Page 58 of My One and Only Duke

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.