Wilde Child EPB

by James, Eloisa

  “That was not ironically spoken. My mother could run an entire branch of the Runners with éclat. However, that time has not yet come, which leads me to the idea of playing Hamlet,” Thaddeus said. “This has nothing to do with Lady Bumtrinket’s absurd allegations—”

  “Hasn’t it?” she interrupted.

  “No. I’m trying to protect you.”

  “Men say that so often.” She sighed. “The result being that ladies spend their lives in padded boudoirs, surrounded by painstakingly embroidered pillows. They change their dresses four times a day because they have nothing else to do.”

  “My mother runs the duchy,” Thaddeus said. “When I am absent from Eversley Court, she acts as justice of the peace in our shire. We employ over three hundred people in and around the duchy, and she knows every one of them.”

  “Brava,” Joan said. “For her. The only thing I want to do is act. The only thing.”

  “The role of Hamlet?” Thaddeus asked incredulously. He had enjoyed school, but he still remembered what a chore it was trudging through that play.

  She shrugged. “It’s the most significant role I could come up with that appears in the regular repertoire of the theater company that visits Lindow every year. They were kind enough to allow me and Otis to play two lead roles, but I couldn’t ask them to learn a new play.”

  “I was under the impression that theater companies visited large towns, not private estates.” The room had emptied, and out in the entry, Joan could hear the family saying good night to each other.

  “The traveling company of the Theatre Royal has been coming to Lindow for years, ever since they gave us a private performance of Wilde in Love, the play written about my brother Alaric. I’ve been attending their rehearsals since I was fourteen. They know.”

  “They know the lines, or they know you love to act?”

  “They know I can act,” she said sharply.

  “So you think that you will perform a better Hamlet than the actor who usually plays the role?”

  “No, not at all! Playing the prince is a lark. If I were a proper member of the troupe, I would play roles written for women.”

  “You’re a lady, not an actress,” Thaddeus said. “Someone will sell an illustration—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t parrot that line about me being ruined again!” she snapped.

  A muscle flexed in his jaw but he held his tongue.

  “Besides if I was ruined . . . if I was ruined . . .” Joan’s eyes lit up. “I suppose you’re right. I will be ruined.”

  “Quite likely.”

  “So I’ll join the theater troupe when they move on!” she exclaimed. “Why wait to be officially thrown out of society? I’ll be much happier on a theater cart than in this castle. I would be able to perform every night in front of real audiences, not just family.”

  “You can’t do that,” Thaddeus growled. “The troupe doesn’t need you, for one thing.”

  “I’m good,” Joan retorted, stiffening. “You have no faith—why should you?—but I assure you that I could be a lead actress in any theater in London. I’m not being boastful, just saying that my skills—and scandalous hair—would play to my advantage on the public stage. Whereas polite society simply sees me as a pariah.”

  “You would be recognized,” Thaddeus insisted.

  He had a terrible feeling that he’d made a mistake. Pushed her too far.

  Joan’s father had walked a fine line when he approved a private performance. Perhaps the duke understood the risk of thwarting his most obstinate daughter.

  “So what?” Joan straightened. “I would be free to perform different parts, travel the country, appear before new audiences every night!”

  Thaddeus’s heart dropped into his stomach as he saw the excitement in her eyes.

  “What if you flee the castle on a theatrical wagon, and something terrible happens to you on the road?” he demanded. “How will your family feel then?”

  He watched her eyelashes flicker and added: “A woman exposing her legs in breeches will be taken to be a trollop, for sale to the highest bidder. She is at risk of rape and worse, to be blunt.”

  Her throat bobbled as she swallowed. He was shocked to see a flash of despair in her eyes. The look did something to him.

  Everything in his body stilled.

  Joan was irritating, obstinate, scandalous—but he didn’t like to see that expression on her face. In fact, his internal response was disconcertingly strong.

  Her whole body looked . . . smaller. She was so incredibly brave, never allowing the taunts of women like Lady Bumtrinket to bother her, but it couldn’t be easy.

  “Right,” she said tonelessly. “Of course, you’re right. No stages other than in the castle, and no audiences other than my family.” She met his eyes. “They always clap. No matter how I do. Perhaps I’m just being boastful about my skills. I might be booed off a real stage.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” Thaddeus said.

  “How could you possibly know?”

  “Because I’ve seen you perform.”

  She frowned. “Were you here when we performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream last summer?”

  “No,” Thaddeus said, and added, gently, “I’ve seen you perform any night for the last three years in London, on a public stage. During the Season, Joan.”

  She gave him a lopsided smile. “That’s kind of you, I suppose. I just wish . . . I just wish I knew the truth about whether a real audience would clap for me. Even if only once.”

  Thaddeus was used to making swift decisions. “I could accompany you,” he said, his voice coming out in a rasp. He cleared his throat. “Guard you. I could make sure you are safe.”

  Her eyes grew round. “You would join the theater troupe?”

  He recoiled. “Can you see me acting a part?”

  “No,” she muttered. “You’re too much yourself.”

  “One performance,” he said. “One audience.” His eyes searched hers. “What’s the next stop? Wilmslow?” He chose the closest town, the one where the auction had been held four years ago.

  “I’m fairly certain that the company continues to Wilmslow,” Joan said, her eyes lightening. “On occasion, some of us have followed to see their performance, spending the night at an inn.”

  She caught his arm. “Oh, Greywick, would you, truly? I’d have to ask Mr. Wooty, who directs the company, but I’m sure he’d allow it. He’s very kind, and fond of me.”

  “You are good,” Thaddeus said with certainty. “And you know it, don’t you?”

  Her smile was not the sparkling, blinding one that she wielded to such effect. It was small, and shy.

  “Mr. Wooty says that I am. My father wouldn’t allow me to perform with the troupe until I turned twenty-one, but Mr. Wooty has always tutored me during his annual visits.”

  “One performance,” Thaddeus said, shoving away his misgivings. “As Hamlet, because that’s the only chance you have of not being recognized as a lady.” He would have to pay every member of the troupe a bonus to ensure their silence.

  “Of course,” Joan said, nodding.

  “After which, you must return to the castle and—and get married.” The words growled out of some part of his chest that he didn’t recognize.

  If she were married . . .

  It would be different.

  “I have to get married!” Joan cried. “What about you? You’re older than I am! In the last five years, you’ve courted only two ladies—both of whom happen to be my sisters—and done a pretty lackluster job of it. I don’t believe you’ve even tried to woo anyone since Viola married!”

  “I’m aware that I need to find a bride,” Thaddeus said stiffly. “I have done my best to find the right woman, though not in the last couple of years, I admit.”

  “You may accompany me to one performance,” Joan said, a swift glance from under her lashes telling him that she had accepted his point about safety. “After which, I’ll find you a spouse.”

>   He opened his mouth, and she interrupted him. “You’ve been looking at the wrong women. My sisters would never have accepted you, future duke or no. I’ll find you a candidate eager to be a duchess. Otherwise, you really may end up a withered bachelor, alone at Christmas, without children or anyone to love.”

  Only years of discipline kept him from showing a reaction to that prediction, or to her conviction that the only women who would agree to marry him would do so for his title. “I’ll give you a list of honorable men,” he said, keeping his voice even. “You’ll marry one of the candidates I choose.”

  “I’ll consider it,” Joan said.

  Thaddeus choked back biting sarcasm, of a sort he hadn’t ever given voice to. Not even as an adolescent.

  “Do you know how I can tell when you’re overwrought?” Joan asked. With one of her lightning changes of mood, her eyes were amused again.

  He shook his head.

  “You drum your fingers on the hilt of your rapier,” she said, nodding toward his waist. “You may look utterly calm and as if emotion never influences anything you do—”

  “It doesn’t,” he said.

  “Of course it does. When you’re angry, your face gets even more wooden than usual, and you start thumping your fingers on the hilt of your rapier. Like this.”

  Frowning, he looked down and saw her long, slender fingers playing with the hilt of an imaginary rapier. His memory supplied him with the image of the plump curve of her thigh in breeches, sending a ferocious stab of lust down his groin. “I didn’t realize you were so observant,” he said, turning to the side so that his cockstand wasn’t evident.

  Her face didn’t change, and he realized that she was as skilled as he at hiding her emotions. “Why should you? You consider me too selfish and careless to pay attention to others.”

  She curtsied. “Good night, Lord Greywick.” She paused. “I just snapped at you again, but truly, I’m grateful.” Again her smile wasn’t the calculated curve of her mouth, but something more hesitant. “I—I have longed my entire life to perform in front of a real audience.”

  Thaddeus bowed and watched her go.

  Why did she accuse him of calling her selfish? He remembered calling her reckless. Perhaps careless.

  But never selfish.

  Joan was not selfish. Over the years, he’d noticed that she spent hours in the nursery every day, telling the younger children stories and acting out plays for them.

  In her first Season, he’d watched her prop up Viola, who had suffered from crippling shyness. As one of the most beautiful women in any ballroom, she could have reigned over other unmarried ladies, but instead she coaxed wallflowers into conversations that allowed them to show their best aspects to the gentlemen primarily interested in flirting with Joan, not courting wallflowers.

  She was infuriating, wildly intelligent, better read than anyone he knew—at least in the genre of plays.

  Headstrong. Stubborn.

  Reckless to the point of idiocy.

  In fact, he ought to reconsider his long-held belief that the Duke of Lindow was making a huge mistake in not reining in this particular daughter. Lindow understood that trying to curb Joan would lead to disaster.

  He, Thaddeus, was the one who had provoked her to recklessness.

  It was his fault Joan would appear before the public, dressed in breeches, every curve of her body open to the audience’s lustful view, if for only one performance in Wilmslow.

  His jaw set and he swallowed hard.

  He would have unerringly pointed her out as the one lady he didn’t like in all London.

  Yet she was the woman he had to protect.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, Joan made her way to the library thinking, as she had all night, of Lord Greywick. Of his proposition. Her imagination seemed to have caught on his frowning eyebrows and fierce eyes. But at the same time . . .

  Of course, she hated him.

  Loathed him.

  Despised him.

  She was just having trouble remembering that fact, perhaps because even given years of knowing how desperately she’d love to be on the stage, her family had always dismissed the possibility. Greywick had listened to her for two minutes and come up with a solution.

  He was peremptory, and he considered her a walking scandal, and he didn’t like her as a person. Yet she knew, deep in her soul, that the chance to perform on a public stage that he’d offered would change her life. Perhaps she would love the experience so much that she truly would join the theater troupe.

  A cluster of Wildes could always be found in the library. Whereas the equivalent chamber in the duke’s London townhouse was austere and formal, Lindow Castle’s library was full of large stuffed chairs arranged in haphazard circles, the duke’s weighty desk piled with unanswered correspondence, books and needlework stacked on the floor. A thick Aubusson carpet covered the floor, and tall windows leading to the Peacock Terrace were often thrown open in good weather.

  Pushing open the library door, she found that Otis, dressed as Ophelia, was already there, seated on a dark purple sofa beside Viola, who was propped up with pillows, the better to accommodate her pregnant belly. Aunt Knowe sat opposite them, flipping through a copy of Hamlet.

  “You look cross,” Viola said, waving her over. Viola was the only person who was never fooled by Joan’s “calm” face.

  “Do tell me that your father changed his mind about your performance of Hamlet,” Otis complained. “I feel as if I’m about to pop like a ripe gooseberry in this corset. I mourn the sea beast who gave his life to support torture-by-whalebone.”

  “Stop grumbling, Otis,” Aunt Knowe ordered. “My brother never changes his mind, and ladies survive a lifetime in a corset.”

  Aunt Knowe was one of Joan’s favorite people in the world: Tall, brusque, and loving, she had ruled the nursery for Joan’s entire life. More than anyone except Viola, Aunt Knowe understood the limitations that made Joan feel confined, even imprisoned.

  “Given my name and my current state,” Viola said, “I have claim to being a ripe gooseberry, not you.”

  “You do seem to be on the bloated side,” Otis commented, eyeing her.

  “Otis!” Joan cried, sitting down opposite them. “You can’t use that word about a woman carrying a child.”

  “This morning my own dear husband told me that I’m as fat as a distillery pig,” Viola said, smiling as she folded her hands on top of her tummy.

  “Since Devin adores you, I won’t run him through with this useful rapier,” Joan said, patting the hilt. “Though his insult bolsters the case for being an old maid, which is definitely in the cards for me.” She blinked, remembering that she’d rashly promised Greywick that she would marry a gentleman of his choosing.

  Surely he wouldn’t hold her to it.

  Yes, he would.

  “What are you thinking about, my dear?” Aunt Knowe asked. “That is quite a ferocious scowl.”

  “Nothing important,” Joan said. “Otis, do you have your script? We can work on Ophelia’s scenes.”

  “I suppose you already have Hamlet’s mawkish speeches memorized?” Otis asked, catching the book that Aunt Knowe tossed to him.

  “Yes.” Joan had memorized the lead parts in most Shakespeare plays years ago.

  “I hope my baby comes soon,” Viola said dreamily, ignoring the conversation. “I can’t wait to meet him. Or her.”

  “At least a few weeks, my dear,” Aunt Knowe said, leaning over to pat her shoulder.

  Joan shivered. Babies were another reason to eschew marriage. Children were wonderful: imaginative and fun, with no silly rules about boys and girls getting in the way of make-believe and putting on plays.

  But babies?

  Burping, vomiting, crying, slobbering. Pooing.

  “All right,” Otis said discontentedly, leafing through his playbook. “When does Ophelia first show up?”

  “Act One, Scene Three,” Aunt Knowe said. “Her family clusters
about to give her advice, as I recall.”

  “Ah, my father’s favorite activity,” Otis said, brightening. “At least I’ll know how to play that scene.”

  Joan gave him a sympathetic grin. They were both the recipients of stifling, if loving, family advice; Otis had entered the priesthood after his father’s entreaties grew to a clamor.

  He found the right scene and read a few lines aloud before breaking off with a groan. “Why did you have to pick such a dreary play, Joan? If you’re going to ruin yourself by performing a man’s part, why not a jolly farce written in language that the audience could understand?”

  “I’m likely to perform alongside a proper theater troupe only one time in my whole life, so I want to perform the most important play of all time. And play the most important role.”

  “No one could accuse you of modest goals,” Otis said. He dropped the book and pulled up his skirts. “Look at my feet.”

  Joan and Aunt Knowe looked; Viola had fallen asleep.

  “These shoes are pointed. Who invented such a monstrosity? My toes are pinched, and I’m not even standing up.”

  “Those are my old shoes,” Aunt Knowe said. “I suppose they came from the attic.”

  “I can’t survive an entire Shakespeare play in these shoes. The speeches are long and boring, to call a spade a spade.”

  “I don’t think the Bard’s plays are boring,” Aunt Knowe said. “Mind you, I prefer romantic stories such as the one with adorable fairies. Joan was an excellent Helena.”

  “We’ve performed A Midsummer Night’s Dream three times in the last ten years, Aunt Knowe,” Joan pointed out.

  “Couldn’t I please take another role?” Otis begged. “I’d love to play the dead king, running around reminding Hamlet he’s dead. Remember me,” he intoned hollowly, throwing out his arm so that his wig tipped over one ear again.

  “The only way my father agreed to my performing with the Theatre Royal was if you played Ophelia to my Hamlet,” Joan reminded him. “Please, Otis! You were fabulous in the pantomime last Christmas.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I didn’t have to wear a corset. Frankly, I still can’t believe your father agreed, whether I play your beloved or not. One of the actors in the troupe is sure to sell an etching of you in breeches.”