Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,64

violent, though I have no memory of it.”

Betsy’s breath caught in her throat. Even through her shock, she realized that the worst thing she could do would be to dole out lashings of sympathy. He was glaring at the fire as if the flames were responsible for his failure of nerve. Or however he would describe that terrible experience.

“Did you murder anyone?” She put a fair amount of interest in her voice.

“Not so far as I know.”

That wasn’t the right tack. She tried again. “What brought on the attack?”

“Fireworks. They sounded like cannons, which is all I remember.”

“That makes sense,” Betsy said. “No Guy Fawkes Day for you. You’ll have to limit yourself to a peaceful bonfire in your garden.”

That brought his head about, if only so he could scowl at her, rather than the blameless logs. “I lost consciousness, Bess. Fell over like a log. More than a day passed before Parth’s household could rouse me.”

She nodded. Inside she was horrified and afraid for him, but she was used to playing a role. “How did they wake you up?”

His mouth twitched.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Now you have the dramatic announcement out of the way, let’s have it.”

“Sausages,” he said with a wry smile.

He smiled so infrequently that the gesture struck Betsy like a blow. She had to stop herself from throwing herself at him like a maiden encountering the prince in a bad play.

“Sausages,” she echoed.

“Fried them up and stuck them under my nose and I awoke,” he confirmed.

Betsy couldn’t help giggling at the look on his face. “It could have been worse.”

“It could have been better,” Jeremy countered, rocking back on his toes and shoving his hands into his pockets.

“True. Whisky has a manly air. On the other hand, sal volatile is given to fainting maidens. Legend has it that my great-aunt Genevieve was so horrified by her wedding night that she fell into a faint and was only roused by having a chamber pot poured over her head by her indignant groom.”

When she saw the laughter in his eyes, she added: “My great-uncle always insisted that it was an accident.”

“Do you mind if I take off my coat? It’s cold and wet. I promise that it’s not a first step to an undressing in your chamber.”

“You may.”

His white shirt was sodden as well and clung to the dips and valleys of his chest. If they married, she would have the right to sit here nightly and watch him undress.

Except she wouldn’t, because if they were married, she would pull that shirt off his head and rub him down in the warmth of the fire and then pepper his chest with kisses—

“It would help if you didn’t look at me with that expression,” he said.

Betsy felt red flood her cheeks. “What expression?” It would be awful if everyone could tell when she was overcome by desire. She had to learn how to disguise it.

He picked up his blanket, wrapped it back around his shoulders, and sat down in the chair beside her. Apparently, he refused to answer idiotic questions, because he stretched out his legs and contemplated his sopping breeches.

Betsy watched just long enough to register his muscled thighs and then looked away.

“I saw that,” Jeremy said.

“You should return to your chamber,” Betsy said. “Now that you’ve told me your dark secret. Unless there’s more to it?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“Madness, et al? I am a Wilde. A good swath of the country considers us mad, and we’ve had many a madman in and about the house. You are a bad-tempered version but at least you aren’t writing a play.”

“How do you know?”

Betsy rolled her eyes. “In that case, good luck with it. Alaric’s madwoman made pots of money with Wilde in Love.”

“I have no need for money,” Jeremy said.

“Do you feel the need to elaborate on your madness? Do you sleepwalk like Lady Macbeth?”

“No.”

“Eat in your sleep? We had a footman who ate most of a cake that had been reserved for the queen’s visit.”

“No.”

Betsy’s heart was aching for him, but she was determined to show him no pity. She felt instinctively that he would hate her for it. He was the sort of man who spent his life solving problems. She’d bet that from the age of five he was toddling around after his father, being as competent as a five-year-old could be.

Until he found himself on that beastly battlefield.

“I can’t say much more than that,” he said. “I didn’t catch lice in Bedlam, which Parth thought