About which, Stephen was torn.

“Promising her ponies and peppermints?” Quinn asked, leaning his head against the back of the chair.

“Promising to kill anybody who brings her dishonor.”

“That’s my job, though Jane will usurp that honor from both of us. Why are the children always so good for you?”

Because I love them. Of course, Quinn and Jane loved their children, but Stephen never envisioned having progeny of his own—what sort of father couldn’t carry his own toddler up to the nursery at the end of the day?—and thus Stephen’s love was gilded with desperation.

These children had to be happy, they had to thrive, or he would go mad.

“The children are simply children,” he said, “and that wonder bedazzles me whenever I behold them.” The girls were the antidote to Stephen’s memories, tonic for the constant pain of a leg that would never be straight or strong.

“You are a fraud, Stephen Wentworth.” Quinn pronounced sentence gently. “You travel the world leaving a trail of lordly disdain and casual brilliance. You build heavy artillery and small arms, you destroy any business that you take into dislike, but in your heart, you were meant for domesticity.”

The baby sighed, the softest, most contented exhalation ever to soothe an upset uncle.

“I am about as well suited to domesticity,” Stephen said, “as you are to be a duke.”

Quinn’s gaze shifted from Stephen to the baby. “Jane says I’ve grown into the title, and my duchess is never wrong. She sent me to retrieve yon hooligan, and when it comes to Her Grace’s whim, I am pleased to step and fetch.”

Stephen’s every instinct clamored to keep the baby close and safe, to guard her from even the loving attentions of her own parents, and yet, he could not safely rise with the child in his arms.

He could not manage the baby, a cane—much less two canes—and a door latch.

This limitation, previously acknowledged mostly in the abstract, had consumed his awareness since he’d kissed Abigail Abbott that very morning.

He passed the child to her father. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with the next one.”

Quinn cradled his daughter with the practiced ease of a father of four. “Wee Mary and her sisters are all the luck I could ask for, Stephen. I will not subject my wife to childbed again. Jane was in agony for the better part of two days. Only her great fortitude and determination brought about a happy result, and even if she is willing to risk another pregnancy for the sake of the succession, I am not.”

Truly, Quinn had become a duke, for he delivered that blow in the most casual tones, rising easily to tuck his daughter against his shoulder.

“Jane will change your mind.” A desperate hope.

“Jane changed my mind last time and this time, and my capitulation nearly killed her. I will not be talked around again, even by Jane.”

Jane’s fixity of purpose made Toledo steel look like so much crumpled tin. Quinn, however, was the one force of nature whom Jane could not and would not cozen, cajole, or command when he’d settled on a course. Stephen did not understand how marital differences were resolved between two such people, but he did know that trading Jane’s life for a male child was no bargain at all.