Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,9

To this day, she kept the little ceramic bird he’d given her on her bedside table.

Jeremy was sprawled in his chair again, but he lowered his bottle and gave her a quick nod. “I’m sorry, Bess.”

“Bess?” Betsy repeated, desperate to talk of anything else. “I suppose that’s better than Betsola.”

“Given that your father named all his children after warriors,” Jeremy said, “he could have chosen Good Queen Bess instead of Boadicea. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth dressed up in a suit of armor and rode a white horse to Tilbury. I could see you on a white horse. Your lady is a good rider,” he added, waving his bottle at the viscount. “There, you see, I managed to think of a worthy reason to marry her.”

She ought to leave. But honestly? This was the most entertaining conversation she’d engaged in all evening. And it was certainly a good idea to hear more details about the viscount.

What’s more, her toes hurt. She was wearing a pair of Joan’s heeled slippers and they didn’t fit. She took her hand from Lord Greywick’s arm and moved backward so she could hop up and sit on the side of the billiard table, which made her side panniers flip up in a flurry of silk, so she had to slap them down.

“It’s like watching someone wrestle a couple of greased piglets to the ground,” Jeremy drawled. “Thaddeus, I hope you’re observant, because your future bride has very nice ankles.”

Lord Greywick stiffened, but Betsy tapped him on the arm. “Ignore him. He can’t see my ankles; the open door blocks his view.”

“I could if I bothered to lean forward,” Jeremy argued. “At any rate, I was merely doing a matchmaker’s duty. I’m sure Queen Elizabeth had slender ankles.”

“I have to point out that Queen Elizabeth didn’t wear a suit of armor,” the viscount said, moving to lean against the table, hip to hip with Betsy. She didn’t mind. He smelled rather good, like some sort of flower.

Not at all like Jeremy, who always smelled of cheroots and whisky.

“Her Majesty wore a silver corselet,” Thaddeus continued. “Though some say it was steel. She did have a helmet with white plumes.”

“I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too,” Betsy put in, quoting Queen Elizabeth.

And shrugged when both men looked at her, surprised. “You surely don’t think that my father would name all of us after warriors and leave it there? He had us memorize any number of fiery speeches delivered on battlefields.”

Then she flinched, thinking she shouldn’t have mentioned a battlefield.

Jeremy’s lips compressed. Perhaps it wasn’t the battlefield, but the question of what one should say on it. Too late now.

Next to her, Thaddeus moved slightly, his shoulder brushing hers. “Tell Queen Bess how intelligent I was, Jeremy,” he said, his voice a command. A gentle one, but a command. “I need help or this queen will look for a consort elsewhere.”

For a suspended second, she and Thaddeus watched as Jeremy wrestled with darkness. His chin was square; it seemed even squarer when he ground his teeth.

“Right,” he said, just a pulse too late, his voice strained. “I need to hawk the merchandise since the merchandise is failing to do so himself.”

“Exactly,” Thaddeus said. “The lady says she doesn’t know me; who better to explicate my attributes than the most eloquent man in our year?”

“Are you talking about Lord Jeremy?” Betsy asked, startled.

“Eloquent?” Jeremy snorted. “Hardly.”

Thaddeus turned to Betsy. “Indeed, he was the best orator at Eton, not just our year, but those above us, even in our first year. Able to coax the stars out of the sky.”

“Too bored to stay in their courses once I started babbling,” Jeremy said, his voice back to its usual rough indifference. His hair was disheveled, thanks to the bandage that wound over his ears. His neck cloth was half undone, as if he’d tugged it free of his neck.

Betsy glanced up at the viscount, who was a study in contrasts: his wig snowy white, no halo to be seen, and his clothing both exquisitely tailored and beautifully worn. That was one thing she’d realized lately: It wasn’t really about how well-made a man’s clothing was; it mattered how he wore it.

Thaddeus looked like a king ready to be painted by Holbein.

“You have to imagine all of us blighters sitting around in a schoolroom at Eton, obsessed by women’s breasts