She dozed off, her breathing becoming soft and slow, while the dragon on the ceiling appeared to smile down upon them. Stephen remained awake, mentally sifting through the puzzle of how to convince Abigail Abbott to become his duchess.

His truly, forever, one and only duchess.

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

“This is serious.”

Quinn’s duchess sounded serious, and Jane looked serious as she watched two enormous dogs get to know each other in the afternoon sunshine.

“They’re playing,” Quinn said. “Becoming acquainted. They seem quite compatible.” The new dog, Hercules, was the larger of the pair, also the younger and more willing to frolic. Wodin was trying to stand on his dignity and even mustering an occasional growl for form’s sake, but when Hercules went gamboling off among the hydrangeas, Wodin woofed and gave chase.

Much rustling in the bushes ensued, as well as some barking.

“I don’t mean the dogs are serious,” Jane said. “I mean that Stephen would procure that dog for Miss Abbott is serious.”

If any member of the Wentworth family could inspire Jane to frowning, it was Stephen. “My brother is generous,” Quinn said. “That’s one of his three fine qualities, but don’t ask me what the other two are.”

Jane gave him a your-wife-is-not-impressed look over her embroidery hoop. She’d brought her workbasket out to the back terrace, and Quinn had brought some draft bills to read, though he wasn’t making much progress with them.

“Stephen is loyal,” Jane said. “He’s hardworking, he’s kind.”

“Kind? The man who seeks to patent a repeating pistol is kind? I grant you Stephen is loyal, but Wodin is loyal and causes much less drama.” Quinn loved his brother, truly he did, but he did not understand Stephen. From a young age, Quinn’s challenge had been to find paying work, no matter how filthy or miserable. He’d dug graves, he’d carried night soil, he’d worn livery and toadied to the wellborn. His pride hadn’t mattered half so much as his ability to keep his younger siblings fed.

He no longer labored with his hands, but he worked long hours both at the bank and in the House of Lords. Stephen had been injured too early in life to have any experience of brute manual labor. He tinkered and sketched and flirted his days away, coming up with brilliant mechanical devices as more of a hobby than a vocation.

“Wodin is a canine,” Jane said. “I hadn’t realized he’s lonely.”

The dogs emerged from the hydrangeas, both tails waving happily. Wodin nipped at Hercules’s shoulder, and Hercules dodged off down the garden path.

“Wodin is…” Wodin gave chase, looking much younger than he had five minutes earlier. “Why do you say that?”

“Look at him, Quinn. He’s acting like a puppy. He’s not watching you to make sure you are watching me. He’s being a dog.”