Page 34 of My One and Only Duke
“I have trouble with my balance lately,” Jane said, as he folded her cloak over his arm. “I am exhausted, peckish, and adjusting to a marriage that requires secret passages and clandestine changes of coaches. If I’m less than the wife you bargained for, then I ask for your patience. I do not deal well with upheaval.”
He smiled, his teeth a flash of white in the gloom. “That’s better. We’ll get some food into you soon.”
“I like the ‘soon’ part.” Jane was glad to be free of the heavy, unfragrant cloak. Better she meet her in-laws in this lovely, soft dress, one free of stains and strained seams. “Could you come near for a moment?”
The smile disappeared. “I am near.”
“Nearer,” Jane said, putting her arms around him.
He held the cloak, which meant he couldn’t effectively shove her away. She leaned on him shamelessly and breathed through her nose.
“Your scent calms my belly, or my nerves. Something. I need to breathe you in for a moment.”
He draped the cloak over the railing and cautiously wrapped his arms about her. “Take your time. We’re in no rush, Jane.”
No roosh. A hint of Yorkshire in the vowel, and in the high contours of the consonants. Perhaps he was tired as well.
Jane allowed herself five deep breaths, and the magic of his scent worked wonders for her internal upheaval. She liked that her husband could hold her without his hands wandering, without pushing unmentionable parts of himself against her.
“I’m ready now.”
“You aren’t, but you’re as ready as you can be to meet the rest of the Wentworth family.”
He left the cloak in the passage and led Jane by the hand through a warren of pantries. A startled scullery maid rose from her stool near a great hearth, her plump features wreathed in joy. Mr. Wentworth put a finger to his lips and winked, and the girl subsided back onto her stool.
“The servants are all in the hall,” she said. “Miss Althea said half holiday, but it’s a double holiday according to Mrs. Riley. Is that your duchess, sir?”
“I’m not a duchess,” Jane said, “but I’m very interested in getting off my feet.” Desperately interested.
“This is my wife,” Mr. Wentworth said, “whom you will be formally introduced to at a later time.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy. “Welcome to Wentworth House, Your Grace.”
I’m not Your Grace. Jane had no time to offer that protest, for her husband was towing her toward yet another set of steps.
“Mr. Wentworth.”
“Almost there.”
“Mr. Wentworth.”
“I can carry you,” he said without stopping. “I believe there’s some tradition to that effect.”
Jane was about to faint, about to heave up two cups of tea and some ginger biscuits, and about to raise her voice. This was not a moment to silently count to three and pray for patience. She couldn’t pit her strength against her husband’s, so she knocked his hat off his head.
“I am not a load of coal to be hauled about at your whim,” she said, as he slowly turned to face her. “Why did that girl address me as Your Grace? I have no title, and neither, as far as you’ve told me, have you.”
He looked guilty. Chagrinned. Bashful.
Imprisoned and facing a death warrant, Quinn Wentworth had been self-possessed, even mocking. Now, in his London finery, in his own home, he looked like a small boy caught with his hand in the governess’s personal tin of biscuits.
“I have inherited a title,” he said, “which is the primary reason I was pardoned. We’ll discuss it later.” He made a production out of retrieving his hat from the carpet and brushing nonexistent dust from the brim.
He was leaving something significant unsaid—something else that was significant—or Jane’s mind was going the way of her balance and her figure.
“You regard this title as the price of your freedom?”
He tugged on his collar with his right index finger. “The title is sunk deeply in debt. Old George wanted no part of such a liability, and I and my fortune were in a position to aid his interests. I also happen to be the legal heir, which is ironic given that my father assured me my paternity was irregular. I had planned to tell you, though a title honestly didn’t signify compared to being able to walk out of that prison.”
