“Actually, Thomas didn’t die on a bed,” Jeremy said, feeling his face twist into some horrible semblance of a smile. “He died in my arms. And do you know what he did say? His last words?”
Lady Tallow’s mouth fell open slightly and she began blinking rapidly, but he was caught in the horror of that memory.
“He apologized to me. He said he was sorry that he couldn’t keep going. ‘Sorry to fail you.’” Jeremy cleared his throat. “That’s what he said. ‘Sorry to fail you.’”
Beside him, Betsy stepped into his vision. He was used to seeing her look like a ceramic doll, but just at the moment she looked like a warrior.
Her face resembled the sky when a thunderstorm is on the horizon. She was about to destroy her reputation for placid, ladylike behavior.
For nothing. For him, who deserved every unkind word.
Before he could croak something to cut Betsy off, a deep, calm voice intervened. Every head in the room turned to Thaddeus. He was now standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Betsy.
They looked like a golden couple, paired by the shimmering beauty that comes with noble family trees and layers of silk.
“Lady Tallow, you are beside yourself,” Thaddeus stated. “A true Englishwoman never maligns those who have served our country. Those aristocrats among us who stayed at home, mere moths of peace, owe everything to the men who risked all to defend our shores. I count myself among them.”
Betsy opened her lips, and Thaddeus put a hand on her arm.
Jeremy realized with a thump of his heart that every person in the room would assume they had an understanding. Perhaps they did have an understanding. Perhaps Thaddeus had found Betsy before breakfast and returned to his knees.
Without realizing it, Jeremy took a deep breath of air.
“I am ashamed that I did not see service in the Americas,” Thaddeus continued. “Tommy Cromie was failed not by Lord Jeremy, but by me. Every able-bodied man in this room who stayed home shares my feelings.”
Jeremy very much doubted that, but no matter.
“Anyone who tarnishes the name of one of the king’s men, whether he died in the service of our country, or survived with the burden of grieving for those lost . . . that person will never be an acquaintance of mine. Ever.”
A moment of silence hung over the room.
Betsy cleared her throat. “I speak for my family.” Her voice was as calm as Thaddeus’s but more forceful. “Lady Tallow, you are no longer an acquaintance of mine, or of any Wilde.”
A man stood at the next table. “Or mine.”
“Mine, mine, mine, mine . . .” The sound came staccato, falling on Jeremy’s ears like . . .
Like a benediction.
Which was ridiculous. He twisted his lips into a sneer. Lady Tallow was looking about her, tight red spots high in her cheeks, a touch of uncertainty in her long upper lip. Presumably she could read the mood of a room.
Or the mood of the calls that came now from every corner.
Thaddeus stood calmly, his eyes moving from person to person as they spoke, with the air of a man who would expect no less of his fellow mortals. Jeremy could have told him how often his fellow aristocrats had tried to comfort him by discounting the lost men as mere cannon fodder.
Yet Thaddeus was a leader, and just at this moment, every damned man in the room was following him. If Lady Tallow had cared to count, she would have seen her welcome in polite society shrinking, voice by voice, house by house.
Thaddeus still had a hand on Betsy’s left arm. But behind her back, hidden in her voluminous skirts, her right hand grabbed Jeremy’s.
Warm, strong fingers curled around his.
As “mine” continued to ring out around the room, he leaned against the table in pure exhaustion, letting her hand anchor him to this moment, to this country.
To this life.
Chapter Eleven
Jeremy, Thaddeus, and Betsy left the breakfast room together, but in the corridor, Prism bowed and said, “Her Grace, the Duchess of Eversley, requests that you join her in the library, Lady Betsy.”
Jeremy rumbled with laughter and wished her luck. Then he demanded that Thaddeus play him at billiards.
Betsy tried to not mind that Jeremy was eager to challenge Thaddeus, although he generally refused to bestir himself for her. She walked to the library feeling a prickle of curiosity overtaking her dread. If she married Thaddeus, she would necessarily spend time with his mother.
The Lindow library was a large room with a number of comfortable chairs and shabby sofas scattered about amid glass-fronted bookshelves containing moldering books, and open-shelved ones crowded with volumes one might actually wish to read.
Since Aunt Knowe was the biggest reader in the family, almost every table held a stack of books to do with medicine, biology, or herbology. A bust of Shakespeare, lent a jaunty air by the tricorne hat tipped over one eye, held the place of honor on the mantel.
At first, Betsy thought the room was empty. Then, as she was wandering toward the fireplace, a short woman jumped from a high-backed chair.
“There you are!” the duchess cried, coming over to Betsy and taking both her hands. “I know we’ve met but I didn’t take note of you. You are monstrously tall, and very pretty. And you look so very healthy! That’s important, isn’t it?”
Her Grace had an infectious smile set in a plump face with a dimple in each cheek. She had the air of a lady who has grown old without noticing and doesn’t see the point of bothering about it now. Her eyes twinkled, and she shook Betsy’s hands, both of them, with great energy.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Betsy said. Rather awkwardly, she couldn’t curtsy, as the duchess kept hold of her hands.
“Thaddeus tells me that you have refused him,” Her Grace said, drawing Betsy over to a sofa.
Rather than challenging her, as her maid had expected, the duchess sounded thoroughly pleased about Betsy’s rejection.
“I am not convinced we will suit,” Betsy said, sitting down.
“I suspect you won’t,” Thaddeus’s mother said promptly. “But the question is: Does it matter? It is far more important that you and I are able to hobble along together. You are the first woman who has caught Thaddeus’s eye—at least, in an official capacity.”
“I see,” Betsy said.
“Men are generally not in the house, and my husband certainly is not, but we would be there together,” the duchess clarified. “Thus, when Thaddeus informed me that he intended to ask for your hand, I made up my mind to join him at Lindow. Please don’t think me selfish, dear, but if I find myself in extremis, it won’t be my husband who comes to my aid.”
“Do you often find yourself in extremis?” Betsy inquired.
“Very often, over tea,” the duchess said promptly. “I find tea parties unbearably tedious, and yet they occur with appalling regularity. I could not bear it if Thaddeus marries a woman who adores tea more than ale.”
She looked expectantly at Betsy.
“Ale,” Betsy said, choosing to tell the truth.
“October or March?” the duchess asked.
“October by far,” Betsy replied. “March is weakened by last year’s hops and malt.”
“Excellent. Have you ever suffered from a spasm, or have you ambitions toward such ladylike behavior?”
“No,” Betsy said.
“My last question,” the duchess said, “and the most important: My husband’s name is Marmaduke and he fancies the name should be given to his first grandson.” She paused.
“No child of mine will be named Marmaduke,” Betsy assured her.
The duchess’s face broke into a beaming smile.
“Your Grace, I have no intention of marrying your son,” Betsy said, feeling particularly apologetic now that she seemed to have passed an examination.
“Perhaps he will grow on you,” the duchess said. “I like Thaddeus quite well, of course, but I realize that I am biased. I will try to think up some good tales to convince y
ou of his eligibility.”
She came to her feet and Betsy jumped up as well.
“I mustn’t keep you, Lady Boadicea. From what my dear friend Lady Knowe tells me, any number of gentlemen are elbowing each other aside in their eagerness to win your hand.”
Betsy sank into a curtsy.
“Lady Knowe tells me that you are an excellent billiard player,” the duchess said. Then she smiled. “So is my son. You should challenge him to a game.”
Naturally, Betsy headed directly to the billiard room. “I can’t believe it!” she cried, stopping in the doorway. “You are a misogynist maggot, Jeremy. How dare you play Lord Greywick when you so often refuse to play me?”
“Thaddeus,” the viscount said, raising his head and nodding at her. “Not Lord Greywick, at least in private. I, for one, would never refuse you a game.”
Oh, dear. His eyes were definitely warm. Betsy had been very careful never to allow her suitors to go beyond affection; she didn’t want to break any hearts. One of the startling lessons of her debut had been how many men asked for her hand in marriage although they were no more than slight acquaintances.
“I think I prefer to be Lord Jeremy,” Jeremy drawled, “if the alternative is to be a maggot.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, waving her hand at him. “I’ll play the winner.”
They were both startlingly handsome, Thaddeus particularly. He had a noble look about him, with a straight nose and a strong jaw. Any woman would want to marry him. He even smelled good.
Not Jeremy.
“Why do you always smell like a horse in the morning?” she demanded.
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you like horses?”
She would rather die than admit that she loved the way he smelled, like saddle leather and pomade, with an edge of the wind that blew over the bog. It was arousing.
No.
She pulled herself back together. “Of course I like horses. They have their time and place.”
“That time and place is five in the morning, at break of dawn,” Jeremy said. “Don’t you agree, Thaddeus?”
“Ladies generally ride in the afternoon,” Thaddeus said. “I am not as enamored with the stables as you are.”
“You don’t need to be,” Jeremy said.
“Is your equestrian enthusiasm the result of sleeplessness?” Betsy asked.
Jeremy shrugged.
Thaddeus leaned down, sighted down the cue, banked a ball off two walls, and slammed it into the red ball, which pocketed.
Betsy swallowed. He could play. He could really play.
That was a sign she ought to marry him. Aunt Knowe had sent her to the billiard room last night for a reason. Was she a coward that panic flooded her entire body?
“He’s showing off,” Jeremy said, an edge to his voice. “It’s amazing what men will do when a beautiful woman is watching.”
Betsy felt her cheeks redden but she kept her eyes on the table. Jeremy thought she was beautiful? He’d never shown an iota of—
Not true. He had kissed her.
But kissing was a pastime.
Apparently, Jeremy had no wish to show off, because he missed the ball entirely on his turn.
“Oh, look at that,” he said flatly. “You’ll have to play Thaddeus.” He turned around and dropped into his usual chair.
Thaddeus caught her eye, and a glimmer of the worry she felt was reflected in his. “If you’ll forgive me, Lady Betsy—”
“Betsy,” she corrected him.
“Bess,” Jeremy put in. “You mustn’t confuse your wife with a nursemaid.”
They both swung about to stare at him.
“What?” he demanded. “I saw your first proposal, but presumably you can do better than that, Thaddeus.”
“My next attempt will be without an audience,” Thaddeus said.
Betsy felt herself growing even redder.
“A maidenly blush,” Jeremy said approvingly. “One might imagine you’d run out of those after all the proposals you’ve received. Englishwomen are endlessly inventive, one finds.”
“Endlessly patient, more like,” Betsy muttered under her breath, but he heard her.
“It’s not my fault that your suitors are bores,” he pointed out.
“I’d like to go for a drive,” Thaddeus said. “I need fresh air. Betsy, would you be so kind as to accompany me?”
Jeremy abruptly hoisted himself out of his chair. “Nice try, Thaddeus, but you’ll have to schedule your next proposal for some other time. Betsy and I have plans to visit Wilmslow.”
“We do?” Betsy asked. She felt as if her head were spinning. Jeremy wasn’t wrong. After spending a Season being proposed to, she knew the hidden language behind an invitation to go for a drive.
“We need to spy out the town,” Jeremy said.
It was Thaddeus’s turn to ask “Why?” His manner was polite but confused. And just a trifle, the smallest trifle, displeased.
Betsy turned to Thaddeus. “We have a prank in mind, a silly thing.”
“Perhaps we could make up a party,” Thaddeus suggested.
Betsy replied before Jeremy could make things worse. “Aunt Knowe just told me that you and your mother will stay with us for a few more days,” she said to Thaddeus. “Do you think that Her Grace would like to visit Wilmslow?”
Thaddeus’s mouth eased into a smile. “I believe it quite likely.”
“Excellent,” Betsy said, her heart thudding in her chest. By issuing an invitation to the duchess, she had as much as accepted Thaddeus’s hand in marriage. For the first time in her memory, she felt a degree of panic akin to Viola’s.
Jeremy walked out the door and said, without looking back, “Right, I’ll convey your invitation to Her Grace, Betsy. And I’ll see you both in the entry in an hour, mama in tow, Thaddeus.”
He strode away before Betsy had a chance to respond.
“He’s not himself,” Thaddeus said, touching her elbow to indicate that she should leave the room before him.
“Are you trying to bamboozle me into believing that Jeremy Roden was a courteous youngster?” Betsy asked, forcing herself to smile at Thaddeus.
The viscount drew the door closed and held out his arm, so he could escort her down the corridor. She slipped her hand around his elbow.
“Jeremy was always foul-mouthed and brilliant, an odd combination that made him the head of any classroom.”
“I didn’t imagine that students swore in front of professors,” Betsy remarked.
“Most learning in college is done outside of the classroom,” Thaddeus said. “In the debating societies, for instance. I think there is a reasonable argument to be made for the future of Britain being staked out in debates at Eton and nuanced in debates at Oxford and Cambridge.”
“I see,” Betsy said, wondering what the House of Commons did in that case, not to mention the king himself.
“Jeremy’s brittleness is new,” Thaddeus added.
“What you said at breakfast was marvelous,” Betsy said, looking up at him with a genuine smile. “I was about to scream at Lady Tallow and that would have done nothing to the purpose.”
“I spoke before you collected your thoughts, but I’m certain you would have been more eloquent than I.” His eyes were distinctly warm.
Damn it.
She had to make up her mind before he became more attached. But perhaps she’d already made up her mind? If so, she had to be honest with him. “Thaddeus, last night you asked for my hand in marriage.”
He drew her to a halt. “Dare I hope that you have changed your mind?”
“No,” she said hastily. “That is, not yet. Or—no.”
He smiled. “I understand.”
He did? Good for him, because she didn’t.
“I wanted to tell you that I present a duchess-worthy face to the world,” Betsy said, forcing herself to focus. “I am not truly as sweet as I appear. I may have the semblance of a duchess, but in truth, I am far more . . .”
She stopped, unable to explain.
“Wild without an E?” Thaddeus supplied. “I would expect no less. I think you to be honest, loyal, honorable, and intelligent. Those qualities are far more important to me than the fact you are both exquisite and have exquisite manners.”
Betsy cleared her throat. “Also I should add that there are those who believe that my mother was unfaithful to my father before I was born.”
He laughed. “You don’t believe that any more than I do, nor does any other person with common sense. You have your father’s eyebrows.” He touched her right eyebrow lightly. “You are beautiful, Betsy, but I admired your eyebrows first.”
“Goodness, why?” she asked, dumbfounded, barely stopping herself from touching her eyebrow herself. It arched, like any eyebrow.
“Yours is a mischievous eyebrow,” Thaddeus said. “That of a woman who will never settle for domestic peace but will be a true partner.”
Betsy swallowed. It was too late. She was too late. Somehow, he’d given his heart away before she noticed.
“You make me sound like a paragon,” she said weakly. “I assure you that I am all too human.”
“That’s just what I’m saying,” Thaddeus said, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it.
“Eyebrows are not indicative of parentage,” Betsy told him.
“You are a Wilde, through and through.”
“Would you court me if I didn’t have my father’s eyebrows?” Betsy asked, thinking of her sister Joan’s straight, golden eyebrows.
“I would have to think carefully,” Thaddeus said. “I hold the honor of my family line in my hand. My younger brother passed away, and I have no first cousins. So whomever I marry will be the mother of the sons that will carry dukedom into the future.”
“I don’t believe that ancestry matters,” Betsy said, not entirely truthfully. “Were I actually the daughter of that Prussian who lured my mother away, I would still be myself.”
Thaddeus looked embarrassed. “I was raised to believe that my land and my title are sacred. As sacred as England itself.”
“You will only marry a woman whose parentage you revere?” Betsy asked. She was starting to dislike him, just a little.
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