Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,78
as she walked from the room, giving him an impish—sweetly feminine—smile. Which he didn’t entirely understand until he realized that she was swaying her hips.
Her bottom in breeches was enough to drive a man to madness. Or to marriage.
“You are the most erotic turnip I’ve ever seen,” he called.
She just laughed.
Chapter Nineteen
The auction house was a large building fronted with shallow steps and a sign decorated in gold that announced the ownership of Mr. Phillips, renowned auctioneer of London, Stratford-upon-Avon, and Wilmslow.
A butler opened the door as they approached, bowed, and asked for their names.
“The Marquess of Thurrock and party,” Jeremy’s father said, pulling off his tricorne.
A well-proportioned man wearing an excellent suit and a superior, though not extravagant, wig made his appearance. “Your Lordship,” Mr. Phillips said to the marquess, “it is my honor to welcome you to the smallest of my auction houses.”
“I knew Finney as a boy,” the marquess told him. “I’ve a mind to acquire one of his little pieces, as long as the price is right. Brought some friends with me.”
The auctioneer’s shrewd eyes paused for a moment on Betsy, who gave him the smallest of chin nods. For a moment, he looked puzzled, then, to Betsy’s satisfaction, he looked past her to Jeremy, Aunt Knowe, and the duchess. He blinked, visibly registering their clothing and deciding that the Marquess of Thurrock’s party was not as tasteful a group as he would expect of a nobleman’s friends.
“You are most welcome to enter the salon,” he said, waving in a stately manner toward large open doors. “We will begin with drawings that I acquired at great effort on the continent and follow with exquisite examples of Samuel Finney’s miniatures.”
The salon proved to be a tall-ceilinged room, every inch of which was painted with a relentless number of cupids, interspersed with a cloud here or there.
“Look up,” Jeremy murmured in Betsy’s ear, nudging her as they sat down.
Obediently, she tilted her head back, and her mouth fell open. The ceiling was a riot of cherubs, lying on clouds, playing harps, quaffing wine, and—
Aunt Knowe’s familiar bellow of laughter rang out as the rest of the party seated themselves. It sounded reasonably manly.
“Don’t speak loudly,” Jeremy reminded Betsy, just in time.
“The cupids,” Betsy whispered.
“Engaging in intimacies.” His eyes had a devilish, laughing glint. “I’m reassured to discover that heaven won’t be as tedious as one is led to believe. I’ve never been able to sing, let alone strum a harp.”
“Indeed,” Betsy murmured. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the joyous, erotic cupids. Some acts she readily recognized. But others were more mysterious. In fact, the more she looked, the more curious she grew.
Their chairs were positioned close together, Jeremy’s leg and arm pressed against hers. Under normal circumstances, she never felt a gentleman’s leg if it was close to hers; her skirts precluded any such intimacy.
But now . . .
Two pairs of breeches was an entirely different situation. Her heart had quickened, thanks to the riotous cupids, but that was nothing compared to how she felt when she saw their legs pressed together.
“Are your sensibilities offended by the ceiling?” Jeremy asked, a deep ribbon of amusement running through his voice.
“I’m not missish,” Betsy informed him. “I would—” She coughed and deepened her voice. “I would like a closer look at the pair in the left corner to the front.”
Jeremy took a swift glance in that direction and laughed. “You delight me.”
The marquess, Aunt Knowe, and the duchess were seated on his other side. Slowly the seats behind them began to fill. Some men looked to be merchants, and some of them were obviously factotums, ready to bid for their masters. In the row just behind them, one gentleman sat by himself.
She sat quietly as the first few drawings were knocked down, enjoying herself more keenly than she had in months. In the rows behind her, men were shouting, bidding and outbidding, cursing freely.
All the things they never did in a ballroom.
She was half turned so as to see the ranks of men behind her when Jeremy leaned close and whispered, “I have been paying close attention to the ceiling.”
“Oh?”
“The couple you identified is particularly adventuresome. You have good taste.”
Betsy was having the best afternoon of her entire life. Jeremy’s arm was touching hers, and her leg was tingling as if she were immersed in a hot bath.
“I have never doubted my taste,” she told him. “Aunt Knowe assured us many times that she had shaped our tastes after