
She faced Quinn and crossed her arms, because the feelings inside her wanted containing, lest they break her heart.
