duchess said, a distinct chill entering her voice.
“I don’t suppose you have a dog,” Jeremy asked Thaddeus, doing his small part to impress the pleasures of ducal life upon Betsy.
“I plan to have a pack someday,” Thaddeus said, showing the first spark of rebellion Jeremy had ever seen in the man.
“He had a spaniel as a boy,” the duchess said. “It found its way into the butler’s pantry and chewed up all the polishing rags. Of course, when there are children in the house, we shall reconsider the situation. A boy ought to have a dog.”
Betsy bore it all with a charming smile, and Jeremy had the distinct impression that Her Grace wasn’t the first mother to decide that Lady Boadicea would be a perfect mother for her unborn grandchildren.
After a half hour, Thaddeus still had a guarded look in his eyes, but the duchess seemed to consider her job finished. She summoned a waiter and ascertained that there was an auction the very next afternoon.
“Has anyone looked outside?” she asked. “It’s snowing. I suggest we spend the night in the inn and attend the auction tomorrow.”
“I agree with you about spending the night,” Lady Knowe said. “I shall send the groom back to Lindow for our necessaries. Maids and the like.”
“Those of us who wish to don male clothing tomorrow can attempt it,” the duchess said, ignoring the question of necessaries. She was patently uninterested in practicalities. “I may decide to go as myself.”
“Women are not allowed in this particular auction house,” Betsy reminded her.
“Nonsense. I have been to Christie’s several times. Quite likely they would have preferred the duke, but they certainly didn’t bar the door,” Her Grace said with a drop of scorn. “Don’t ever believe the word ‘no’ unless you say it yourself, dear. It makes life much more agreeable.”
“While ladies may visit auction houses in London, it is different out here in the provinces,” Lady Knowe put in. “I’m afraid that Mr. Phillips has a strict policy against females. I was most annoyed when I learned of it.”
That settled it; Her Grace was determined to visit Mr. Phillips’s auction house wearing breeches. “If they think I’m a woman, I dare them to say a word about it!” she declared.
From there the conversation turned to a discussion of men’s clothing.
Jeremy put a word into the conversation now and then, and kept an eye on Thaddeus, who courteously answered any question put to him directly, but spent most of his time brooding. This was familiar behavior from Eton; even at a young age, Thaddeus had to feel his way through an ethical problem before he reached a decision.
At some point Thaddeus must have decided to marry a perfect lady, and Betsy was now proving to have uncomfortable edges to her. He apparently didn’t mind overlooking her adulterous mother, but breeches seemed to be a bridge too far.
Jeremy felt a flash of disdain. His friend was hoping for bucolic bliss with an uninteresting wife and a passel of children and dogs.
The duchess, meanwhile, seemed blissfully convinced that the only matter at hand was how to facilitate Betsy’s trip to the auction. “A wig will cover her hair, of course. You’d better instruct your butler to send a variety of them,” she advised Lady Knowe. “Footmen have such oddly shaped heads.”
“That won’t work,” Jeremy objected.
“Why not?” Betsy demanded.
“You have too much hair for a small wig.” It was a simple fact. This morning it was caught up all over in loops and puffs. It stood out around her head in such profusion that a man could imagine it falling to her waist if she pulled out all the pins.
He shifted, discreetly rearranging his breeches to make room for his reaction to that image.
“We’ll braid her hair tightly,” Lady Knowe told him. “There are ways of keeping a wig on one’s scalp.”
“When we’re in the Scottish house,” the duchess told Betsy, “I braid my hair and make the housemaids do theirs as well. Scotland is overrun by head lice.”
Thankfully, teacakes, cream biscuits, and cucumber sandwiches arrived before that subject received more attention.
Jeremy ate a surprising amount, given his customary lack of appetite, while trying very hard not to notice the pale skin of Betsy’s wrists. Why should a wrist be erotic, after all?
And yet it was.
If he had his way, he’d run his tongue around that creamy skin and cover it with little bites, lick his way to her palm, wrap his lips around one finger . . .
He came