her mother’s lusty nature. It was no excuse for feeling sorry for herself.
Instead she would go on just as she had, but with special attention to anything that could destroy her reason and common sense. Send her into a haze of desire.
In short: Jeremy.
It was actually a fortunate event that she now had experience with a disreputable man, who’d kissed her only after making it clear that he had no wish for marriage. She had to avoid situations in which she might lose her head and end up married to the wrong man, for the wrong reasons.
Today the remaining wedding guests would return home. Parth and Lavinia were returning to London. Diana and North were leaving as well, planning to take Diana’s nephew Godfrey to Scotland to visit the clan that the little boy would someday lead. Last night, her stepmother, Ophelia, had decided that she and the duke would accompany them, since Artie, Betsy’s little sister, didn’t like to be separated from Godfrey.
Among the family, only Aunt Knowe would remain to chaperone Betsy, Viola, and Joan. And that meant that only her aunt would be available to forbid Betsy’s plan to masquerade as a boy. Kiss or no, Betsy couldn’t ignore the yearning inside her to do something that wasn’t ladylike.
By the time she climbed from the bath, her good humor was restored. With her father and stepmother on the way to Scotland, it would be easy for her to escape the castle for a day. She merely had to talk Aunt Knowe into accompanying her to Wilmslow.
She was fairly confident that her aunt would agree. Every naughty idea she had as a young girl had been seconded by Aunt Knowe, who had even helped her collect tadpoles, so she could turn the boys’ beds into wet and squishy ponds.
“Everyone is chattering about you and Lord Greywick,” Winnie, her lady’s maid, reported as she helped Betsy towel her long hair.
“His proposal?”
Winnie nodded. “Are you quite certain that you don’t wish to accept him? He’ll be a duke someday. He’s handsomer than any footman I’ve met, I can tell you that. And his voice, the way it rumbles: I can feel it to the tips of my toes.”
Betsy straightened, pushing her wet hair over her shoulder, and grinned at Winnie. “Rumbles?”
“Deep and dark,” Winnie said, shaking out a chemise. “I’d marry him even if he didn’t have a ha’penny to his name, and that’s the truth.”
“I might marry him,” Betsy said cautiously.
“His mother’s lady’s maid says that Her Grace is very precise in her ways. She approves of you.”
Betsy had met Her Grace, the Duchess of Eversley, several times. She was a plump lady with her son’s beautiful bone structure, but her eyes were quite different. His were solemn. Hers were bright. Confident. She was . . . Betsy searched for the right word.
Capricious.
That was it: The Duchess of Eversley was her opposite. Betsy watched every gesture and facial expression to make certain that no one could judge her by her mother’s mistakes. Whereas the Duchess of Eversley expressed herself freely, and the self she expressed was unique.
To put it mildly.
“Oh!” Winnie squealed. She dropped the gown she was holding onto the bed, darted back over to the wardrobe, and pulled open a door. “I have an idea what you should wear this morning. This dress!”
It was a pale rose silk with a violet petticoat, a gown that Parth’s fiancée, Lavinia, had ordered for Betsy in London.
“I was saving that for a special day,” Betsy reminded her.
“Today is a special day,” Winnie said, her fingers flying over the gown’s fastenings. “Last night you refused Lord Greywick’s hand in marriage. Today his mother will seek you out and demand to know why you rejected her son.”
“Surely not,” Betsy said, somewhat horrified. “No other mother has done such a thing.”
“Her son will be a duke,” Winnie said, as if that explained everything. “Do you know that Her Grace always wears pink?” She deftly turned Betsy and began lacing her corset. “Everything, including her shoes, must be pink. Except her undergarments, of course. Carper asked Her Grace’s maid about her intimates and got a sharp reprimand from Mr. Prism. But not before she answered. They are white.”
Betsy couldn’t remember the color she herself wore to dinner a week ago, and she certainly hadn’t noted Her Grace’s penchant for pink.
“Why?” she asked, keeping it simple.
“The duchess believes in the healing power of the color,” Winnie said.
“Oh.”
“Lord Greywick is ever such a good son. He