Page 38 of My One and Only Duke
And worse. Jane’s first transition to married life had consisted of that wild trip to Scotland—accomplished one rocking, jouncing mile after another—a few seedy inns, and Gordie rocking and jouncing on top of her at those seedy inns.
Eloping had been expedient rather than romantic. She saw that with the perfect hindsight of regret. No banns, no opportunity for the naïve bride to give in to second thoughts, crawl home, and beg her papa’s forgiveness.
And then, just as she’d been reeling with the enormity of the mistake she’d made—Gordie drank, he consorted with other women, he squandered his half pay—he’d died.
Relief, sorrow, and guilt had had a moment to compete for the status of greatest source of misery, then had come a period of futile bargaining with the Almighty: I’m simply upset, I’m grieving. I’m dealing with too much upheaval. This is a digestive ailment. I cannot possibly be with child. Somewhere in the past several months, Jane had lost her bearings, such that life had become a matter of coping from moment to moment.
Mustn’t be sick.
Must eat something.
Must find a chamber pot.
Why must Papa pawn Mama’s cedar chest when she was very clear that chest was to be mine?
Must lie down.
In the last six hours Jane had acquired a new and far safer address, and with that development had come one conviction: The whirling in her life had to stop, and before the child arrived. Jane’s best estimate was that she had another five months before she’d become a mother.
“You’re awake,” Mr. Wentworth rumbled. He remained on his side of the bed, lying on his back, his arms folded behind his head.
“For now. This is a lovely bed.”
“So you’ve said. We needn’t share it if you’d rather have this bedroom to yourself.” He made his announcement without doing her the courtesy of looking her in the eye.
And here she’d been so comfortable. “Are you about to offer me another annulment, Mr. Wentworth?”
He darted a glance at her in the gloom created by the bed hangings. “And if I were?”
“I’m told you don’t go back on your word, so why re-open this discussion?” Did she want him to renew this offer? On the one hand, he wasn’t at all what she had planned, and Jane set very great store by her plans. On the other hand, he was warm and he smelled good. His hands didn’t wander uninvited, and she liked him.
Mostly. She would very much like another beef sandwich. She did not like this conversation.
“You’ve met us,” he said. “Duncan is the only Wentworth with pretensions to gentility. The uncle who raised him was a vicar, and Duncan was educated accordingly. He ended up as a teacher after a failed attempt at the church. Don’t ask him why he changed course, for the tale is unhappy and even I am vague on the details. The rest of us…”
Mr. Wentworth was self-conscious about his family, which Jane understood all too well. “You met my father. Your family might take a while to warm up to, but Papa is a trial to the nerves, for all he means well.”
Mr. Wentworth sat up, resting his back against the headboard. His chest was bare, and a fine chest it was, all sculpted muscle with a dusting of dark hair. The occasional scar nicked at his anatomical perfection, making him human as well as handsome.
“We should resolve this before the child is born, Jane.”
Resolve? Insight struck as if the child had kicked her. “You are a duke. You’ve realized your heir might be Gordie MacGowan’s son.” This was what Mr. Wentworth had meant when he’d referred to changed circumstances. He was a peer, and not just any peer. Dukes were rarities and their lineages ancient.
Mr. Wentworth—or rather, His Grace of…what was his title?—laughed, a single rusty guffaw.
“I don’t give a stinking goddamn who gets stuck with the title after me so long as Fat George doesn’t get his hands on my money. The easiest way to assure that outcome is to have sons, and you’re apparently willing to be their mother. The issue for your firstborn, however, is that your current husband is a convicted killer.”
Jane struggled to a sitting position and tucked the covers under her arms. “If you don’t care about your succession and you aren’t ashamed of marrying a preacher’s disgraced daughter, then why not try to make something of this union?” The question was for herself as much as for her bedmate. “I ask myself, What are the options? Should I go home to Papa and resume being Miss Jane Winston of the inexplicably gravid shape and uncertain digestion?”
“Don’t be daft.”
That gruff rejoinder assured her that Mr. Wentworth would not abandon her. He might annul the marriage, but he’d honor the obligation to support her. Jane should have been relieved rather than resentful.
“So,” she said, “that leaves either making a go of this situation, or annulling the marriage and doing what with me and the child? If you cast me off, I’ll be doubly disgraced, and the child will be a MacGowan rather than a Wentworth. I suppose you’d put me in my own establishment, like a former mistress? Doubtless some MacGowan will appear claiming to be the child’s guardian and getting his hands all over whatever pin money you grant me.”
Mr. Wentworth likely had a mistress. He was wealthy, unmarried, and stunningly handsome. Of course he had a mistress. A slender blonde with limpid blue eyes and a tinkling laugh.
Jane didn’t like that thought at all.
