Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,3

out a chamber containing little more than a walnut gaming table and a few armchairs.

Since the castle was larger than most garrisons, no music could be heard in the corner where Lord Jeremy Roden—late of His Majesty’s Royal Artillery—sat with his legs sprawled before him, one hand clenched around a glass of whisky.

Which left the other free to irritably prod his halo back in place.

It was composed of stiffened wire supposedly holding up a circlet covered with spangles and brilliants. In his case, the wire wasn’t doing its job, and the damned thing listed to the side like a sailor whose pecker wasn’t up to shore leave.

Lady Knowe had decreed that all uncostumed guests, which included most of her own nephews, would accept a halo or suffer the consequences. In the resulting plethora of noisy angels thronging the ballroom, no one’s curious eyes had noticed that his halo was attached to a bandage wound around his head.

If he were the grateful type, he’d be grateful.

Hell, he was grateful.

He hadn’t been looking forward to explaining that the bandage hid a nearly healed bullet wound—fired by a lady, as a matter of fact. The poor woman had been dispatched to a sanitarium, and the wound was almost healed.

Unfortunately, the bandage was doing a rotten job of hoisting his halo over his head: Dancing turned from tiresome to mortifying with a limp circlet bobbing next to his ear.

What’s more, merely being in a ballroom thronged with angels made a man think hard about war and its damned inconveniences. If he’d died in the American colonies, would an angel have swooped low over the battlefield and caught up his sorry soul?

Not bloody likely.

He took another swig of whisky, telling himself that he wasn’t the only man in that ballroom who didn’t deserve his sanctified millinery.

The Wilde men had been blessed with beauty, wits, and brilliance—but angelic they were not.

Any more than he was.

Guilt echoed in the void where his soul used to be, and he upended the glass, pushing away the stab of remorse that had become his hourly companion. The whisky scorched down his throat, though (alas) his mind was clear, and his fingers didn’t have the slightest tremble.

Liquor stopped doing its job long ago, but it turned out to be an excellent shield against polite society. He plucked up the glass again, relishing the way the last few drops burned his tongue. Perhaps he should try—

The door swung open and he heard a man say, “After you, my lady.”

Jeremy shoved his chair farther into the shadowy corner. No one would find his way to this room to play billiards; chances were good he was about to have a front row seat on a visit to Cock Alley, played out on the duke’s precious billiard table. Who was he to deny them an audience?

His glass empty, Jeremy was reaching for the bottle when the lady in question replied, “My skirts are caught on the hinge, my lord; would you be so kind as to disentangle me?”

Jeremy slammed back in his chair, eyes narrowing.

Lady Boadicea Wilde.

The wildest of the Wildes, the duke’s eldest daughter—who strangely enough demanded that everyone call her Betsy.

A ridiculous name for a woman who could shoot the cork out of a bottle from a galloping horse . . . according to her brothers, at least.

Outside the door, a rustle of silk indicated that her escort was doing his best to free her. She must have forgotten to turn sideways. Betsy’s skirts were wider than most doors, and her wigs were always lofty. Tonight her wig was adorned with a halo, which made her taller than most men.

The last was intentional, to Jeremy’s mind. She liked being taller than her feckless suitors.

Betsy was the only Wilde whom Jeremy couldn’t tolerate. Unfortunately, given that she had an unhealthy obsession with billiards and this room had become his refuge, he had seen all too much of her during his two-month stay at Lindow Castle.

She was damned rash, coming here, a distance from the ballroom, with a man. Just like a Wilde, actually: arrogant to a fault, but in an effortless way that simply expected that lesser mortals would bow to their status.

He’d bet a mountain of ha’pennies that no chaperone had accompanied them.

She didn’t understand the way men thought about women. The “gentleman” she was with could be planning to compromise her reputation.

Or worse.

Blood roared through his body, a flood of pure anger chasing away the guilt that was his usual companion. It