Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,90
as she slowly sank down, rippling around him. They kissed, and her tangled silk cloud of hair fell about them like a curtain once again, keeping the world out.
Or reshaping a new world, just the two of them, trembling, kissing, moving lazily, steadily, as if they were climbing a mountain.
Falling off the mountain together in a flurry of sparks. At the end, Betsy collapsed on his chest and he caught his breath, stroking her hair.
Blinking away a watery shimmer in his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-three
Aunt Knowe looked up sharply when Betsy put her head around the door, and said, “Well?”
Betsy grinned. “We’re getting married—that is, if Father agrees. And even if he doesn’t,” she added.
Her aunt bounded to her feet and caught Betsy in a tight hug. “Your father will be so pleased, my dear.”
“Will he?” Betsy asked. After all, Jeremy had spent most of the autumn in the billiard room, supposedly insensible from liquor, dropping sardonic comments when he bothered to talk at all.
“Yes,” Aunt Knowe said. “Your father has great respect for Jeremy. Remember, North fought side by side with Jeremy in several battles.”
“I forgot that,” Betsy said.
“I can tell you who won’t be happy,” Aunt Knowe said, with a note of satisfaction in her voice. “That intolerable young man Grégoire. It’s rare that I take a dislike to a person—”
“That’s not exactly true,” Betsy said, giving her aunt a kiss on the cheek. “You have high standards.”
“I often disapprove,” Aunt Knowe said. “But I rarely dislike. I cannot like Grégoire, for all his manners are ingratiating. His eyes are set close together.”
“I know something about him that could be considered immoral,” Betsy said. “I haven’t mentioned it to Jeremy, but perhaps I shall, once we’re married.”
Aunt Knowe sat back down and picked up her knitting. “I declare, this piece of yarn gets more tangled every time I look at it.”
“I think Grégoire accepts money from a stationer for his sketches,” Betsy said. “Remember those prints that showed up virtually overnight, making a fuss about Diana and North’s betrothal? That was only a few days after Grégoire visited Jeremy at Lindow for the first time.”
“That’s hardly evidence,” her aunt objected.
“He boasted that everyone can recognize his sketches of the royal family,” Betsy said.
“There’s nothing illegal about selling sketches to stationers. Believe me, my brother has tried to smother more distasteful prints with no success. Has your maid packed your things yet? I am eager to return to Lindow, and apparently the roads are clear this morning.”
“Did the auction house deliver your miniatures?”
“They certainly did.” Aunt Knowe beamed.
“May I see the one that looked like a young Wilde?”
“Not just now, darling. They’re all packed away. We’ll have a light luncheon and then leave for home.” She brightened. “If Jeremy informs Grégoire immediately, perhaps the man will take off in a huff and won’t accompany us to Lindow.”
Betsy shook her head. “It’s a sad day when I am more cynical than you, dear Aunt, but if he is feeding images to a stationer, he’ll stay close to the Wildes as long as he is able.”
“If your father returns from Scotland and suspects, he will geld him,” Aunt Knowe said, as if she were talking about making a cup of tea.
Betsy choked.
“We know how seriously you take your reputation,” her aunt said firmly. “Another child would laugh it off; North didn’t even care about being compared to a rapist. A Shakespearean rapist, but still a rapist. You are very different from the rest of your family and we respect that.”
Betsy was silent for a moment, watching as her aunt poked at her knitting with a free knitting needle. “I don’t care any longer,” she said finally.
Her aunt’s head jerked up.
“I’m serious.” Betsy nodded. “Let him make a scandal out of me. He can sell prints of me across all England, if he wishes.”
Aunt Knowe cocked her head. “What if he shows you sneaking into a man’s bedchamber?”
“How did you know that?” Betsy asked, only mildly surprised.
“I know my chickens,” her aunt said. “What if the prints compare you to your mother, Betsy?”
“I am not my mother,” Betsy said stoutly. “In time, everyone will forget, because, as you told me, dear Aunt, I’m a Wilde. There might be an enormous fuss at first, but once we’re married? And when we’ve been married a decade? I think not.”
Her aunt’s smile widened. “I’m so happy for you, Betsy.”
“He says he loves me.”
“Everyone has known that for months. The man can’t take his eyes off you.”