“I am playing the Prince of Denmark,” Joan said. “My father wouldn’t allow me to play a love scene with an actor in the company, so Otis will play Ophelia. Not that Hamlet shouting at Ophelia to get to a nunnery can really be termed a love scene.”
“Otis Murgatroyd is playing Ophelia—in a dress?” Thaddeus asked incredulously. “Is the production akin to a pantomime, then?”
“Not a pantomime: a serious production of Hamlet,” Joan said, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I will play the prince, in these very breeches.”
“No.”
“That was a good look,” she said appreciatively. “I don’t suppose I can manage the ticking jaw, but . . .” She scowled and lowered her eyelids to half-mast. “Do I have the air of an infuriated nobleman? Hamlet is frightfully irritable at times.”
“You are performing the lead male role in a Shakespeare play in front of an audience, along with professional actors,” Thaddeus said, trying to take it in. “You can’t, Joan. You cannot.”
He saw the moment when she got truly angry. Joan loved to play roles: He’d seen her switch with dizzying speed from frivolous maiden to practiced seductress. No expression she could put on affected her eye color, but now her eyes darkened to a steely blue, and her body stiffened. “I don’t think of my family and a few intimates as an audience.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he growled. “The news will spread. What will happen to your youngest sister if you are ruined?”
She cast him a pitying look. “Artie is a Wilde, Greywick. The genuine article, not like me. No one in your precious circle will care if I don’t appear in society again. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ they—you—will tell each other.”
Thaddeus stared at her in disbelief. “No one has ever called you ‘rubbish’ in my presence,” he said, hearing the menace in his voice. “They never will.”
“Only because you reserve the pleasure for yourself,” she retorted. “For your information, I’ve been called everything from ‘hurly-burly hussy’ to ‘strumpet,’ though ‘baseborn’ and ‘love child’ are perennial favorites.”
“People have said these things to your face?”
“From the moment I arrived at school with my sisters,” Joan confirmed.
Something in Thaddeus’s chest eased at the expression in her eyes. She hadn’t cared.
“I don’t give a damn about the opinions of self-righteous prudes,” she confirmed.
Clearly he was counted among the prudes.
“They’re the only ones who will fuss if society finds out that I played a breeches role in my own home,” she continued.
“You’re wrong,” he stated.
“You’re blowing everything out of proportion,” Joan said impatiently. “My sister Betsy dressed like a man, went to a public auction, and shortly thereafter married a marquess. That would be your friend Jeremy, though it’s hard for me to believe that you have friends.”
Thaddeus flinched.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was really unkind. I’m sure you’re nicer to people whom you consider to be worthy of your time, like Jeremy and Betsy. I mean, I know you are.”
“I don’t consider you unworthy of my time,” Thaddeus said, feeling the tick in his jaw start up again. “I—don’t.”
She shrugged again. “You were in Wilmslow when Betsy went to that auction. It was only, what, four years ago?”
“I did not accompany your sister to the auction house,” Thaddeus stated. He felt like an explosive device about to blow.
Had he hurt her feelings in the past? It was impossible to read Joan’s expressions. She was like a chameleon, emotions chasing each other across her face. She had certainly never given the appearance of caring what he thought of her, or said to her.
“Because you didn’t approve, I expect,” Joan exclaimed. “Do move out of the way, won’t you? I can’t bear any more of this conversation, no matter how useful for my performance.”
Thaddeus remained in place as if planted, outraged words crowding into his head. True, he hadn’t gone on that particular excursion. He opened his mouth to explain—but he never defended his decisions.
A gentleman proved his worth by adhering to the rules that governed civilization and his own code of conduct. Only honor gave a man the right to term himself a gentleman. He didn’t explain.
“You aren’t taking into consideration the effect of your actions on others,” he said instead.
“There won’t be any,” Joan replied flatly. “My family adores me, and they will still love me. They won’t be stunned if I’m thrown out of society; they’ve been expecting it for years. I wouldn’t be surprised if my brothers had placed bets on the eventuality.”
“You don’t understand,” he said through clenched teeth. “Other people are injured by those who flout the rules. Your recklessness will be damaging.”
She blinked at him, and her brows drew together. “Poppycock.” She leaned forward, just enough so that he smelled the elderflower that she used in her hair. He’d come to expect it, a creamy, sweet honey smell that was indefinably hers.
She poked him in the chest, hard enough that he jolted. “Not everyone lives up to your impossible standards, Greywick. No one is good enough for you. Two of my sisters weren’t good enough!”
“That’s not true. They chose—”
“Why?” Her voice quieted, and their eyes met. “Why would they fall in love with other men when you were right there, dancing with them, playing the future duke, and generally acting like a trained buffoon dressed in a fine wool coat?”
There was a moment of silence. “I suppose you’ll say that I’m not likable,” he said. “Your sisters had a lucky escape, in that case.”
Remorse flashed through her eyes, but before she could respond, he raised his hand. “Your opinion is valid, if not welcome. Yet I do not adhere to society’s standards merely for propriety’s sake. Other people are injured when selfish, careless people do exactly as they like, and devil take the hindmost!”
His last words rang in the corridor, and Joan actually fell back a step.
The air between them felt charged, like the moment after lightning struck the earth.
There are times when a lady must curtsy, and others when she should take to her heels. This occasion fell somewhere in between.
No curtsy and no running either.
Just a dignified retreat, shoulders straight, head high.
Chapter Three
Lindow Castle was well positioned on the main roads through Cheshire; as a consequence, family, friends, and mere acquaintances tended to alight at the castle steps at all times of the day or night, expecting a meal and a warm bed before they set off again in the morning for Staffordshire or, in the other direction, Scotland.
“We’re no more than a posting inn,” the duke had been known to growl, even as their butler, Prism, sprang into motion, making certain that every unexpected guest had a warming pan and fresh sheets.
Unlike her stepsister, Viola, Joan enjoyed the company of guests. But she also loved family nights, when the family dined alone. Or the rare times when only a few close friends were in residence. Such meals were held in the breakfast room, and the Wildes would pour in the door without ceremony, thronging in groups of six at round tables.
At the moment, she felt keenly aware that she didn’t care to sit next to, or close by, Greywick. She felt bruised enough. Selfish and careless kept racing through her head. They brought out the worst in each other. She had been unkind, saying that he had no friends. Of course he had friends. Her own brothers were among his friends!
But somehow that made his disdain for her worse. She was accustomed to scandal; her very birth was scandalous. It was absurd that this particular man’s scorn would hurt.
She stayed on the other side of the drawing room before the meal, and walked into supper on Otis’s arm. On family nights, the Wildes paid no attention to the social dictates ordering that the duke and duchess couldn’t sit together,
or that sexes must be separated. Long ago, His Grace had decreed that he would sit beside his wife. Viola was large with child, and she dropped down next to her mother with a thud. Her husband, Devin, seated himself beside her. Aunt Knowe always sat with them if given the chance, and tonight her close friend, the Duchess of Eversley, joined her.
Otis, back in a coat and breeches, led Joan to a nearby table, just as she realized that the only empty seats in the room were—
Sure enough, the brooding viscount was walking toward her.
“Has anyone noticed that modern seating has resulted in two islands?” Otis asked cheerfully. “One for the adults, and another for us. A full table of six over there, and here, only we three.”
“I consider myself an adult,” Greywick said, seating himself without meeting Joan’s eyes.
“You are certainly mature,” Joan agreed, scolding herself mentally the moment the words escaped her mouth. She refused to lower herself to another round of insults with him. “Viola and Devin are seated at the ‘adult’ table, so your idea doesn’t hold water, Otis.”
“The unmarried people are clustered here,” Otis responded. “You can’t say that marriage doesn’t mature a person, because from everything I’ve seen, it’s an extremely tiring state of affairs. The only part of being a vicar that I liked was performing marriages. The couples were so cheerful, whereas those who brought their baby for baptism looked as if they hadn’t slept in months.”
Viola caught Joan’s eye from the other table and asked with a raised eyebrow whether she and Devin should join them. Joan gave a little shake of her head.
Greywick was irksome, but she was an adult, unmarried or no. They could sup together without more sharp words. She shook out the heavy linen napkin and spread it over the apricot silk of her evening gown.
“Do you miss the church, Mr. Murgatroyd?” the viscount asked Otis. As a dutiful second son, Otis had studied theology at Cambridge and joined a parish, but had left the priesthood promptly thereafter.
“Certainly not,” Otis said. As he explained his reasons for leaving the clergy after a mere two weeks, Joan let her attention wander.
Something about the experience of wearing breeches was making her feel daring. What if she didn’t marry a gentleman, as her family expected? What if her future was completely different from those of her siblings? What if she left the castle, the way her mother had?
Otis had overthrown his family’s expectations. He’d been told he would join the priesthood since childhood, and yet after he tried the experience, he rejected it.
She looked about, trying to imagine a different life. Prism always did his best to replicate the splendor of the castle dining room, even in the breakfast room. Silver cutlery covered the tables like the scattered treasure of a king, and the gold-rimmed plates he’d ordered for use tonight merely increased the illusion. Footmen were dotted against the walls, ready to spring into action at the slightest twitch of a finger.
Her own mother, the second duchess, had turned her back on the castle, fleeing with her lover. As far as Joan knew, Yvette never regretted it. For herself, Joan was certain that she didn’t need or even want the trappings of wealth. She didn’t need the footmen, or a butler.
Prism reigned supreme, orchestrating every meal with the passion of a theater manager. But other people, ordinary people, cooked their own supper and dined alone with those they loved. The traveling theater troupe that visited Lindow Castle every year lived in gaily painted wagons and sometimes ate over an open fire.
“Joan?” Otis asked, pulling her into the conversation.
Greywick was looking at her searchingly. “What are you thinking of, Lady Joan?”
“Escape,” she said truthfully. “It’s your fault, Otis, with your talk of fleeing the parsonage. I was wondering what it would be like to flee Lindow.”
“Marriage will give you that freedom,” Otis said, patting her arm. “I realize that your married siblings return home as regularly as carrier pigeons, but most people consider marriage to be an excuse to avoid their childhood home except at Christmas, if that.”
“I didn’t know,” Greywick said, a queer look on his face.
“Didn’t know what?” Joan asked.
“That the two of you are betrothed.”
“We’re not,” Joan said, at the same moment Otis said, “Not us.”
“We’re friends,” Joan added. She reached over and gave Otis a little pinch. “Best of friends, since he agreed to put on a corset and gown so that I can play a male role.”
“Very kind of you,” Greywick told Otis.
“Yes, it is,” Otis said. “I still can’t believe I agreed to do it. I don’t like the corset, and let’s not even mention the challenge of using a chamber pot.”
“You would never agree to such a thing, would you?” Joan asked Greywick, genuinely curious.
“Put on a corset? I hope not. And a gown? Never,” the viscount stated.
“My father is wedded to his corset,” Otis observed. “Given that I didn’t enjoy the experience this afternoon, I probably shouldn’t eat any cake.”
They were well into the first course when a footman quietly entered and whispered something in Prism’s ear. The butler left the room, even though he seemed to believe that the family might starve if he wasn’t there with an eagle eye, noticing when a plate was empty and directing a footman by a twitch of his eyebrow.
Joan had forgotten Prism’s absence forty-five minutes later, when the butler opened the doors and announced, “Lady Bumtrinket!”
Joan’s stepmother sprang from her seat, followed by everyone else in the room. “Aunt Daphne, what a surpr—what a pleasure to see you!”
Lady Bumtrinket was the kind of well-upholstered English lady who glistens with rectitude, like a plump salmon flopping its way upstream. She was in the right, always in the right, even if the current appeared to be going in a different direction.
Foolish current.
A lady of her silhouette, ancestry, and education feels no need to consider social strictures that might prompt others to hesitate. Being in her eighties, or possibly her nineties, she had long since ceased to consider society’s rules relevant to herself.
Because she was a relation of the Duchess of Lindow’s first husband, Sir Peter Astley, more discerning people would consider the connection severed or at least attenuated once Sir Peter was replaced by a duke.
Not Lady Bumtrinket.
She had spent her life in the bosom of the nobility. Dukes, earls, and the occasional baron were to her as everyday as the air she breathed, and had been since she left the ducal estate where she was born.
Viola glanced over at Joan with a wrinkled nose: Great-Aunt Daphne was heartily disliked among the Wilde offspring due to her reliance on “plain speech,” a phrase by which English folk often excuse rudeness.
“I’m sorry that Viola isn’t seated at our table,” Joan said. “She is terrified of Great-Aunt Daphne.” She, Otis, and Greywick began to walk toward the door, where Joan’s father and stepmother were greeting their guest.
“Last time I met her,” Otis said gloomily, “she told me I was as short and round as a suet pudding. Another reason to avoid cake, I suppose.”
“That is not true,” Joan told him. “If it makes you feel any better, she loathes me. I believe she thinks I should have been raised in the country, or perhaps just left on the hillside, the way the Romans did with unwanted babies.”
The flash of wrath in Lord Greywick’s eyes startled her. “Has she been horrid to you as well?” Joan asked. “You needn’t worry; the lady will certainly be seated with my parents.”
In point of fact, Prism was rushing to add a chair to the right of the duke, in the place of honor.
“I think not,” Lady Bumtrinket said, brushing past her niece and launching into the room. “I shall sit there, Prism.” She pointed a bony finger to the seat beside Greywick’s plate. “There’s more space at that table. My girth is primarily the fault of
the current fashion, but even so, it must be accommodated.”
While Joan and Viola made their curtsies, receiving a regal nod in return, Prism summoned three footmen, who briefly swarmed the table and left a cluster of fresh china, crystal, and silver behind.
“I’ll have two plover’s eggs, gently coddled,” Lady Bumtrinket told the butler once she was seated beside Greywick. “I’m reducing, Prism. Reducing is the bane of the elderly, a group in which I reluctantly account myself.” She squinted at Otis. “I can share a recipe or two with you, young Murgatroyd.”
“Thank you,” Otis said.
The lady cast a peremptory eye on Greywick. “I haven’t seen you in a donkey’s years, Viscount. Where have you been?”
“The normal haunts,” he replied. “How are you faring, Lady Bumtrinket?”
“Irritable due to reducing,” she snapped. “You could use some reducing as well. You’ve grown inordinately large in the chest area. Or are you padding your coat?”
Greywick was apparently at a loss for words.
“I see that you are,” Lady Bumtrinket said in triumph. “I suggest you dismiss your valet immediately and find one who can offer you better guidance on the art of being a duke. A future duke, I mean. We all know that your father reneged on his ducal responsibilities, running away to live in another household.”
Joan blinked. She was aware that Lord Greywick’s father, the Duke of Eversley, chose to live with his mistress, but she had never heard it mentioned in public.
A polite smile touched Greywick’s mouth. “I assure you that the estate is well cared for in his absence, Lady Bumtrinket.”
“One cannot blame you for ignorance of aristocratic behavior, given that you can hardly be said to have had a father,” she continued, ignoring his comment. “Just be prudent when it comes to choosing your duchess. Very prudent.”
Lord Greywick responded with a wordless hostility that Joan was surreptitiously finding rather enjoyable. Still, she felt a sudden urge to defend him. She was used to Lady Bumtrinket, but he might not have encountered her at such close quarters before.
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