Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,71

in more prints,” her aunt said. “If you will forgive my presumption, Jeremy, I have a strong feeling that Mr. Bisset-Caron will dine out on the story for weeks.”

Jeremy’s eyes darkened. “He’ll do nothing of the sort.”

The duchess marched into the room, her cheeks bright red from cold.

“We’ve been to St. Bartholomew’s,” Her Grace announced. “The butcher and baker are open no matter the snow, and the auction opens in two hours!”

Thaddeus followed her into the room, his brows knit. “There’s no sign of a footman,” he said testily. “Unless I burdened my mother’s maid, I had no one to take my coat.” He took off his snowy caped greatcoat and slung it over the chair, put his hat and gloves on a side table, and leaned his cane against the wall.

Apparently he didn’t care to eat in the vicinity of his outerwear, and he was visibly cross as the dickens. Though to be fair, he must have risen at six to escort his mother to church.

With that in mind, Betsy gave him a warm smile and handed him a platter of coddled eggs.

After eggs, toast, herring, and sausage had been consumed, the duchess let out a crow of excitement. “My goodness, I clean forgot! We picked up the auction catalogue.” She turned to Thaddeus. “Where has it gone to?”

He rose and took a rolled sheaf of paper from his greatcoat pocket.

The duchess flattened it on the table, putting a teacup on one corner and a sugar bowl on the other.

“Presenting a very extensive and valuable assemblage of drawings of all schools, and several specimens of the most valuable and rare works of the master of the miniature, Samuel Finney. I shall bid upon a miniature,” she announced.

“We were all painted by Finney a few years ago,” Aunt Knowe said idly. “Dear me, I wonder what happened to them. Small things are so hard to keep track of, don’t you think? In fact, I have been painted by him several times. I do like miniatures.”

“If your likeness is being auctioned, we shan’t let you go to a stranger’s home,” Betsy promised.

“I thought miniatures were primarily exchanged between lovers,” Her Grace observed, twinkling at her old friend.

Aunt Knowe waved her fork at the duchess. “Fiddlesticks! I am a pattern card of decorum, as you well know.”

Just when the tea had gone quite cold, the innkeeper appeared with a fresh pot and a message. The marquess never ate before noon, and Mr. Bisset-Caron would spend the day in bed.

“That will make the escapade easier, though I’m certain Bisset-Caron’ll hear of it from his manservant,” Aunt Knowe declared.

Thaddeus and Jeremy exchanged a glance that suggested Grégoire would risk his head if he gossiped.

To Betsy, Jeremy looked like a man ready to support her in wearing breeches, a man with a burden on his soul, with too many lines at the corners of his eyes.

He looked as if he were hers.

Chapter Sixteen

Betsy’s breeches were tight over her bottom, and the stockings itched. The shirt was so long that it hung to her knees and made it hard to stuff into her breeches.

“Hopefully no one will pay much attention,” her maid said, looking her up and down.

Betsy turned to the mirror. Her hair was braided, ready for a small wig that sat waiting. The wool stockings made her legs thicker, as if they might be a boy’s. She peered over her shoulder at her bottom. “I never knew my arse was so round. And I think of my bosom as small.” The shirt was tucked in but the buttons on her waistcoat gaped at the top.

“Your bosom is not small,” Winnie stated. “I wound the muslin as tightly as I could.”

“Your profile is not manly,” Winnie observed, after Betsy put on the velvet coat.

Betsy turned to the side. Her chest curved and her bottom curved. “I have a much better figure than I thought,” she said wonderingly, running her hands down her front.

“The problem is that no boy has that figure,” Winnie said.

“I will be wearing a greatcoat,” Betsy said. “That would cover up the rear, at least.”

“I’ll have to fetch it myself,” Winnie said. “You’re not going into the corridor dressed like that. Not with Lord Greywick and Lord Jeremy looking at you the way they do.”

“And how is that?”

“As if you’re a bone they’re scrapping over.”

Betsy wrinkled her nose and moved over to the window. Snow was still mounded on top of the stone wall, but the inn yard was mostly clear and