Page 69 of My One and Only Duke
Jane stood before him, unwilling to budge until she’d fired her own artillery. “Wentworths are stubborn because they’ve had to be, but you had no cause to upset me like that. You owe me an apology.”
Ivor took the chair and left Stephen leaning on the canes. No pain showed in Stephen’s gaze, only a long-cherished anger.
“I am sorry, dearest Jane. You were in no danger, and I meant well, but—”
“Must I teach you how a gentleman apologizes?” For she would if need be. She’d stand toe to toe with him until he toppled to the grass in a raging heap, and leave him there until winter before she’d relent one inch.
She who believed in turning the other cheek, in forgiving and forgetting, was angry enough to throw fragile blossoms and shout, which only made her doubly furious with Stephen.
And that, she divined between one breath and the next, was what he wanted. To test not her devotion to Quinn, but her respect for Quinn’s maimed younger brother. Did she respect Stephen enough to hold him accountable for his actions?
“I’m trying to figure out what my sin was,” he said, “so I can be at least somewhat sincere in my remorse.”
The afternoon was waning, Jane was hungry, and the child was moving about, likely unhappy with the noisy target practice. Too blasted bad.
“Your sin was adding needlessly to my fears,” Jane said. “I’m facing childbirth. Do you think the prospect of that excruciating and often fatal exercise fills me with good cheer? It’s a miserable, lingering death, and would leave my child all but orphaned.”
She paced away from him, battling the temptation to shout. “I’m afraid that my father, a bumptious, obnoxious bumbler who frequents jails and prisons, will fall prey to an illness as my mother did. He’s a miserable excuse for a father, but the only blood relative I have. Then there’s my husband, whom somebody has tried to kill, and who is even now attempting to reestablish normalcy by tending to business as usual. I have no time for your adolescent pride or its attendant histrionics, and I am in no way responsible for your ailments.”
Stephen smiled at the golden eagles that formed the grips of his canes. “I’m sorry. I should not have aimed the gun anywhere near you, and it won’t happen again.”
“Better.” Jane turned to stalk off toward the coach, but Stephen had put both canes in one hand, and caught Jane by the arm.
“I am sorry, and I should not have done what I did, but Jane, you should be a little bit afraid for yourself. Whoever brought Quinn low missed the mark, but only by merest chance. My brother is a duke now, and that might protect him or it might make him a more tempting target.”
Jane took one of the canes. “Quinn’s lofty station should make him even more intimidating than he already was, though what fool would challenge Quinn Wentworth even once, much less twice? Please take me home. I need to eat, and I’ve had enough drama for one day.”
They made a slow progress to the coach, arm in arm, and were soon bumping and jostling back toward Town.
“How did you break your leg?” Jane asked.
“My own dear father broke my leg,” Stephen said, “but let’s save that charming recitation for another time. Enough drama for one day, right?”
She let him retreat into silence, because she grasped the important lesson of the day: A broken leg had likely been the least of Stephen’s injuries.
Chapter Eighteen
“I saw the Minster in York,” Ned announced. “It’s ever so beautiful, with heaven-windows and echoes and no poor people. Himself said the Minster were there even when the Vikings ran the town.”
Quinn let the child prattle on, because Ned’s chattering provided a moment to study Jane. She was still at the Wentworth town house, which Quinn had not assumed would be the case.
She wore a claret-colored dress high enough at the waist to hide her condition, and her color was good. She’d kissed Quinn’s cheek upon greeting him, but her mood had yet to make itself apparent.
Which suggested something other than jubilation at his return.
Quinn was furious, with himself, with anybody named Pike, with the Great North Road, and with God Almighty. For the Countess of Tipton he reserved a special brand of ire that nearly equaled the hatred he’d felt toward his father.
“You were very kind to take Ned to see the Minster,” Jane said. “Someday I’d like to see it.”
“He didn’t take me,” Ned said, scuffing the toe of one boot with the other. “Mrs. Dougherty took me, and told me all about when himself were in service. He were a footman and a jolly good one. She were the housekeeper, and Miss Camellia were a maid.”
“Ned, take yourself to the kitchen,” Quinn said, as Jane peeled the greatcoat from his shoulders. “Regale the staff with your adventures, but for the love of God leave me in peace.”
“Mrs. D said you were a footman to an earl’s house, and nobody ever looked so fine in his livery as you did before you got old.”
Where were the Vikings when a small boy needed carrying off? “The kitchen, Ned, and you will take a bath tonight.”
“Tim takes baths, claims a young gent shouldn’t smell like a shoat,” Ned said, plucking an orange from the bowl on the sideboard. “Knows his letters, Tim does, and he’s younger than me. Mrs. Dougherty is Tim’s granny and she said nobody ever learned his letters faster than Quinn Wentworth, and it’s a pity and a shame that—”
