When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,49
best duke of the lot, having not been spoiled by the typical aristocratic upbringing. The other duchesses conceded that he was exceedingly handsome, and one had even allowed that Quinn “bore a resemblance to a younger version of my Percival.”
The best part of being a duchess, however, was that Jane’s opinions were never brushed aside as those of a mere woman, an impecunious widow, or a lowly minister’s daughter. She bore the constant weight of public scrutiny, but by God, she was no longer a silent, invisible wretch dependent on her father for grudging charity.
“You have that look in your eye,” Quinn said, taking off his glasses. He was past thirty and jaw-droppingly gorgeous in a tall, dark, and delicious way. His Grace was also regarding Jane with a particular look in his eye.
He was at the desk in their sitting room—the bedroom no longer had a desk—while Jane was on the sofa pretending to go through correspondence. Mostly, she was sharing a quiet hour with her husband before they’d attend a musicale. Quinn loved music and had developed skill at the keyboard in the past few years.
“What sort of look do you refer to?” Jane asked, shuffling her letters into a stack.
“The hatching-one-of-your-plots look. It’s too soon for another baby, Jane. I must stand firm on that. Artemis should be at least a year old before another one is on the way.”
“I agree.” Artemis was a gloriously healthy little stoat, meaning she put demands on Jane that quite honestly sapped a mother’s energies.
“Althea and Constance have gone north for the winter,” Quinn said, joining Jane on the sofa. “That leaves you free to fret over Stephen and Duncan. Which one are you worried about?”
Quinn had noticed that Jane was worried, while she had considered herself merely preoccupied.
“You don’t think they’re lovers, do you?” she asked. “If they had that sort of attachment my view of the situation would be very different.”
Quinn stretched out on the sofa, resting his head against Jane’s thigh. “You’d still fret. Duncan has never inclined toward men that I know of, but then, for the past five years he’s been traveling more than he’s been in England. With Stephen, I can’t be sure. For all I know, he might fancy both women and men at the same time, as many as a bed can hold.”
Not that Quinn would care, for which Jane loved him.
“Something’s afoot, Quinn. Stephen is a conscientious correspondent and we haven’t heard from him since he decamped for Brightwell.”
Quinn stroked Jane’s knee. “He’s likely trying to help Duncan put the place to rights. Stephen’s property runs like a top, and the boy’s not stupid.”
Stephen hadn’t been a boy five years ago. “You gave Stephen a small estate in excellent repair. Pulling Brightwell back from ruin would be unknown terrain for him.”
Jane’s marriage was an ever-changing and fascinating terrain. Who would have thought that a man’s idle touch on a lady’s knee could have erotic repercussions, for example? Jane stroked Quinn’s hair in retaliation, and for the sheer pleasure of petting her husband.
Quinn turned on his side, a more comfortable posture for a man of his height. “Stephen did send a request for funds to the bank. He ordered a substantial sum sent out to Brightwell.”
“That makes no sense. Brightwell is not his to invest in. Would he be making Duncan a loan?”
“Duncan would not ask Stephen for a loan.”
Wentworths understood money as only people raised without it could. Jane’s upbringing hadn’t been as difficult as Quinn’s—hell’s muck pit would have been inviting compared to Quinn’s childhood—but she knew less of Duncan’s youth.
“Would Duncan ask you for a loan?”
“No, nor would I offer one. He has funds. His wages were generous as Stephen’s tutor, his expenses next to none. He has been investing wisely for nearly a decade, and his aunt left him a tidy property in Yorkshire that’s brought in steady rental income. If need be, Duncan could retire to his Yorkshire acres and live a very comfortable, gentlemanly existence.”
Jane gave Quinn’s ear a stout pinch. “We can’t let that happen. Yorkshire is much too far away. He’ll bury himself in a mountain of Latin translations, send us an annual letter at Yuletide, and grow reclusive.”
Quinn’s hand glided lower, stroking Jane’s calf. “Duncan thrives on travel. He’ll not grow reclusive. I suspect he might hold on to the place out of sentiment. His wife is buried near the property.”
“His wife? How could I be a member of this family for five years