her with slushy tadpole puddles that had mysteriously appeared in their beds.
“My halo failed me,” Jeremy said, without a bit of regret in his voice. “Unless I was going to strike Miss Peters in the face with evidence of my piety, I had to get off the floor. She didn’t complain. I don’t think she liked it when I kept turning the wrong way.”
The viscount had a nice chuckle, Betsy had to admit. “All those hours with a dancing master came to nothing?” he asked. He turned back to Betsy. “In our day, Etonian masters believed dancing was a critical skill, whereas we boys were far more interested in swordplay.”
Jeremy Roden had broad shoulders that ladies giggled about in the ladies’ parlor. They didn’t care which direction he turned in the ballroom, as long as he was paying them attention.
“The lessons didn’t stick,” Jeremy said indifferently.
“He is a disgrace to your tutors,” Betsy told the viscount. “He blunders around like a cow on ice.”
True to form, Jeremy merely shrugged, making his halo, which was resting on one shoulder, twinkle from the shadows. It was infuriating to find that her pulse sped up at the way shadowy light touched his cheekbones. His black hair had a touch of silver, even though he couldn’t be older than North since they had been at Eton together.
Annoyed, she made herself laugh. “Aunt Knowe saw what happened to your headgear, Lord Jeremy, and declared you a fallen angel. ‘Fallen’ might not be the right word. ‘Wilted’? ‘Flabby’?” She paused for a moment and then said it anyway, because . . . why not? “Or is the term I want . . . ‘flaccid’?” She traded the smile for a mock innocent look.
It felt exhilarating to make a joke in front of one of her suitors. As if she were free to be herself for the first time in a year.
Jeremy pulled off his halo and regarded the way it bent over like a flower in need of water. Then he tossed it to the side. “If you want Greywick to marry you—or any gentleman to marry you—you need to do a better job of appearing ladylike.”
If the viscount had been put off by her unladylike pun, it was all to the better. He obviously would want a paragon as his duchess, given how perfect he was.
She was not that woman.
Rather to her surprise, Greywick’s mouth was quirked in a smile. “I find Lady Boadicea a perfect lady.”
Huh.
The man whom she’d only seen looking as solemn as a judge apparently hadn’t taken offense at her play on words.
“I take it back,” Jeremy said, his eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t marry that worthless Puritan.”
“I’m not a Puritan,” the viscount replied. “You’re supposed to play the part of one of my oldest school friends, and fight my cause for me. Unless you want the lady in question for yourself?”
The question hung in the air just long enough for Betsy’s breath to catch—and then Jeremy Roden snorted.
Yes, snorted.
And upended the bottle of whisky he was holding as if his response wasn’t denigrating enough.
Chapter Four
Jeremy thought fast while he allowed the liquor to burn down into his gut. He had to conjure up a reason not to marry Betsy that wasn’t too insulting.
Tonight she was dressed all in white, which wasn’t unusual for a young lady. Naturally, her halo didn’t tilt to the side: It sprang from the top of her wig, perfectly positioned to advertise her virtue.
Halo or not, Betsy was far from angelic.
A tempestuous, opinionated, seductive little devil, perhaps.
He didn’t want to marry her, or any other woman. He could scarcely manage his own life. In fact, the evidence was pretty clear that he couldn’t manage his own life since he was living in Lindow Castle rather than his own townhouse.
“I would never marry someone called Betsy,” he stated, lowering his bottle. “Everyone knows that a Betsy must be an adorable girl who gathers roses, loves kittens, and scrawls love notes in her diary. Lady Betsy’s sweet and modest disposition would be wasted on a reprobate like myself.”
“Nothing wrong with kittens,” Greywick put in. His tone indicated that not only did he think Betsy charming—the fool—but he would fill his house with felines if she wanted. The man was seduced.
No, that wasn’t the right word.
Dazzled.
Sun-struck. It was a bit surprising, given how intelligent Greywick was. But then Betsy had efficiently bewitched all the single gentlemen who had visited the castle since Jeremy arrived at the beginning of September.
Brains or