Page 56 of My One and Only Duke
“Stephen hates for anybody to watch him stand,” Quinn went on. “Hates that his left leg can barely hold his weight.”
Jane unknotted Quinn’s neckcloth. “I hadn’t realized that your brother is nearly as tall as you are. Has an impressive set of shoulders on him too. He seemed surprised when I remarked as much.”
When had anybody, any female, given Stephen a compliment for any reason? At his age, Quinn had been starved for female attention to the point of utter witlessness.
“Let him teach you how to use a gun, Jane, or let my sisters start you out with knives. Both take time to learn well.”
She drew his cravat away, making sure the linen didn’t abrade his neck. “You’re almost healed. Is your neck still sore?”
“I sleep more easily on my right side.” Facing Jane’s half of the bed rather than the window.
He was doomed.
“May I put a theory to you?” Jane asked.
“Could I stop you?”
“The household reflects its master.” She moved against him, or her belly did. Not a kick, something else. “You adhere to no schedule, so the domestics have no schedule. You barely notice what you eat, so Cook sends up the same menus week after week. Your version of loyalty involves violence more than discretion, hence your staff will defend your citadel, but gossip like dairymaids churning butter.”
As a boy, Quinn had loved the sound of dairymaids gabbling over their work. They’d often let him have a scraping from the churns, and nothing soothed hunger like a dab of butter.
“My household functions adequately for my needs.”
Jane cuddled closer on a sigh, a weary woman yet determined on her objective. “The household does not function adequately for the needs of a duke, Quinn. Cook should know your favorite desserts. I should know your favorite flowers. Althea might inquire as to which composers I prefer so she can learn a few airs to play for us after dinner. There’s no…I don’t know the word for it. We’re ready to repel boarders or send out pickets for the night watch, but that manner of being a duke ceased to be useful three hundred years ago.”
She traced her finger over Quinn’s lips. “You smile so seldom. I love your smile.” She kissed him on the mouth.
Desire mocked Quinn. Of all women to be drawn to…Jane was approaching her confinement, worried about his taste for mustard, and determined to reform a family sprung from the lowest gutters, all without so much as raising her voice.
“I’m off to York tomorrow, Jane. The press of business requires me in the north.” The lie stung as the rope had burned his neck. Quinn had survived the rope, and he’d survive to someday be the sort of husband Jane deserved.
She kissed him again. “Coward. Tear about all you like. If you miss the birth of this child I will name him something dreadful.”
Her kisses were ginger flavored. On her, the spice was luscious. “I won’t be gone long. Less than a fortnight.” And yes, when it came to his marriage, Quinn was a coward, though the child wasn’t due for months.
She drew away. “You needn’t run off, Quinn. If you can’t see your way to consummating the vows, then just tell me. I’m not at my best, and my charms are humble on a good day. A white marriage isn’t unheard of, even for a peer, but you had said…”
She tried to stand and succeeded only in pressing against Quinn’s half-aroused cock. He rose with her in his arms and set her on the bed.
“You should be thinking of the baby now,” Quinn said, kneeling to remove her slippers. “If I’m not putting demands on you, it’s because the time hasn’t been right. You didn’t marry me for that, and we have no reason to hurry.”
“I lack the nerve to ask your sisters if you keep a mistress, but perhaps your feelings are engaged elsewhere. I apologize for complicating your life, if so, though heirs do require the participation of both husband and wife.”
She ducked her head, and Quinn wanted to pitch himself out the window.
“No mistress, Jane. No time for that nonsense.”
“You’re lying,” she said, skewering him with a gimlet scowl. “Gordie could rise to the occasion in three minutes and be done in five. The problem isn’t time.”
“I’m glad he’s dead if that’s all the consideration he thought you were owed.” Quinn had any number of reasons to be glad Gordon MacGowan had gone to his reward.
“What consideration am I due from you?” Jane asked.
She would not give this up. Another stubborn Wentworth indeed. “You are due every consideration.”
“Then take me to bed, Quinn. Make me your wife in truth.”
Quinn didn’t understand his own reluctance, though caution was part of it, as was a backward lingering shame. He desired women in the abstract, and after he’d parted company with Beatrice, Countess of Tipton, he’d spent a good year desiring them in the flesh, proving something to himself.
