Page 94 of My One and Only Duke

“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Jane said, touching her nose to his. “We haven’t even decided where to put the nursery yet.”

If he let her wander off on that topic she’d still be chattering away at sunset, and Quinn’s schedule did not permit him that much patience.

“We haven’t chosen a name,” he said, lifting his hips to scoot closer. “Perhaps we can discuss that later.”

He eased into the joining, and though he and Jane had made love a dozen times, he still marveled at the pleasure and intimacy. Lovemaking with Jane was more than physical union, it was…

The quest for words slipped away as Jane folded down onto Quinn’s chest. Her caresses and sighs confirmed that she wanted a sweet, relaxed loving, and so he sent her over the edge only twice before permitting himself to spend.

His hands drifted over her back, tracing sturdy bones and elegant curves while Jane’s breathing slowed. What did it say about him, that these moments of absolute contentment and closeness were as enjoyable as the erotic satisfaction?

“I’ll fall asleep,” she murmured.

She always fell asleep after lovemaking. Quinn was counting on her remaining true to form.

“You rest,” he said, easing her to her side. “I’ll be right back.”

He kissed her shoulder, left the bed, and brought her a damp flannel. Before she passed it back to him, she was already yawning.

“You’ll think me lazy,” she said, cuddling down into the covers.

“I think you lovely.” And worth protecting at any cost.

Quinn climbed in beside her and held her until he was certain she was lost to dreams. With one more kiss to her cheek, he slipped from the bed, dressed, and prepared to confront a murderess.

* * *

“Himself never comes home in the middle of the day,” Ned said.

Davies was peeling apples, the long, thin spiral of skin hanging over the slop bucket. “Himself is married and a duke. He needn’t get your permission to do anything.”

Ned took an apple from the basket. This time of year, they were less than crisp but still fine for cooking—or juggling. He started with two, because he was out of practice.

“But we’re not to leave him to his own devices. Miss Jane said.”

“He’s not alone, Ned Dunderpate. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Taught meself. Juggling’s good for a copper every now and then, a legal copper.” He caught the two apples, selected a third, and started over. “Being a pickpocket is like doing a magic trick. What was in a bloke’s pocket disappears and he’s none the wiser.”

“Being a pickpocket is how you ended up in Newgate.”

Three apples required attention—five was the best Ned had ever done—and arguing with Davies required attention.

“I’m done picking pockets.” Ned hoped this was true, though the duties he’d been given consisted merely of taking the air twice a day when himself went to the bank, and delivering the occasional message for the bank.

That and regular trips to the pawnshops.

Which was a worrisome state of affairs. In Ned’s opinion, giving a boy a cot in the laundry, three meals a day, and new boots entitled His Grace to slavish devotion, not simply stepping and fetching around the neighborhood.

“If you’re smart, you’re done with all the games,” Davies said, starting on a second apple. “Not another boy in all of London has gone from Newgate to a duke’s household. Play your cards right, you could be a footman.”

The back door closed. In the window above the sink, Ned saw a boot-level view of the duke crossing the garden.

Ned caught all three apples and tossed one of them to Davies. “A tiger’s work is never done.” He bolted up the steps and caught up with his employer. “So where are we off to, guv?”

The duke kept walking. “I am off to the bank, on foot. You will remain at your post in the kitchen in case the ladies need your services this afternoon.”

Like hell. “It’s half day. Where are the running footmen?”