Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,51

that yesterday but I forgot. I don’t listen to that sort of gossip, so I had no idea of the color of the man’s hair, or his origins, or any of it.”

“You are singular in that respect,” Betsy said. “Reporters dog my footsteps, hoping to see me mimic my mother. If we were in London, I would never be so imprudent as to walk in the open with you, even with a maid trailing behind.”

They walked without speaking for a few minutes, their steps muted by snow. Around them, the windowsills and doorsteps were turning white. A few locks of Betsy’s hair curled around her forehead, and snow was falling softly on them as well.

Jeremy had the disconcerting realization that he didn’t care if the church they were walking toward was holy ground or consecrated from the crypt to the bell tower: He meant to kiss Betsy again. With thoroughly profane intentions.

Simple lust.

Albeit with a touch of giddiness.

A stiff wind cut around the corners of the narrow street and shot past Jeremy’s ears with a whistle, carrying a whiff of coal smoke.

“It’s growing frightfully cold,” Betsy said, her words nipped away and flung over her shoulder.

“The wind sounds like a musket ball going past one’s ears,” Jeremy said, his thoughts spilling out. “Except,” he added, “wind isn’t dangerous, of course.”

Betsy gave his arm a squeeze, which was the perfect response.

“Would you like to return to the teahouse?” Jeremy asked again.

She shook her head. “I like fighting the wind.”

They were walking along when a rumbling coach pulled up.

Jeremy glanced to the side and his heart sank. The window was open, and a lean face topped with a great deal of fluffy salt-and-pepper hair peered out. He had a majestic nose, the kind that was meant to be attached to a man standing in the prow of a ship or the House of Lords.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Jeremy said, and came to an abrupt halt. He hadn’t seen his father since well before the Vauxhall fireworks and subsequent visit to Lindow.

Betsy stumbled. They had been walking quickly, their bodies shoved along the pavement by the wind.

“My father,” Jeremy said, with a wave of his hand. “He can’t have stayed more than an hour at the castle before following us here.”

“I think my eyelashes have frozen,” Betsy said, rubbing an eye. “Did you say your father?” She peered around his shoulder. “In that carriage?”

“Unfortunately.” Jeremy quickly unwound the bandage from his head, thrust it in his pocket, and slapped his hat back on. His father wouldn’t be pleased to learn his son escaped war only to be nearly felled by a madwoman.

The Marquess of Thurrock was clambering out of the vehicle. He had seemed impossibly tall and lean when Jeremy was a child, his eyes bright, a near-visible sense of competence hanging about his shoulders. He was still tall, obviously. And competent, presumably.

“Good afternoon, Lord Thurrock,” Jeremy said, bowing.

The marquess was fussing with his greatcoat and busily acting like a British aristocrat avoiding an awkward reunion.

Not that Jeremy didn’t feel the same way.

Finally, the marquess took a step forward, as if he meant to sweep Jeremy into the sort of hugs with which he had always greeted him when Jeremy came home from Eton. But he caught himself.

“Son,” he said. “Who’s this?” His voice was full and hearty, like a fishmonger, and his eyes—damn it!—were hopeful.

“Lady Boadicea, may I introduce my father, the Marquess of Thurrock?” Jeremy said.

Betsy cocked her head slightly to the side and smiled.

Jeremy waited for her beatific smile to dazzle, as it had dazzled most of polite society, but his father merely blinked and said, “I recognize the eyebrows, of course. Haven’t seen your father for a few years.”

Betsy’s curtsy was particularly graceful, given the fact the wind was trying to drive them along the walk. “Lord Thurrock, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

The carriage door opened again, and Grégoire Bisset-Caron stepped to the sidewalk. Jeremy’s cousin was wearing a fur cape and hat instead of a tricorne. “Here I am,” he called. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting!”

“Lady Boadicea, may I present my nephew, Mr. Bisset-Caron?” Jeremy’s father asked, sounding distinctly unenthusiastic.

Betsy curtsied again. “It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. I thought you had returned to London.”

“I intended to do so, but my uncle surprised me,” Grégoire said, with a languid nod to Jeremy. “I decided to accompany him to this town . . . what is it called?”

“Wilmslow,” Jeremy said, wondering whether Grégoire had plans to