Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,20

head out the door. A footman leaned against the wall, eyes half closed. “A pot of tea, if you please,” he said. “You might as well get yourself a cup before you return, as Lady Boadicea will be an hour or two at least. You’re no use to her if you’re asleep on your feet.”

“Of course, my lord,” the footman said, trotting away.

It was astonishing to realize that everyone in the castle—from Lady Knowe to a lowly footman—appeared to have concluded that he posed no danger to Betsy. That footman left without a second thought.

Jeremy could ravish her. Didn’t they think of that? They were putting a lot of weight on loyalty to the Wilde family, if that was their reasoning.

Maybe the household considered him akin to a Wilde, but that was absurd.

He’d only met Betsy two months ago. He wasn’t Parth, for God’s sake, who wasn’t related to the Wildes by blood, but a member of the family in every way that mattered.

He was just a friend of North’s and no more.

Jeremy returned to his chair. If he tried something untoward, she would ram the billiard cue into his stomach.

Maybe that was it. Maybe they knew Betsy would defend her honor to the death and they trusted her to fight him off.

She was bent over the table, lining up the cue and ball, her upper teeth clamped on her lower lip the way she did when she concentrated. She was a hell of a billiard player.

If they ever played and he actually wanted to win—because the two times she’d bullied him into it, he hadn’t given a damn—he could give her a true match. His father and he rarely saw eye-to-eye, but they had been most civil to each other over a billiard table.

Now he thought of it, that’s probably why he wouldn’t play her. Too much of an echo of his childhood.

Of course, the Wildes were right, whatever their reasoning: He would never ravish a woman. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the view from the corner. Every time Betsy bent over the table, he had a delicious view of either her breasts or her arse.

The fact her skirts extended to the sides emphasized the round swell of her bottom. Her breasts peeked out the top of her corseted bodice, gorgeous handfuls that blushed pink when she was angry.

A man lucky enough to bed her would probably think up ways to annoy her, just to see that delightful haze of color flood from her bosom to her cheeks.

Perhaps when she was aroused . . .

Proving that she had no idea that his thoughts had wandered in a lascivious direction, Betsy bent down, eased her cue forward, and lined up a shot that apparently was meant to go from the left rail to the right, and from thence to the pocket.

Her eyes betrayed the angle she wanted, but her arm was at the wrong height. It wouldn’t work. And it didn’t.

One thing you could say for Betsy Wilde: She didn’t give up. She didn’t even sigh, just plucked up the ball and returned it to its place.

“You’re holding your right elbow too high,” Jeremy growled.

She immediately adjusted her elbow, one of the rare instances in which she’d listened to him. Then she replaced the ball and tried the shot again. It worked.

“Now try from this side, but bend lower over the table,” he ordered.

She obediently moved around the table so her back was to him and bent over to put the ball into place—and froze. She put her cue across the table with a click and turned about, crossing her arms over her chest. “Why?”

“So I have a better look at your arse, of course,” he said.

“I should whack you over the head and put you out of your misery,” Betsy muttered, moving back around the table to the other side.

“This angle isn’t bad either,” he said a few minutes later, after she’d managed to finesse the angle twice. He was beginning to feel slightly repentant about ogling her bosom, though not enough to force him to his feet and out of the room.

A glimmer of the gentleman he used to be was making itself known, pointing out that he oughtn’t to gawk at a lady’s curves without permission.

Betsy would never give permission, obviously. She wasn’t Lady Tallow, who shook her bosom in front of him like a bowl full of jelly, reminded him of the castle’s two peacocks.

Lacking a peahen, they spent their time rattling their feathers