Page 37 of My One and Only Duke
“I don’t care how pretty or proper she is,” Constance retorted, “Jane’s on the nest. How does a preacher’s daughter conceive a child then cadge an offer of marriage from one of the wealthiest men in England?”
Duncan Wentworth called these people family, but they were as much a tribulation as they were an entertainment. Most days, they were very entertaining.
“Jane is a widow,” he said. “Conception likely occurred in the usual fashion, and this is not a fit topic for a lady.”
“You’ve taken tea with many ladies to know their conversational habits?” Constance replied, reaching for the decanter.
Althea moved the brandy aside before Constance could serve herself more spirits. Ladies also did not take spirits, except for the occasional medicinal serving, but Althea and Constance had likely imbibed their first taste of gin while still at the breast.
“I do wonder how she gained Quinn’s notice,” Stephen said. “He’s had plenty of options where the fair sex is concerned.”
Althea rose to set the brandy on the sideboard. “We can’t know what it was like for him to face such a death. He was supposed to die for somebody’s convenience, despite his innocence, despite his wealth. That could change a man’s heart.”
Quinn had no heart, beyond a wild beast’s devotion to its pack. Duncan reached that conclusion without judging his cousin. Quinn had been raised in hell and managed as best he could. The damage was lamentable but permanent, and the resulting lack of sentiment had made Quinn an enviably successful banker.
“You are certain of his innocence,” Duncan pointed out. “Most of London is certain of his guilt.”
“Fine thing,” Constance said, rising and shaking out her skirts. “You put your feet under Quinn’s table, take his coin, and call him cousin, but you don’t defend him.”
What need had Quinn of a defense when his siblings were on hand to pour boiling oil from the parapets? “I merely make an observation, and you have never once heard me condemn or criticize Quinn Wentworth.”
“You’re wrong about all of London thinking him guilty.” Stephen’s comment embodied an adolescent’s oblivion to conversational subtleties. “The lords and MPs who owe Quinn money were doubtless happy to see him brought low. I don’t think the real people—the people who work and worry and strive—feel that way about him. They know he’s pulled himself up from nothing, and they respect him for it.”
“I respect him too,” Duncan said, lest Stephen’s ferocious loyalty be stirred into a passion. “Apparently the king does as well.”
Constance tipped her glass to her lips to shake a final drop into her mouth. “I was rather looking forward to having my own property, truth be told. I could get away from you lot and from Quinn’s infernal hovering.”
“Constance.” Althea’s tone was chiding rather than dismayed. The Wentworths raised blunt discourse to dizzying heights, a refreshing change from the hypocrisy of the academics and clerics with whom Duncan had come of age.
“Don’t let us keep you,” Stephen said cheerfully. “If you’re determined to leave London, talk to Quinn. The brandy will last longer without you here.”
Nasty boy, but then, Constance was a bitter young woman, and Stephen could not afford to be tenderhearted.
“I’d miss you,” Duncan said. “You keep us honest.” Such as the Wentworths could be honest.
Constance set her empty glass on the sideboard. “Quinn doesn’t know what to do with her.”
She refused to say Jane’s name, which spoke volumes about this desire to leave the household.
“Quinn will get her sorted out,” Stephen said, finishing his drink. “He’s resourceful.”
“We shall all adjust,” Althea snapped. “Jane is family now and Quinn’s wife. She married him thinking to be widowed again today, and she’ll have some adjusting of her own to do.”
“Truer words…” Duncan murmured, getting to his feet. “I have translations to work on, so I’ll leave you three to dissect Jane’s character in peace. You might consider that she faces the daunting prospect of childbirth among strangers, and the woman does not look well to me.”
“She looks uncomfortable,” Constance said. “Hard to hate somebody who barely nibbles her biscuits.”
And hard to know how to go on in the absence of enmity. Duncan often wondered who lived with the greater pain: Stephen with his injured leg, Constance with her injured heart, or Althea, buffeted between love for, and exasperation with, her siblings. And then there was Quinn, who had doubtless lost the ability to admit any suffering before he’d been breeched.
“Perhaps Jane will be a good influence on us.” Duncan left his cousins snickering at what had been a sincere hope, rather than a jest. He’d tried for years to exert a civilizing influence on his family, to no avail whatsoever.
So he’d given up trying, and they’d all been happier as a result.
* * *
Jane drifted amid the blissful comfort of a well-stuffed mattress, clean linen, soft blankets, and the soothing scent of her husband. In sleep she’d shifted closer to him, her belly to his back. The rhythm of his breathing suggested he slumbered on, a comforting presence, as opposed to Gordie’s pawing and thrashing.
And snoring.
