When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,12
still apparently a stranger to Stephen’s siblings.
“I could send him a note, Quinn, but if he was in the middle of a good book, he’d shrug, set the note aside, and neglect to inform his housekeeper. Did you know he sought to publish a travelogue of our itinerary?”
“Everybody is publishing travelogues.”
And Quinn, who had not learned to read until late adolescence, had no time for literature that merely entertained and broadened the mind. He could glean more about a person from examining their ledger book than any priest had ever learned in a confessional, but Quinn had probably never read a complete work of fiction.
“Do you read anything other than the bank reports, Quinn?”
“I read to the children.” He nuzzled the baby’s nape. “I like poetry. Some poetry.”
That made sense. “Poetry doesn’t take thousands of words to tell a story.”
“Exactly. Poetry gets straight to the point and does in twenty lines what Duncan’s philosophers couldn’t sort out as well in an entire book.”
“So have you memorized a poem to spring on Jane?”
Quinn rose again, the child cradled against his chest. “Speaking of Jane, she must have decided to wedge in a nap along with changing her dress. Before you leave for your missionary work in Berkshire, stay a few days and let Jane cosset you. The girls and I could use the reinforcements.”
He quit the room on that admission, the baby waving a damp fist at Stephen over her papa’s shoulder.
Duncan might not be lonely, but Stephen certainly was. He left a volume of Wordsworth’s poetry so “The Daffodils” was open on the low table before the hearth—Quinn’s preferred end of the sofa—and sent a footman to inform the stables that he’d ride for Berkshire in the morning.
Chapter Three
“I thought we discussed the undesirability of your death from exposure to the elements.” Duncan stopped short of the desk at which Miss Maddie of the Abundant Caution sat swathed in two shawls, a third shawl draped over her lap. “This will not do, madam.”
He’d sent her a note to meet him in the library after she’d broken her fast, and then he’d been waylaid by his gamekeeper. Mr. Hefner had taken fifteen minutes to convey that before the snow had started he’d found snares set along three different game trails by the river.
Miss Maddie remained seated, an indication that she was indeed a lady. A servant, a runaway governess, or a housekeeper who’d stolen a few too many spoons would have popped to her feet.
“You said to meet you in the library, Mr. Wentworth. This is the library.”
“This is an ice cave with a few books in it,” Duncan said. “Come with me.”
She did not so much as gather up her shawls. “Where are we going?”
“To the darkest dungeon in the dankest cave in the magical land every schoolchild knows to be secreted beneath the farms of Berkshire.”
Her gaze went to the two-story windows, which helped make the library impossible to heat. She regarded the falling snow with the sort of bleakness Duncan might have expected from Stephen, for whom a snowfall was tantamount to house arrest. At least twelve inches had come down during the night, and more was slowly accumulating. Nobody would travel in this weather.
Nobody with any sense. “You sought to leave this morning,” Duncan said, the realization oddly disappointing. Was his company truly so unappealing that she’d rather fend for herself on the open road than transcribe his journals?
“One doesn’t like to be a burden, Mr. Wentworth.” She was still too skinny, still pale, but her eyes had acquired a battle light, albeit one with the wick turned low.
For now. Stephen had had the same frustrated air when Duncan had taken him on as a pupil, and great conflagrations had blossomed from that dull spark—thank God and Wentworth stubbornness.
“Did no one ever tell you that pride is a sin, Miss Maddie?”
“Did no one ever tell you that sermonizing is the province of clergy, Mr. Wentworth?”
“As it happens, I studied for the church and actually held a curate’s post. If you would be so good as to join me in the estate office, I will humbly attempt to contain my joy at your continued company. The estate office is kept so warm that you will not even be able to see your breath.”
“Where is the rabbit?” she asked, rising. “I ask myself, if the creature has only its fur coat for protection, and can thrive despite weeks of bitter weather, where does it shelter?”