the tears of my tender girlhood. Then Aunt Knowe came along, and that was the end of the artistic part of my evening.”
They laughed at the same moment.
“My cousin is lucky that Lady Knowe didn’t hear of his sketches,” Jeremy said.
Betsy picked up the red billiard ball and replaced it in the center of the table. “I have a question. Do you actually get drunk, or are you just fooling?”
“Who could drink the better part of a bottle of whisky without becoming bosky at the least, and completely foxed at the worst?”
“So are you foxed? Because I don’t think you are. Your speech is very clear.”
“I was sent to Eton and Cambridge,” he told her. “The accent disguises any amount of folly.”
“Untrue,” Betsy said. “On his fifteenth birthday, Alaric drank two bowls of punch all by himself. He could barely speak. We lured him up to the nursery so Aunt Knowe couldn’t sober him up, and then fell about in fits of laughter.”
“From what I know of your brother Alaric,” Jeremy said, “I’d wager a guinea that he was bent on amusing the youngsters and enjoyed playing the part of a drunkard as much as you enjoyed seeing it.”
Betsy took another shot and botched the angle again. “I can’t remember well enough.” She met his eyes. “I don’t remember whether he slid under the table and went to sleep, for example, but I definitely remember you being fished off the floor like a sleepy toddler.”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Likely the nursery was a lively place and your squeals kept him awake.”
“Aunt Knowe was right!” she cried, straightening and planting her cue on the floor. “You didn’t pass out. You were merely bored!”
“Which time?” he asked genially. “Do you suppose if I ring the bell, Prism will send a footman? I could use another bottle of whisky.”
“Carper is outside the door, waiting to escort me to my chamber,” Betsy said. “You can send him if you like. Why do you bother drinking whisky if it does nothing for you? It leads to dropsy and tremors, and will turn your nose red.”
Jeremy’s eyebrow flew up. “That seems oddly specific.”
“Aunt Knowe made all of us read An Inquiry into the Effects of Ardent Spirits on the Human Mind and Body. Or perhaps it was Human Body and Mind. Are you hoping that liquor will send you to sleep if you drink enough of it?”
“I wouldn’t be so lucky.”
She sighed. There was nothing worse than a person who nagged about a friend’s bad habits. For example, her stepsister Viola kept urging Betsy to “be herself,” now that Betsy had proved so popular on the marriage market.
Won the war of the debutantes.
Whatever you wanted to call it.
“You should stop drinking,” she said, because Jeremy Roden was so ferocious that people likely felt they couldn’t tell him the truth. “If not for the sake of your liver, then because Shakespeare said it takes away the ‘performance.’ You don’t want to find yourself in proximity to a nightdress, flannel or otherwise, and be unable to play your part.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m losing my teeth at this young age? I assure you I can rip silk with one incisor.”
“You did tell Thaddeus that you had aged.” She rearranged the table, banking a right-angle shot off the left side.
“You are uncannily like your aunt,” Jeremy observed.
“I can’t imagine a better compliment,” Betsy replied. “Tell me again why you won’t give me a game?”
Silence.
Then a low voice drawled, “I’d be bored.”
“You’re a brute,” Betsy tossed over her shoulder.
Jeremy didn’t see any reason to answer that because, of course, she was right. “Why do you like billiards so much?” he asked instead.
That made Betsy actually turn around, her precious cue—he’d noticed how much she adored it—cradled in her arms. “It takes a great deal of concentration to stand on the back of a moving horse,” she announced.
“North boasted about your ability to do that. Just think: If all the gentlemen at your feet disappoint, you could join the circus.”
“It takes even more concentration to play billiards.”
“The tricky shots,” Jeremy said, nodding. “I have a friend who likes to send the ball backward.” He’d taught Jeremy the trick, though Jeremy didn’t add that.
Betsy made a scornful sound. “Billiards isn’t about flamboyance; those players lose to anyone who can make six or seven simple shots without making a mistake. I could beat your friend.”
He had no doubt of that, so in lieu of reply, he stood up and stuck his