Page 45 of My One and Only Duke
She remained sitting, rather than go toe-to-toe with Althea, much less take on Quinn’s sister while Stephen, Constance, a matched set of oversized footmen, and Susie gawked at the spectacle.
Quinn sauntered into the room, not a care in the world, while Jane was ready to do somebody—anybody—a grievous injury.
“Greetings, all,” Quinn drawled. “Althea, if you’ll join Jane and me in the—”
“Mr. Wentworth,” Jane snapped, “I’d like a word with you in private.” Man-fashion, he had no idea what the substance of the altercation was, no inkling of the stakes, but he was ready to arbitrate and expect his judgment to be final.
Jane would never disrespect her husband publicly, though neither would she allow him to lose this battle for her. He needed her to win. He simply didn’t grasp that yet.
“You are in a delicate condition,” Althea said. “Shall you give birth on Bond Street? Shall you have the Wentworth heir in the middle of Piccadilly? This family works too hard—”
Jane held out a hand to her husband. “Your assistance, please.” Jane was now a part of this family, and while Althea was well intended, she was also wrong.
Mr. Wentworth’s inherent good manners had him helping Jane to her feet. She kept hold of his arm—it was one of those days, when her vision dimmed and her balance wavered whenever she stood.
“We’ll talk later,” Mr. Wentworth said to his sister.
“Indeed we shall,” Jane added, because in this case, having the last word—as rude and undignified as that might be—mattered.
Constance smacked Stephen on the shoulder, though for once, the boy wasn’t smirking.
“Where’s Duncan?” Mr. Wentworth asked as he and Jane gained the corridor.
“Being prudent, leaving the battlefield to those invested in the conflict. I am not a turtle, Mr. Wentworth.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You were happy to haul me all over creation yesterday, up hill and down dale. I am in sufficient good health that you may trust me to reach our sitting room before sundown.”
“Perhaps it’s my nerves that are overset, Jane.”
“Doubtless, you are a quivering mass of near-hysteria, contained by only a gossamer thread of self-control. Why else would you have scampered off to the bank the day after your own scheduled execution?”
He opened the door to their sitting room. “I own half of that bank, and I’d been absent from my duties for weeks. Showing up and pretending I’d been on holiday was of utmost importance.” He closed the door rather firmly.
Having reached a private location, Jane could study her husband. His hair was windblown, the knot of his cravat a quarter inch off-center. For him, that was doubtless serious disarray, though the result of very slight dishevelment was to make him look more dashing.
“How was your morning at the bank?” She could not read his expression, which probably meant that he was upset, to the extent Quinn Wentworth became upset.
Would that Jane had his ability to weather all vicissitudes with calm.
“Do you know how often I’ve been summoned home from the bank?”
“Of course not.”
He paced over to the sideboard, took a glass stopper from a decanter, and held it to his nose. “I have never been summoned home from the bank, Jane. My family knows better. At that bank, I’m an actor on a stage, and if I miss my cues, if I’m anything other than the personification of equanimity and decorum, then the play fails. In recent weeks, I have missed cue after cue, spectacularly, and half of London—half of titled London—was watching to see what I’d do today.”
He breathed in through his nose, as if he were taking smelling salts.
“I didn’t send for you, didn’t foresee the discussion with Althea becoming a pitched battle, and didn’t take any satisfaction from the dramatics. I’m sorry your performance was disrupted. Are you alone of all the bankers in London forbidden to pop home for a midday meal?”
He took another whiff of his glass stopper. “Yes, Jane. I alone of all the bankers in London am not to leave my post for anything less than urgent business.”
Jane crossed the room, wrapped her hand around his, and brought the stopper to her nose. “This is lavender water?”
Mr. Wentworth put the stopper in the decanter. “The scent is pleasant. What were you and Althea arguing about?”
A clumsy change of subject, but useful when Jane disliked even discussing an altercation.
