My One and Only Duke--Includes a bonus novella

by Grace Burrowes

  He remained silent, his lips pressed to Jane’s temple.

  * * *

  Every sin Quinn had ever committed, and there were many, every mistake he’d made, and those were even more numerous, haunted him in the person of his wife. Jane was bustling, scolding, and quarreling her way into his heart, the last place she should hope to be.

  The town house had always oppressed Quinn, with its relentless geometry of portraits hung perfectly straight, carpets running down the exact center of the corridors, wallpaper patterned to precisely match, panel by panel. Who could thrive amid such endless, purposeless order?

  And yet, the house had a musty smell in the corners, reminiscent of pets, dirty laundry, and winter damp, even in spring. The windows were seldom clean, which Althea attributed to London’s coal smoke, and if somebody recalled to put flowers in the front foyer, just as often, the bouquet was left to disintegrate before it was replaced.

  As if the squalor of the Yorkshire slums had followed Quinn hundreds of miles south, and would follow him all the way to the grave.

  In the past week, the house had been thoroughly aired.

  The windows sparkled, the flowers were fresh. The carpet in the formal parlor had been taken up, and the oak parquet floor polished to a high shine. Jane had done this—Jane had known how to do it—and she’d softened the pointless order of Quinn’s home.

  He’d first noticed her efforts in his apartment. The afghan folded over the back of the sofa was now laid at an angle, the pillows piled at one end rather than arranged symmetrically. The windows weren’t open to the same degree, and the decanters no longer stood in order of height.

  Jane was making his house a home, and he was helpless to stop her, for she apparently needed to domesticate and organize to be happy, and he needed for her to be happy. His penance for all transgressions past, present, and future was that one day—if he survived the next attempt on his life—she’d realize what manner of man she’d married, and look at Quinn with either pity or disgust.

  Or turn her gaze from him entirely.

  “Do you know how long it has been since Althea read a novel?” Quinn asked the wife so agreeably occupying his lap.

  “I can’t possibly know.”

  “Althea has never read a novel, to my knowledge. She learned her letters kicking and screaming. I had to bribe her with music lessons.”

  “Another stubborn Wentworth,” Jane replied, removing the pin from his cravat. “Why am I not surprised.”

  “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.

  Then Papa had broken Stephen’s leg, and Quinn had focused entirely on making money. Life had become simpler, and Quinn hadn’t looked back.

  He held out his wrists for Jane to remove his sleeve buttons. “I’m leaving for York in the morning on bank business. The man I supposedly killed hails from York, and I thought while I was in the area I’d make a few inquiries.”

  He hadn’t meant to tell her that. Hadn’t wanted her involved, and her glower confirmed she didn’t want to be involved.

  She took his sleeve buttons, hopped off the bed, and dumped them into the vanity tray.

  “Leave it alone, Quinn. Don’t borrow tr
ouble. Let sleeping dogs lie, and let bygones be bygones. Whoever put you in prison failed, and you’re a duke now. Act like one. Go on about your life in a dignified fashion, and all will be well.”

  She leaned into him, her arms about his middle.

  She was very confident of her platitudes, though her naïve sermon confirmed that Quinn was right to spare her the details of his investigations.

  So he’d offer her a platitude in return. “I’ve cheated the hangman, Jane. Nothing will happen to me.”

  Her gaze promised argument, even now, even about this.

  In exasperation—and desperation—Quinn kissed his wife.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jane usually spent half of her day spinning theories about her husband.

  Maybe his ordeal in Newgate had disturbed his manly humors so badly he could not consummate his vows. This theory wanted supporting evidence, for in every way, Quinn had returned to his former responsibilities with impressive vigor.

  Perhaps he’d suffered an injury that rendered him sexually incapable. Gordie, veteran of many a gruesome battle, had assured her such was possible.

  Again, no helpful evidence was on hand to support Jane’s theory, for she’d seen Quinn nearly naked. He bore many scars, none of them in a location that would affect his breeding organs.

  The obvious reason for Quinn’s conjugal indifference had ample supporting evidence: He was sexually capable, and simply not attracted to Jane. As considerate as he was, his touch bore no hint of desire, his gaze was never lustful. The obvious explanation was the most likely, and Jane was ridiculous for being upset over that.

  And yet, one more theory had presented itself: Quinn did not know how to make love with a lady. He’d managed a luscious kiss on their wedding day, and that might have been luck or chivalry. Maybe when it came to greater intimacies a minister’s daughter baffled him.

  The first week following Jane’s elopement, Gordie had offered a few amatory flourishes. Kisses, caresses, love words that had rung false but sounded well intended. Jane’s eyes did not outshine the glory of the stars, her breasts were not more abundant than heaven’s blessings, for pity’s sake.

  Her blushes had been profuse, however.

  Maybe Quinn thought she needed those ridiculous metaphors. Maybe once upon a time, she had. Now she wanted only him, though her longings weren’t merely sexual in nature. She wanted to be a wife Quinn could trust and esteem, a true wife, not one more family member expecting him to provide for her every comfort.

  Though Quinn apparently did not care to be a true husband.

  She formed the intention to step back from him, to give up and spend another night trying to ignore her husband’s warmth in the bed beside her, but her body refused to obey the sensible decision of her mind.

  Quinn pressed his mouth to hers, gently, gently. “You’re tenacious as a badger.”

  A compliment. She smiled into his kiss. “Thank you. More, please.”

  He slid a hand to cradle the back of her head and held her still, while he explored her features. Nose, eyebrows, jaw, chin…He wandered by kisses and delicate brushes of his fingers to every aspect of her face, making her aware of herself in a new way.

  Tension Jane had been holding forever slid away, until she was clinging to Quinn to remain upright, and for the sheer joy of embracing him.

  He knew how to kiss. Holy winged cupids, did he ever know how to kiss.

  “Do ye turn up shy on me now, Jane?”

  She kissed him back, such as she could when he was so much taller. Her belly prevented her from pressing as close as she longed to, but she was near enough to know that her husband was growing aroused.

  “The bed, Quinn. Please…the bed.”

  His laugh was low and knowing. “I’m still wearing boots, woman. My wife will ring a peal over m’ head if I get the sheets dirty.”

  Jane pulled away and gave him her back. “My hooks.”

  An abbreviated version of their bedtime routine unfolded, with Quinn locking doors and opening windows while Jane used the privacy screen. She climbed onto the bed, heard the rag sopping in the basin behind the screen, heard the distinctive sound of a toothbrush tapped against porcelain.

  Then silence.

  * * *

  Two devils haunted Quinn as he made a particularly thorough job of his ablutions.

  The first devil was so familiar as to nearly qualify as a friend. An upbringing saturated in shame had driven Quinn to work harder and longer than other boys, to dream more ambitiously than other youths, to drink less than other men, and he was awash in money as a result. He used only the best tailors, the finest bootmakers, the most respected haberdashers, but beneath all of that finery, the boy Jack Wentworth had loathed still lived.

  You’re a disgrace to the family name.

  I’d kill you but why should I have to pay for your burial?

  Get over here and take your punishment like a man.

  And the line Quinn would never, ever say to his children: I’ll give you something to cry about.

  In hindsight, all of Quinn’s accomplishments were a protracted study in not becoming what his father had been: cruel, violent, weak, impulsive, contemptible. Though of course Jack Wentworth had hurled those labels at his son so often, the accusations had occasionally stuck.

  I’m not a boy. I’m not that boy.

  Jane rustled about in the bedroom, making Jane-noises as she smacked pillows, arranged them to her liking, and pulled the bed curtains closed. She was an orderly woman who thrived on a peaceful, orderly routine, and Quinn treasured that about her.

  In the first hours after regaining his freedom, Quinn had promised her a true marriage, and he’d only gradually realized how unsuited he was to be her mate.

  Let sleeping dogs lie, she’d said, as if a sleeping dog didn’t stink, drool, and bring fleas wherever it went.

  Don’t borrow trouble, she’d said, as if Quinn hadn’t been born with a lifetime supply of trouble.

  Let bygones be bygones, she’d said, as if attempting to end Quinn’s life in humiliation and pain was a spilled glass of punch.

  And thus the second devil joined Quinn behind the privacy screen: He desired his wife mightily. She was good, lovely, and dear, and by every law known to humankind, he owed her his intimate attentions and was entitled to enjoy her company in the same fashion.

  But not only was Quinn a slum rat in banker’s clothing, he was also a man determined to exact an eye for an eye, at least, when he found the enemy who’d put him in prison. Jane could turn the other cheek, forgive and forget, and do good to those who persecuted her—her father came to mind—but Quinn lacked those virtues.

  He would deceive Jane as long as possible—for the rest of their lives, if fate let him arrange his retribution discreetly—but how could he make love with a woman to whom he was lying and would continue to lie?

  Jane sighed in the bed, a sweet sound that scraped across the arousal Quinn fought against every time he was near her. His cock knew nothing of deception or honor, and knew everything of impending pleasure.

  You’re a disgrace to the family name.

  Take your punishment like a man.

  I’ll give you something to cry about.

  Quinn wrapped his hand around his rigid shaft and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  Was Quinn gathering his resolve? Hoping Jane would fall asleep? She waited and eventually his weight dipped his side of the bed.

  “Are you still awake, wife?”

  Had he hoped she’d drifted off? “I am awake, and I am your wife. Do you want me to beg, Quinn?” A half-formed suspicion suggested some men might like that, might like hearing women plead for masculine attention.

  Gordie’s lovemaking had settled into an expeditious undertaking, but Jane had liked the cuddling afterward, the sense that for a few minutes, she and her spouse were in charity with each other and with the world. Gordie could be charming, and, in that brief postlude, affectionate.

 
An odd sympathy for her first husband plagued her: Had Gordie, who’d always been the initiator of marital intimacies, felt uncertain of Jane’s affection? Had he hoped for overtures from her, as Jane had waited for overtures from her current husband?

  Quinn shifted to the middle of the bed. “Ye’d never beg.”

  Jane scooted over against him and used his thigh to pillow her knee. “I might put demands to you.”

  Quinn shifted to his side and resumed kissing her. For once, he was unhurried. Even his mind seemed to have slowed to focus solely on Jane and the present moment.

  “You must promise me,” Quinn said, gliding his palm over Jane’s thigh, “that you’ll not overdo while I’m gone, Jane. Rome wasn’t toppled in a day.”

  His hand was warm, his touch lovely.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go.” To leave me.

  “I’ll be back before Althea has finished her current novel.”

  The next kisses trailed lower, over Jane’s shoulders and neck. Quinn Wentworth could conjure magic with his mouth, leaving a path of heat and languor.

  Jane’s breasts were sensitive, and Quinn was careful, caressing rather than grabbing. Jane reciprocated by exploring his chest, tracing scars, finding a ticklish spot on his ribs. He caught her hand when she would have dared investigate lower.

  “On your side, Jane.”

  Lovemaking spoon-fashion had been an early addition to Jane’s wifely vocabulary. Several times she hadn’t even been fully awakened to accommodate a husband intent on an early morning tup. She complied with Quinn’s suggestion, though disgruntlement threaded through the moment.

  She wanted to see Quinn’s face when they made love.

  “Here.” Quinn passed her a pillow. “For your knee.”

  How could he know she was more comfortable with something under her knee? The midwife had suggested a creative use of pillows, and the improvement in Jane’s rest had been significant.