Page 39 of My One and Only Duke
“You’ll not be left for a MacGowan to prey upon.”
Prey upon again, though that was unfair to Gordie’s memory. Jane smacked a pillow and arranged it behind her back. “All manner of developments occur despite probability to the contrary, Mr. Wentworth. You never expected to end up in prison. I never expected to end up widowed and with child, but here we are.”
Here they were, having a disagreement in the same bed on the first day as man and wife. Jane would find a credible explanation for that bizarre state of affairs after she’d had another serving of perfectly salted sliced beef.
And buttered bread. She was abruptly mad for buttered bread.
“Here we are. Where do you want to be, Jane?”
“In the kitchen eating fresh bread with butter.”
He left the bed and crossed the room to use the bellpull, then he spoke into a cone-shaped copper tube protruding from the wall near the hearth. Black silk trousers moved over powerful muscles and rode low enough to reveal dimples at the base of a long, strong back.
Also another crop of scars, these more conspicuous than the ones on his chest. Old injuries, some casual, some nasty. Quinn Wentworth hadn’t always been a well-dressed, well-to-do banker. Jane suspected he was making the point for her on purpose.
“Bread and butter,” he said into the tube, “strawberries, ginger biscuits, and ginger tea.”
“And roast beef,” Jane said.
“And roast beef.” He took a chair behind a large desk that managed to be both masculine and elegant. “You did not answer my question, Jane. Where would you like to be? If we make a go of this situation, as you term it, you’ll be a duchess, regardless of my criminal past. Certain obligations accompany the title.”
He lounged casually in exactly one article of clothing—even his feet were bare—and yet, Jane felt as if she were being interrogated by a banker: And when was the appraisal done? By whom? Any fixtures or appurtenances? What about fungibles or livestock?
“My first obligation,” Jane said, “is to the child. I must situate myself however I can to give the child the best chance of a happy, healthy life. If that means being a duchess, then a duchess I shall be.”
He studied the branches of the maple tree outside the window. The leaves were unfurling, from pink buds to softest green leaves. In a few weeks, the tree would provide shade. Now the gauzy foliage seemed to reflect the afternoon sunlight and spread illumination.
“Your commitment to the child does you credit,” he said. “I assure you that you will have material security, regardless of how we arrange the legalities.”
Jane wanted to close her eyes again and this time to sleep for a week. “I am a female. I cannot arrange any legalities, sir. My father refused to recognize my marriage to Captain MacGowan and if you declare this marriage void, by Papa’s reasoning, I will remain under his authority. Despite my age, despite Scottish marriage lines, he will press his position upon the courts and I will have no practical means of thwarting him.”
The last thing—the very, very last thing—Jane wanted to face was protracted litigation in courts famed for inquisitiveness rather than speed, not that she could afford a barrister and not that any respectable lawyer would take her case.
Mr. Wentworth retrieved an afghan from the foot of the bed, and draped the soft wool around Jane’s shoulders.
“You have no idea what a burden a disgraced father is to a small child, Jane. You could establish your own household and keep your finances in a trust. Then the child would have my money and the guiding hand of an ordained grandfather.”
For an instant, she was tempted. Perhaps such an arrangement could return to Jane the kind, if distracted, parent she’d known before Mama’s death.
And perhaps not. “Trusts take time to set up,” Jane said, sniffing the wool caressing her shoulders. “Where would that arrangement leave the baby if something happened to me?”
Mr. Wentworth hadn’t an answer for that, which was just as well. Jane was trying not to stare at the red weal gouged into the side of his neck. She resented this conversation for the uncertainty it brought, but she also resented that injury.
Hadn’t life put enough mementos to pain and suffering on her husband’s body? The king’s pardon had come at the very last possible instant. How was Mr. Wentworth dealing with that? How was he dealing with the torment of the whole last month? With the notion of having taken a life?
Though seeing him all but naked, Jane had reason to doubt the court’s judgment. Only a fool would engage Quinn Wentworth in a physical altercation, and his nature would not allow him lethal intemperance.
“Wait here,” Mr. Wentworth said.
He padded to the parlor and came back bearing a tray. The scent of ginger wafted across the room, a sweet, smooth ginger free of the bitterness found in the coarser varieties. Mr. Wentworth set the tray on the desk and carried a heavy chair to the side of the desk as if the chair weighed nothing.
“You’ll catch a chill,” Jane said, climbing from the bed and taking a dressing gown down from a hook on the bedpost. “Fresh air is lovely, but if you sit in a draft wearing less than nothing, you’ll soon regret it.”
Then too, she wanted to think about his scars later, after she’d done justice to the tray. She stretched up to drape the dressing gown around his shoulders, careful that the collar didn’t touch his injury. Her movements put her close enough to her husband that her belly nudged against his side.
The child chose that moment to reposition itself, delivering a poke to Jane’s innards.
“What the hell was that?” Mr. Wentworth stared at her belly as if he’d only now noticed her condition.
