Page 11 of My One and Only Duke
He was right. The lemonade had not agreed with her. His touch should have felt presumptuous—he was a condemned killer—but he meant to protect Jane from further misery, and his fingers whispering over the back of her hand were gentle.
“We have beef on Sundays, usually. Or ham,” she said. “Fish or game other days, in the most modest portions.”
“Not enough. Why did you introduce yourself as Miss Jane Winston?”
Why had he remembered such a triviality? “Because for all but one of my twenty-five years, that’s who I was. My spouse and I eloped. He was of Scottish extraction, and galloping up to Gretna Green was a great lark to him.” Everything had been a great lark to Gordie MacGowan, and that had made Jane uneasy. The thought of spending the rest of her life as Papa’s sole support and companion had driven her past reason.
Mama had known how to soften the worst of Papa’s zealous excesses, and if Mama had lived, Papa would not have become so…difficult. Gordie had regarded the reverend as a harmless old sermonizer with good intentions, which had boded well for the role of son-in-law.
“By representing yourself as unmarried,” Mr. Wentworth said, “you consign your child to unrelenting criticism from the moment of birth.”
Jane’s stomach was calming, though this discussion had her temper heating. “My father refuses to recognize my union, Mr. Wentworth, because I ran off without his blessing. He introduces me as Miss Jane Winston. I can either make him look daft, and carry my marriage lines with me everywhere, or focus on more significant issues, such as how I will provide for my offspring.”
Nobody else would provide. Papa ministered to a flock without means, and almost all of the luxuries Mama had brought to the marriage had been sold or pawned. Mama’s wedding ring hung on a ribbon around Jane’s neck, lest Papa recall that even that specific bequest to Jane could be sold.
“So instead of calling your father the liar he is, you let him shame you, shame your child, and deny yourself a widow’s freedoms. Why?”
Jane rose and leaned across the table. “Because I need to eat, because I need a roof over my head. Because as long as Papa thinks I’m ashamed, he won’t cast me out for being too proud. Because I am exhausted and soon to acquire the dimensions of a farm wagon. How long do you think I’d last on the street, Mr. Wentworth?”
Of all things, he smelled lovely up close. Pregnancy had given Jane a mercilessly acute sense of smell, and Mr. Wentworth’s scent eased the last of her nausea. Most of the fragrance was spices—ginger, cinnamon, clove—finished with subtle floral notes.
An expensive, proprietary blend that had the power to do what nothing else had for the past four months: calm Jane’s stomach.
“What of your widow’s portion?” Mr. Wentworth asked. “Surely your husband left you something?”
Jane resumed her seat rather than be caught sniffing her host. “My husband signed an agreement leaving me a small competence to be paid by his uncle, who has both means and standing. I suspect marriage to me was supposed to curry Uncle Dermott’s favor. I am a minister’s daughter, and Dermott is a devout Presbyterian.”
Devout when it came to clutching his coins. “Uncle Dermott’s London man of business explained to me,” Jane went on, “that the circumstances of Gordie’s death required utmost discretion, lest the other participant in the duel be needlessly troubled. The story has been put about that Gordie went off to India, but he perished of a fever less than two weeks into the journey. Once I’ve served my year of mourning, I’ll see a bit of coin.” Possibly.
“Unless you’ve succumbed to a difficult birthing, jail fever, or consumption. With such parsimonious in-laws to hurry you to your own demise, why not remarry?”
Mr. Wentworth’s inquisition was a curious relief. He was applying logic to a situation that had long since reduced Jane to a progression of fears—would Mama’s ring be worth enough to pay a midwife?—and unpleasant symptoms.
“Who would willingly take on responsibility for a fallen woman and her illegitimate offspring?” This was the real burden Papa’s intransigence effected. He labeled Jane not a respectable widow, but a jade. His willingness to overlook her “lapse” made him appear all the holier.
Jane had realized only recently that self-interest and self-abnegation could dwell side by side in her father’s mind.
“You are beautiful,” Mr. Wentworth said, in the same tones he would have remarked pleasing architecture on a Christopher Wren chapel. “Why not use a few wiles and charm the willing?”
“I tried that. My wiles were unequal to the challenge.”
The smile came again, the conspirator’s fleeting admission of humanness. He patted Jane’s hand, the gesture purely friendly.
“Faulty wiles are to your credit.”
Silence descended, broken only by the rumbling of the cat, who had curled up on the bed, where he had a fine view of the windowsill.
Jane’s situation hadn’t changed. She was still carrying a child, still entirely dependent on her father, and still facing an ordeal that claimed the lives of too many women. But she’d confessed her situation to the most unlikely confidant imaginable—a convicted killer—and felt calmer as a result.
“Faulty wiles will not keep a baby warm and fed, Mr. Wentworth. I was an idiot to think a man willing to elope with a penniless spinster could behave responsibly, but my husband boasted endless Scottish charm, and I was starved for joy.”
“Did he at least provide that?”
Jane had lacked the fortitude to put such a question to herself. “No. What should have been a great lark became a forced march, then a misery. We anticipated the wedding vows, though, and Gordie hadn’t the courage to abandon me on the Great North Road. He was drunk for the entire return journey.”
Likely he’d been drunk for most of the trip to Scotland as well. Jane hadn’t kept company with enough inebriated men to know high spirits from bottle courage.
“I am not drunk. I am condemned,” Mr. Wentworth said. “You might consider that a better bargain, because I will not leave you or the child to the backward charity of your lying father.” He picked up the cat, who curled against his chest and regarded Jane with the same regal self-possession shown by the man. “We’ll need a special license, and I have time—barely—to procure one, if you’re interested in marrying me.”
