Say No to the Duke (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #4) - Eloisa James Page 0,92
controlling his irritation. “It must have been disappointing when I turned up, hearty and well, at Lindow Castle. Did you hope that I had slipped into the Thames?”
“Of course not!” Grégoire said, looking as indignant as was possible for such a slippery fellow. “I have my own fortune and no need for yours.” He fondly caressed the large sapphire he wore on his left hand, supposedly in honor of his French mother.
“As I told you, dear cousin, my concern is for the blood we share, and the antiquity of our illustrious name.”
“Your mother was French, in case you’ve forgotten,” Jeremy pointed out. “And you changed your name to hers, so we no longer share a name.”
Grégoire’s eyes hardened. “I am English to the core.”
“So my valet told you I was missing, and then later shared my experience in Bedlam as well?” Apparently it was time to pension off his valet; the man was too old to be merely shown the door.
“That is irrelevant,” Grégoire retorted. “Prints circulating through London depict you wrapped in a white jacket, raving and wigless.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t want to mention them before the marquess; I know the shame would cause him tremendous pain.”
Jeremy’s jaw tightened.
“Prints are also circulating that depict you hiding behind a tree while the men of your platoon gasp their final breaths,” Grégoire said. “As a member of the family, I find those the most objectionable.”
“Do you?” Jeremy asked.
“It is axiomatic that the heir to the marquessate should not be reviled for cowardice, nor pitied for madness,” Grégoire announced.
Jeremy sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “Grégoire, I am going to marry the oldest daughter of the Duke of Lindow. It will do you no good to try to have me committed for madness.”
His cousin gasped. Overdoing it, to Jeremy’s mind.
“What a loathsome suggestion! It is up to you, not I, to ensure the future of the family name, but if you do not care, then you do not.”
“I do not,” Jeremy confirmed.
“What if you become insane again? You were violent and had to be restrained.”
A flare of true anger lit in Jeremy’s belly. “You bothered to find out all the details.”
“You are my only cousin,” Grégoire said.
“Perhaps we would both be more comfortable if we eschewed the relationship,” Jeremy suggested.
He received another appalled look. “Family cannot be ‘eschewed,’” his cousin said flatly. “I will pray to the Blessed Virgin that you have no more violent episodes.”
It probably would not lead to harmony if Jeremy pointed out that the Blessed Virgin played quite a small role in English prayers, as opposed to French ones, so he propped himself in the corner and closed his eyes, imitating his father.
Somehow feigned sleep became real sleep, and he woke only when the carriage began rattling over the cobblestones of Lindow Castle.
Opposite him, Grégoire was plucking the curls of his wig to shining ringlets.
Jeremy stretched. An unusual feeling of bodily satisfaction spread through him.
“Why must you wear that wig without powder?” Grégoire said, peevishness leaking into his voice. “It doesn’t reflect well on us.”
“There is no ‘us,’” Jeremy stated.
The carriage drew to a stop. Jeremy pushed open the door and jumped down without waiting for a groom. He needed Betsy, and more Betsy.
Last night her untidy hair, her slumberous eyes, her happy gleam made his chest hurt with an emotion he scarcely knew. He craved her, the way he had once craved whisky.
For him, there was only Bess, or Betsy, or Boadicea.
The private woman, the polite society damsel, the warrior queen.
She wasn’t in her bedchamber. Or the billiard room. The damned castle was so large that he searched for her for an hour, enduring sixty minutes of blazing and thwarted desire.
When he found Lady Knowe, she shook her head at him and said, “I sent her to the brewery to judge the October ale.”
Jeremy blinked.
“You are stealing a future duchess,” Lady Knowe told him. “Betsy is trained to be the Lady of the Castle and oversee every room.”
“She will make a magnificent future marchioness,” he countered. “Shall I write to her father in Scotland and ask for her hand in marriage? Or request that he return to Lindow?”
“I sent off a messenger this morning. Not that they’ll be surprised.”
“I’m surprised,” Jeremy told her.
Her laughter followed him down the corridor. Following Prism’s directions, Jeremy walked out the west entrance of the castle. Someone had shoveled a path through the snow covering the archery field, so he followed it. The sun was