Page 48 of My One and Only Duke
“Think about it. Whoever laid you low could do so because at some point, you were alone with Mr. Pike, or you could not account for your whereabouts when witnesses placed you at his side. Your wife—a minister’s daughter, a military widow, no less—can vouch for your whereabouts at all hours, day or night, because you only leave her side to attend to business or escort your sisters socially.”
Jane smelled of flowers and soap, and holding her appeased some purely protective need Quinn tried to ignore.
“Wentworths don’t socialize.”
“You’re newly wed and newly titled. We shall socialize to the extent that I can.”
“The family isn’t invited anywhere, and we prefer it that way.”
Jane’s fingers began to work at his neckcloth. “Quinn—I do like that name—your way didn’t work. Your way, being socially aloof, recluses in plain sight, left you vulnerable to a sneak attack. I daresay it also tries the nerves of your family and inclines them to sour moods.”
She left the ends of Quinn’s cravat trailing, unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, then ran a gentle finger around the inside of his collar.
Irritation he’d been ignoring eased. “My siblings were born in sour moods. Stephen in particular cannot be blamed for being easily provoked, for his leg pains him without mercy. If we receive no invitations, how do you propose we commence socializing, assuming I’m even considering this notion?”
Which he was. Jane’s suggestion had that whiff of strategy about it, the difference between brawling and pugilism, the difference between walking away from a fight and ending up facedown, bleeding onto the filthy cobbles.
“We start off humbly,” Jane said. “You invite the vicar for dinner—he’ll come. Vicars always appreciate a free meal. You take your sisters driving in the park. You ride out first thing in the day. You tip your hat to those whom you recognize, and you escort me to my outings on Oxford Street. At all times, you exert yourself to be agreeable, and society will see you for the gentleman you are. We must embark on this campaign immediately, for as my condition advances, I won’t be able to protect you as easily.”
Jane’s plan—be gracious and society will be gracious to you—was the doomed hope of a minister’s daughter. Quinn couldn’t bring himself to deride her naïveté, foolish though it was.
He was too busy grappling with the other manifestation of her wrong-headed notions.
I won’t be able to protect you. The words might as well have been in some heathen tongue Quinn had never heard before. His family was loyal, which wasn’t the same as protective.
Jane—expecting a child, in a marriage she hadn’t planned on, poor as a proud beggar—was determined to protect him. While she snuggled in Quinn’s arms—snuggle being another foreign word—he sorted through vocabulary. In the privacy of his thoughts he was determined to put a name on the emotion his wife had inspired.
He’d make the effort to identify what he felt, the better to defend against it, lest ambush come from within.
“We should also visit the lending library,” Jane murmured. “Put you on display before the spinsters and companions. Their good opinion matters.”
I could barely read until I was older than Davies. “Fine idea.”
She rubbed her cheek against the lace of his untied cravat. “I love your scent.”
I stank worse than offal for most of my youth. “A gentleman’s hygiene matters. Shall I carry you to the bed, Jane?”
She raised her head and peered at him. “If you think I’ll miss my sliced beef for the sake of a nap, you have wandered far from the path of sense, Mr. Wentworth.”
“Quinn.” When he held Jane, he was three counties away from sense, which was a serious, serious problem. “Where did you think to start your shopping?”
She rattled off the names of a few mercantile establishments, while her hair tickled Quinn’s chin, and he contemplated offensive maneuvers: Duncan could take Althea and Constance shopping, Quinn and Stephen could hack out in the park on fine mornings. Quinn, Stephen, and a groom, rather, there being safety in numbers.
The family would squawk at the change in tactics, they’d protest, they’d grumble—and enjoy every minute of their own noise—but they’d see the wisdom of Jane’s idea. Joshua could be recruited to dine with Quinn occasionally at the club, and Quinn could carry on his own investigations all the more effectively for appearing to settle into married life.
A voice in his head that sounded like Ned warned against deceiving Jane in this regard—appearing to ingratiate himself with polite society while laying what traps and snares he could—but if there was protecting to be done, he’d do it.
Protect his family, Jane’s innocence, and his own life.
“We don’t have to accomplish all of this in a week,” Jane went on. “My stamina is not what it used to be. I’d also like to interview some midwives and an accoucheur or two.”
A tap sounded on the door. Quinn rose with Jane in his arms and settled her on the sofa.
Ivor and Kristoff came in, bearing silver trays and wearing smirks, for Quinn’s wife had ordered him away from the donnybrook in the family parlor not twenty minutes past. By now, a word-for-word re-enactment of that encounter had made its way to the kitchen.
“Please put the trays on the balcony,” Jane said. “His Grace and I will be going out after we dine. You’ll want to see to your own sustenance, for you’ll both accompany us.”
Ivor bowed, Kristoff did as well, an instant later. “Yes, milady.”
