How to Catch a Duke by Grace Burrowes (buy e reader TXT) 📕

a room to come to my side and accidentally knock Stephen over. Something as casual as jostling Stephen’s cane can send him to his knees. I’ve seen it happen.”

So had Quinn. “When Stephen falls, I’m torn between wanting to put him in a Bath chair for the rest of his life and wanting to kill whoever so thoughtlessly bumped his elbow.”

“And how do you think Stephen feels?”

Quinn avoided wondering how Stephen felt. Stephen had barely survived his adolescence, so given was he to histrionics. Only Duncan’s timely intervention with a great lot of book learning and scientific twaddle had distracted Stephen from his self-pity.

“I think Stephen feels resentful when he takes a tumble. Any man would.”

Jane closed the lid of her workbasket. “No, Quinn. Any man would feel ashamed to go sprawling to the cobbles while his family looks on. A two-year-old can walk upright with reasonable assurance. Not Stephen Wentworth, but he hasn’t given up trying.”

“Stephen is determined. I’ll grant you that.”

“How generous of you.”

Jane was by nature sensible and kind. She did not resort to sarcasm often, which suggested to Quinn that he was Missing The Point.

“Jane, have mercy. What subtlety am I not seeing where Stephen is concerned?”

“Spend a day in a Bath chair, Quinn. Force yourself to carry two canes at all times. Trip on the bank steps while half of London is passing on the walkway. Though you are smart enough to take firsts in every subject, pass up Eton and Oxford because you can’t manage the steps, can’t manage the schoolyard brutality. Can’t manage the mud. You think Stephen is so different from you, but he’s not.”

“He’s proud.” All the Wentworths were proud, and God be thanked for that, else London society would have eaten them alive.

“He’s proud, and he’s stubborn. His stubbornness makes your determination look like…What are those dogs doing?”

Wodin was trying to hump Hercules, who apparently wasn’t interested in playing that game. “They’re deciding who’s in charge. Finish your thought about Stephen.” Because whatever point Jane was making, Quinn had the sense that it could help him solve the puzzle that was his only brother.

“Stephen lives in constant pain. You do not. Stephen lives with constant humiliation. You do not. Stephen would die to protect you, while you want to put him in a Bath chair so he doesn’t suffer any more public falls. You tell Ned you’re proud of him every chance you get.”

“I am proud of Ned. The damned lad should have been transported by now, but he’s as upright as any Methodist.”

“And Stephen should be dead. He should have given up or consigned himself to the solution Jack Wentworth chose, blaming everybody and everything for his miseries when he was sober enough to make that effort.”

“Stephen is honorable.” Quinn made that admission slowly. Why was it an admission, and a reluctant one?

“How did Jack Wentworth die, Quinn?”

What an odd question. “Bad gin. It was bound to happen. I was working on a fishing boat that summer, gone for two weeks at a time, and Jack apparently went on one bender too many. Why do you ask?”

Jane watched the dogs, who were back to sniffing and frisking about. “You should ask Stephen about that time. Hercules seems like a very sweet dog.”

Some leap of female logic had occurred. Stephen, oddly enough, might have been able to follow it. Quinn could not.

“Stephen bought him from Willow Dorning, purveyor of fine canines. The beast is certainly well trained.”

“But the dog is huge,” Jane said. “Stephen would not have purchased such a pet for Miss Abbott if he intended to spend a significant amount of time with her.”

“He should have bought her the typically irksome lapdog, but Stephen must be original in all regards. Miss Abbott seemed pleased.”

Miss Abbott was another mystery. Quinn had never met a woman so self-possessed and mannish. And what exactly did an inquiry agent do, anyway?

“She was pleased, but she did not understand that Stephen gave her such a dog only because Stephen sees his path and hers diverging.”

Truly, the conversation had become confusing. “It’s a sham engagement, Jane. When Stapleton has been flushed from his covert and the business with the letters sorted out, Miss Abbott will go back to whatever she does, and Stephen will resume his patronage of opera dancers.”

Jane left off watching the dogs. “What do you think Stephen and Miss Abbott are doing right now, Quinn?”

He thought back over the breakfast conversation. “Shopping for gloves? Picking out fans?”

“She has no use for fashionable accessories. He hates crowded walkways and fawning clerks.”

Hence, the publicly besotted couple had…“That is damned fast work, even for Stephen. I might have to have a word with him, Jane. Miss Abbott is nominally under my protection, and Stephen is a strutting cocksman, canes or no canes.”

“When has Stephen ever asked us for anything, Quinn?”

“He doesn’t have to ask. We all hop to anticipate his needs.”

“Did he need to travel up to York this spring to keep an eye on Althea for us?”

“He was restless.”

Jane rose and leaned across the table. “Did he need to assist Rothhaven and Constance with their situation? Did he need to travel out to Berkshire in the winter mud and slush when Duncan and Matilda were in such difficulties? Did he need to come armed to the party when you and your old friend the viscountess were having a rather dangerous reunion?”

Jane never threw that situation at Quinn, and she wasn’t exactly throwing it at him now.

“I’ve conceded that Stephen is loyal.”

“He’s loyal, he’s brave, he’s fierce, and he’s in love with Abigail Abbott, but he won’t offer for her. If I had given birth to a boy, even one boy…”

She subsided into her chair, and Quinn reached for her hand. “Never say that. Never ever say that. You and the girls are my entire happiness, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Tell me what to do regarding Stephen and Miss Abbott, and I’ll do it, and the perishing title can go