Page 62 of My One and Only Duke
She typically took the first cup plain. If that sat well, she would add a dash of sugar to her subsequent two cups. Quinn liked knowing these details about her, though he wondered what details she was hoarding up about him.
Threatens old men simply for being lazy and selfish.
Leaves a new wife to fend for herself among the Visigoths barely a fortnight after the wedding.
Avoids intimacies with said wife, though that nearly costs him his sanity.
Hurls carving knives across the breakfast table.
“How are you, Papa?” Jane asked.
“Quite busy,” Winston replied. “I’ve been asked to substitute for Mr. Carruthers on the last Sunday of the month. The sermon topic is turning the other cheek.”
“One of your favorites,” Jane said, sprinkling cinnamon over her toast. She murmured appropriately as her father sailed forth on a wind of scripture and self-importance, and Quinn stayed long enough to know that Jane’s toast agreed with her this morning.
And then, lest he put off leaving for another day, he rose. “I must be on my way. I’ll bid you both farewell.”
Jane stood as well, too fast for Quinn to hold her chair. “I’ll see you out. Papa, I’ll be right back.”
The coachman had been walking the team up and down the street for the past twenty minutes. Tarrying with Jane wasn’t on Quinn’s schedule.
“You needn’t see me off,” he said. “You and your father doubtless have catching up to do.”
Jane turned on him that patient, determined expression that wasn’t so much a glower as it was a portent of doom. She was mentally counting to three. He was coming to know the look.
“Don’t be silly, Your Grace. A wife wishes her husband farewell.”
Well, damn. Quinn bowed her through the door, pausing only to offer his hand to his father-in-law and give the reverend a pat on the shoulder in passing.
“Good to see you, sir,” Quinn said, “and you will please forgive my earlier harsh words. I am protective of my wife’s peace.”
“As well you should be,” Winston replied around a mouthful of bacon. “Good day.”
Jane would have walked Quinn to the front door, but he stopped with her at the foot of the stairs.
“Duncan will take the coach to the bank,” Quinn said. “I’m leaving through the wine cellar. A precaution, only.”
Jane leaned close, as if inspecting the folds of Quinn’s cravat. “Papa asked for money, didn’t he? That was doubtless difficult for him.”
“He was working up to it. You are not to pass him a single farthing, Jane. He’s in good health, he’s literate, and I won’t let him starve or jeopardize his respectability. Somebody in your family needs to at least look the genteel part.”
Jane braced her forehead against Quinn’s chest. “I’m sorry. He wasn’t always like this.”
Time to go, before she could change the sub—
“I’ll miss you,” she added, kissing Quinn’s cheek. “And I’ll dream of you. Very bad of me to drift off like that last night.”
She was asking Quinn a question, and he needed to leave.
“Your father might have dropped this,” Quinn said, withdrawing an oval miniature from his pocket. “That is your mother, isn’t it?”
“Mama?” Jane took the portrait carefully, as if it might break when it had doubtless traveled safely in Winston’s pocket for years. “I haven’t seen this in ages. I thought he pawned it.” She traced a finger over the glass as a tear trickled down her cheek. “The likeness is good. Very good.”
“You should have a copy made before you return it. Your father would thank you. Little treasures have a way of going missing.” Little treasures like Jane’s entire inheritance from her mother, according to the pawnbroker.
Jane clasped the miniature to her heart. “Excellent suggestion.”
“Duncan knows some artists. Consult with him, and now I really must be on my way.” Quinn allowed himself one taste of Jane’s lips—cinnamon and sweetness—and then he descended the steps two at a time.
