My One and Only Duke--Includes a bonus novella

by Grace Burrowes

  Jane’s smile was commiserating. “Running away from home is a sane choice unless we run into the arms of a jealous countess?”

  Quinn’s world shifted with that smile and became a brighter, lighter place. He traveled the distance from a youth hauling a wagonload of self-recrimination to a man with a few regrets. His childhood home had been a hell of hopelessness. Of course he’d been bedazzled by a sophisticated woman who’d pretended to see something special in him.

  Of course he had.

  Jane came around the table and into Quinn’s arms, though he hadn’t made a decision to reach for her. He held her—held on to her—unable to say what exactly the conversation had accomplished, though Jane was no longer jabbing him in the chest and hurling thunderbolts.

  “I thought she liked me.” Quinn’s admission was foolish, pathetic even, but Jane’s honesty—or her courage—was apparently contagious.

  She nuzzled the lace of his neckcloth. “Imagine Stephen embroiled with some lordling’s castoff wife. Would you expect him to know liking from manipulation?”

  “That’s…”

  “Different? I suppose so. Stephen has had years to observe polite society at close range, to tip his hat to the ladies in the park, to smile at them in church. He comes from wealth, he’s exquisitely turned out, and can likely keep up in French, Latin, Greek, and German. You were the veriest lamb, by comparison.”

  On his most innocent day, Quinn had not been a lamb, but when it came to women—to ladies—he’d been staggeringly ignorant.

  “One doesn’t like to admit to having been seduced.”

  Jane peered up at him. “One doesn’t like to admit to having married a handsome buffoon simply because he looked dashing in his uniform and had such a charming accent. I like your accent too, by the way.”

  Quinn had spent years with elocution tutors trying to eradicate that accent. “I hope my speech is that of a gentleman.”

  “Of course it is, but when we’re in bed, it’s the speech of a gentleman from Yorkshire. Tell me about this daft countess.”

  Jane led Quinn by the hand to the sofa, and he allowed it—not because he was a lamb, but because she liked his accent. Or something. Why had the notion that a gentleman could sound as if he’d been raised in Yorkshire never occurred to him?

  “Beatrice was kicking her heels at the earl’s estate, which was to say she was going mad while he played at diplomacy on the Continent. I’d worked my way into a position in the stables, and she noticed me and promoted me to footman.”

  “Get comfortable,” Jane said. “This tale will take some telling.”

  How was one—?

  Jane shoved at his shoulders, and Quinn realized he was to stretch out on the sofa with his head in her lap. He accommodated that suggestion, because she was right. This tale—which he’d never shared with another—would take some telling.

  “She smiled at me, she took me with her everywhere. She casually brushed against me, had me carry her parcels up to her private parlor. She took my arm in public and asked my opinion when I escorted her from shop to shop. Then one day, when I had delivered some purchase or other to her sitting room, she kissed my cheek.”

  In hindsight, Quinn could see the progression, could see how calculated the dance steps had been. Too late, he’d learned that he hadn’t been her ladyship’s first little project, though he might well have been her last.

  “What a disgraceful woman,” Jane said. “She couldn’t be bothered to frolic with one of her own class; she had to prey on a boy.”

  Jane’s fingers stroking Quinn’s hair were gentle, her tone disgusted.

  “I wasn’t a boy, Jane. At sixteen, I was a strutting, snorting acolyte of the god Priapus, and convinced of my own manliness. She looked at me, and I was in torments. She ignored me, and I was in worse torments still. I was seventeen before we became intimate.” Not lovers. Whatever role Quinn had played in the woman’s life, he hadn’t been a lover.

  “I hate her,” Jane said, kissing Quinn’s brow. “Even if she didn’t send you to prison, I hate her.”

  And I love you. For surely, this affection and liking, this desire and willingness to trust, had to be love?

  “I don’t hate her,” Quinn said. “She taught me many valuable lessons. I learned to read and write because of her.”

  Jane’s fingers paused. “To read her letters? Oh, Quinn.”

  “At first to read her letters, but then I realized that if I ever wanted to be more than her plaything, I needed to better my circumstances, not simply work harder, but work smarter. My father’s rages had grown constant, the girls were getting older, the children never had any food, and something had to be done.”

  “Then your father broke Stephen’s leg.”

  The words still hurt, still hit Quinn with an inner blow. “Stephen told you about that?”

  “No details.”

  “He’s never shared the details. He was only four at the time. I assume Papa fell on him or dropped him, that the injury was accidental. In any case, Papa could not afford a doctor. By the time word got to me at the Tipton estate, setting the leg would have been difficult if not impossible, but I vowed then and there to disentangle myself from the countess.”

  “Did she let you go?”

  No, she had not. She’d raged, pouted, threatened, and promised, until Quinn had been as desperate to escape her as he’d once been to secure her approval. Would that Beatrice was more like Jane, determined to forgive and forget.

  “I left, eventually. Took a job with a banker for whom I’d once been an errand boy. With better manners, better speech, some literacy, and clean clothes, I made a passable clerk.”

  Jane smoothed his hair back. “You were a brilliant clerk, and your employer noticed.”

  “I wasn’t brilliant. I was honest. The old man left a five-pound note on the floor one night. I found it and returned it to him the next morning. He’d been testing me, and of all the clerks he’d tested in that manner, I was the first in twenty years to return his funds to him.”

  She traced a fingertip over Quinn’s eyebrows, then down the length of his nose. “Five pounds must have been a fortune to you then. Why didn’t you keep it?”

  “Because I am not my father. I do not willingly break the law. I accepted any work, no matter how wretched, because Jack Wentworth had had a trade and refused to ply it. I had no trade, but was determined to be the better man. The banker bequeathed me a modest sum along with advice regarding its use. I made discreet, sound investments, worked hard, had some wildly good luck in the spice trade, and became a wealthy man.”

  Jane hugged him. “You’re the best man. I still hate the countess. The very last thing you should do, though, is gratify her need to meddle by giving her any further attention. Ignore her. Her machinations failed, if indeed they were her machinations.”

  The baby moved where Jane’s belly pressed against the back of Quinn’s head. A kick, perhaps?

  “I cannot ignore a woman who uses her influence to threaten my life and my good name. I’ll at least make a few discreet inquiries.” More discreet inquiries, in France, in Yorkshire, all over the stews and alleys of London.

  Jane wrapped her hand around his nape and gently shook him. “If you kick over a hornet’s nest, you’ll be stung—badly. Do you know how my mother died?”

  He should know. Should have asked the reverend, if nothing else. “Tell me.”

  “She was devoted to the Magdalen houses, or to the women in them. She’d accompany Papa to the prison and sing the praises of those establishments to the fallen women. Papa admired her for this, while I attempted to dissuade her.”

  The Magdalen houses were little better than forced labor for the women admitted to them. The task assigned was typically laundry—heavy, uncomfortable labor for females in poor health, though the house made a profit off of their work, despite the stated agenda being the saving of souls. Wages were nominal, the food poor, and the sermons never ending.

  “You obje
cted to women being judged and overworked?” Quinn asked.

  “If I took up that fight…No, Quinn. I objected to my mother consorting in close quarters with a population carrying every possible illness. When influenza struck Mama’s favorite charitable home, nothing would do but she must tend the sick herself, though she’d already contracted a fever of some sort visiting the jails.”

  The lady’s husband had doubtless applauded her kindness, while Jane had gone mad. “Your mother fell ill?”

  “Of course, and Mama refused to rest, because she cared so very much about the soiled doves who would not have spared a farthing for her medical expenses.”

  Jane twitched the afghan over Quinn’s shoulders, though he hadn’t realized he’d grown chilled.

  “I’m sorry you lost your mother thus, Jane. She was clearly a good woman and dear to you.”

  A good, foolish woman. What sort of mother leaves a daughter half orphaned for the sake of strangers? But then, what sort of woman abandoned her five-year-old son to be with a paramour, when that son was left in the care of Jack Wentworth?

  “Mama would be alive now, Quinn, if she’d not been determined to take on the evils of the world. Papa said she died a saint’s death. I say she died of misguided stubbornness. My compassion for women in need is genuine—there but for your proposal I might have gone—but Mama wouldn’t listen, she wouldn’t give up, she wouldn’t take the prudent course even long enough to see to her own health.”

  And thus, Jane’s personal commandments included avoidance of anything resembling a dangerous quest.

  Or a dangerous countess. Good God, what a coil, and what a motivation for seeing Lady Tipton held accountable sooner rather than later.

  Quinn meant to ask Jane why her father didn’t simply apologize to the affronted bishop and exchange the charms of Newgate for ministering to some rural flock, but Jane stroked his brow, and her silence suggested further interrogation would pain her.

  Instead, he mentally drafted pronouncements about family safety, women in a delicate condition, and husbandly authority, but Jane’s caresses beguiled him, and then he was asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Jane needed to cry. To rage, weep, and curse for the young man who’d been served so many ill turns so early in life, but she instead remained sitting on the sofa while her husband dozed. Quinn’s recounting of his past had only made her respect him more and worry for him more.

  Why would a scorned lover come after Quinn now, when he was infinitely more powerful than he’d been as a footman?

  Why wait more than ten years to seek revenge, if that’s what this was? Why go to the excessive effort of bribing judges, prison officials, guards, witnesses—

  Jane’s thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. She eased herself around her sleeping husband, tucked a pillow under his head, and draped the afghan over him. If vengeance was the province of the Almighty, Jane hoped the countess soon stepped into the path of a celestial crossbow.

  She kissed Quinn’s cheek, smoothed his hair, and went to the door.

  “Beg pardon, Your Grace,” Ivor said. “Reverend Winston has come to call.” The footman scrupulously avoided peering into the library, though Quinn was fully clothed and merely napping—for a change.

  “His Grace fell asleep while reading,” Jane said. “Let him rest. I’ll wake him after I’ve dealt with my father.”

  Which ordeal Jane did not anticipate with proper daughterly joy.

  “Mr. Winston is in the family parlor. Would you like a tea tray, ma’am?”

  Jane would like Ivor to stand at the door of the family parlor, looking formidable and fierce, but if Papa thought he had an audience, he’d likely stay even longer.

  “Please bring a tray, and then return here to ensure nobody disturbs the duke.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Shall I send Kristoff to attend you in the family parlor?”

  Stephen’s words came back to Jane: You need to realize when you’re not safe. You need to realize you’re a Wentworth now.…But what havoc could Papa wreak, besides pilfering knickknacks or overstaying his welcome?

  “Thank you, no.”

  Ivor’s shoulders tensed, suggesting that Jane had given offense to a loyal retainer. She hadn’t time to smooth ruffled feathers when Papa was unattended on the premises.

  When she reached the family parlor, Papa was peering at the underside of a French porcelain bowl that held dried rose petals scented with a dash of nutmeg. Because the bowl was full, he’d had to lift it over his head to read the maker’s mark.

  “Papa, good day.”

  He set the bowl on the piano. “Jane Hester.”

  Filial affection dictated that she go to him and embrace him—Papa had a half dozen sermons on the requirement to honor one’s progenitors—and yet she didn’t. “The tea tray is on the way. Shall we be seated?”

  He took the middle of the sofa, leaving Jane an armchair. “You’re looking well, daughter.”

  “I’m feeling somewhat better. I’ve been able to catch up on my rest.” Also to stuff herself with red meat, fresh fruits and vegetables, and the occasional sweet.

  Papa picked up a gold snuff box that held lemon drops. The lid was embossed with an ornate W, and the formal parlor held others like it.

  “He treats you well, then?”

  Put it down, Papa. “If you refer to His Grace, my husband, I am abundantly happy under his roof. Help yourself to a lemon drop.”

  The reverend helped himself to three. “I have worried for you, Jane Hester. Prayed for you.”

  “Prayers are always appreciated. How did your service for Mr. Carruthers go?”

  “Carruthers? What has he—? Oh, right. Turn the other cheek. Very well received, as always. A central tenet of faith for the true believer. In that same spirit, I find myself on your doorstep, despite the lack of manners with which you last received me.”

  He had been received with a full breakfast buffet. “If my manners were wanting, perhaps your own needed improvement. You taught me not to malign a man behind his back.”

  Two more lemon drops were crunched into oblivion. “I don’t malign, Jane Hester. I speak the God’s honest truth. Your husband is a man of dubious antecedents, and you might be blinded by his filthy lucre or the pleasures of the flesh, but you are still my daughter, however wayward your path.”

  What answer could Jane give that was both respectful and honest? “I took vows in the eyes of God and man, Papa. My path is not wayward, and I esteem my husband greatly.” Please, in the name of all that’s holy, let the tea tray arrive, so that food and drink might distract Papa from the sermon he was determined to deliver.

  “I beg the Almighty nightly to forgive me for ever allowing you to come with me to minister to the less fortunate, Jane Hester. I get on my knees and fervently importune Him to expunge that guilt from my soul. Had I not permitted you to aid me, then you would never have—”

  “You did not permit me to come with you, Papa. You insisted. You berated me for wanting to stay home and rest, for not measuring up to Mama’s standards. You harangued me about God’s distaste for the slothful. What you thought I could accomplish in such an environment still eludes me.”

  Jane knew better than to react to his provocation, but the past weeks of rest, good nutrition, and being a Wentworth had put some of the fight back in her. Papa was not honest, not with himself, not with her, not with the world.

  Papa turned loose of the snuff box and bowed his head. “Jane Hester, you wound me.”

  Before Papa could elaborate on the mortal nature of his injury, Ivor brought in the tea tray, and Papa revived miraculously. For a few minutes, tea, shortbread, cakes, and oranges delayed further sermonizing.

  Ivor hovered by the door and pretended to ignore the look Jane sent him.

  You are a Wentworth. You aren’t safe.

  Stephen had been so serious with that warning, so sure of his point. Had Jane been a tea cake, she might have agreed, for Papa had consumed t
hem all, and yet, she wanted her father out of the house. Talk of scheming countesses with long memories had made her uneasy, particularly when Quinn’s nature was to confront rather than to ignore a slight.

  “How is Mrs. Sandridge?” Jane asked.

  “A bit more tea, if you please,” Papa replied around a mouthful of shortbread. “Mrs. Sandridge is well, though you might call upon her yourself, if you’re truly concerned. I’ve asked her to look about for a wet nurse when the time comes.”

  Jane did not expect her father to make a great deal of sense, but that pronouncement baffled her. Mrs. Sandridge was well past childbearing age.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “For the child,” Papa said, gesturing with his shortbread. “Though of course there’s time to sort all of that out.” He held up his teacup. “The tea, Jane Hester. A guest should not have to ask twice.”

  Jane poured out as foreboding filled her belly. Either Papa had lost his last claim to sanity, or he’d found a new way to plague his only child.

  “What do you mean, ‘for the child’?”

  “Thank you, Jane Hester. I want to be entirely prepared to receive MacGowan’s offspring into my household, of course. His will was very clear: I’m to be guardian of any afterborn heirs and see to their welfare. I can’t very well see to the welfare of a child being reared by a convicted felon, can I?”

  On his best day, Papa was not a fit guardian for a well-trained lap dog.

  “You have taken leave of your senses if you think I’ll surrender any child of mine into the keeping of a man who can’t pay for his own coal.”

  “Temper, Jane Hester. The female mind is so easily overset. Thank heavens that men of sound faculties can make arrangements for innocent children, lest a mother’s frailties condemn the child to a wayward path. Might we have more tea cakes? They’re quite small.”

  Jane rose to tug the bellpull, mind whirling. Gordie had left a will—officers were required to—and she had no idea what the will said.

  “Do you suppose Uncle Dermott will allow you to raise a MacGowan, Papa?” Though as to that, Jane would rather the child be raised in London than on some godforsaken Scottish moor.