Say No to the Duke

by James, Eloisa

  “The stationers pry and investigate in order to create different prints that will tempt their customers. They often make up the subjects from whole cloth. I’ve been shown in dalliance with Lord Merland, for example—and he’s married! More to the point, I scarcely know the man.”

  “Unpleasant,” Jeremy acknowledged.

  “They are often disagreeable,” Betsy said. “My mother, you see. You know about the Prussian, don’t you?”

  Jeremy blinked at her.

  “My mother’s lover,” Betsy said, scowling at him. “Golden hair, good teeth, looked just like—” She bit the sentence off.

  “Looked like?”

  She looked up at him. “I shan’t finish that sentence, and I hope you will forget I ever said anything.”

  “Looked like your sister Joan,” Jeremy said, realizing. “You mentioned that yesterday but I forgot. I don’t listen to that sort of gossip, so I had no idea of the color of the man’s hair, or his origins, or any of it.”

  “You are singular in that respect,” Betsy said. “Reporters dog my footsteps, hoping to see me mimic my mother. If we were in London, I would never be so imprudent as to walk in the open with you, even with a maid trailing behind.”

  They walked without speaking for a few minutes, their steps muted by snow. Around them, the windowsills and doorsteps were turning white. A few locks of Betsy’s hair curled around her forehead, and snow was falling softly on them as well.

  Jeremy had the disconcerting realization that he didn’t care if the church they were walking toward was holy ground or consecrated from the crypt to the bell tower: He meant to kiss Betsy again. With thoroughly profane intentions.

  Simple lust.

  Albeit with a touch of giddiness.

  A stiff wind cut around the corners of the narrow street and shot past Jeremy’s ears with a whistle, carrying a whiff of coal smoke.

  “It’s growing frightfully cold,” Betsy said, her words nipped away and flung over her shoulder.

  “The wind sounds like a musket ball going past one’s ears,” Jeremy said, his thoughts spilling out. “Except,” he added, “wind isn’t dangerous, of course.”

  Betsy gave his arm a squeeze, which was the perfect response.

  “Would you like to return to the teahouse?” Jeremy asked again.

  She shook her head. “I like fighting the wind.”

  They were walking along when a rumbling coach pulled up.

  Jeremy glanced to the side and his heart sank. The window was open, and a lean face topped with a great deal of fluffy salt-and-pepper hair peered out. He had a majestic nose, the kind that was meant to be attached to a man standing in the prow of a ship or the House of Lords.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” Jeremy said, and came to an abrupt halt. He hadn’t seen his father since well before the Vauxhall fireworks and subsequent visit to Lindow.

  Betsy stumbled. They had been walking quickly, their bodies shoved along the pavement by the wind.

  “My father,” Jeremy said, with a wave of his hand. “He can’t have stayed more than an hour at the castle before following us here.”

  “I think my eyelashes have frozen,” Betsy said, rubbing an eye. “Did you say your father?” She peered around his shoulder. “In that carriage?”

  “Unfortunately.” Jeremy quickly unwound the bandage from his head, thrust it in his pocket, and slapped his hat back on. His father wouldn’t be pleased to learn his son escaped war only to be nearly felled by a madwoman.

  The Marquess of Thurrock was clambering out of the vehicle. He had seemed impossibly tall and lean when Jeremy was a child, his eyes bright, a near-visible sense of competence hanging about his shoulders. He was still tall, obviously. And competent, presumably.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Thurrock,” Jeremy said, bowing.

  The marquess was fussing with his greatcoat and busily acting like a British aristocrat avoiding an awkward reunion.

  Not that Jeremy didn’t feel the same way.

  Finally, the marquess took a step forward, as if he meant to sweep Jeremy into the sort of hugs with which he had always greeted him when Jeremy came home from Eton. But he caught himself.

  “Son,” he said. “Who’s this?” His voice was full and hearty, like a fishmonger, and his eyes—damn it!—were hopeful.

  “Lady Boadicea, may I introduce my father, the Marquess of Thurrock?” Jeremy said.

  Betsy cocked her head slightly to the side and smiled.

  Jeremy waited for her beatific smile to dazzle, as it had dazzled most of polite society, but his father merely blinked and said, “I recognize the eyebrows, of course. Haven’t seen your father for a few years.”

  Betsy’s curtsy was particularly graceful, given the fact the wind was trying to drive them along the walk. “Lord Thurrock, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  The carriage door opened again, and Grégoire Bisset-Caron stepped to the sidewalk. Jeremy’s cousin was wearing a fur cape and hat instead of a tricorne. “Here I am,” he called. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting!”

  “Lady Boadicea, may I present my nephew, Mr. Bisset-Caron?” Jeremy’s father asked, sounding distinctly unenthusiastic.

  Betsy curtsied again. “It’s a pleasure to see you, sir. I thought you had returned to London.”

  “I intended to do so, but my uncle surprised me,” Grégoire said, with a languid nod to Jeremy. “I decided to accompany him to this town . . . what is it called?”

  “Wilmslow,” Jeremy said, wondering whether Grégoire had plans to court Betsy. Surely his cousin didn’t think that he could compete with a future duke. Grégoire could be considered the heir to a marquess—but only if Jeremy died without a son.

  At times that seemed eminently possible. Grégoire might even be counting on it.

  “A pleasure and a surprise,” the marquess said to Betsy. “I didn’t know that my son was keeping company with a young lady, to call a spade a spade.”

  Grégoire snorted. “Your spade is misplaced, Uncle. Lady Boadicea is all but promised to the future Duke of Eversley.”

  “I am not keeping company with Lord Jeremy,” Betsy confirmed.

  “Ah well,” his father said. “It’d take a thief catcher to tie the boy down.”

  “I’m no longer a boy,” Jeremy said.

  His father was grinning at Betsy. Her charm was warm and cheery, albeit fake. His father’s was laid on a foundation of ancient silver, an ancient title, and rows and rows of tenant farmers.

  The marquess actually paid his farmers, which was more than his great-grandfather had done. Jeremy had never forgotten being told by a wizened old relative that the new way of doing things—which included paying a wage—was bollocks.

  The marquess moved to Betsy’s other side, leaning slightly on a silver-topped cane. As he crossed before them, the wind blew a whiff of cigars and starched linen into Jeremy’s face that reminded him of childhood.

  “Where are we going?” the marquess asked.

  “St. Bartholomew’s,” Betsy replied.

  “An unusual destination for a member of our family,” Jeremy’s father observed. “I remembered on the way here that my old friend Samuel Finney hails from Wilmslow. He paints miniatures. Has a terrible squint. Last I heard, he’d become a justice of the peace. He exhibited a miniature of Queen Charlotte, and the money allowed him to pay off all his family debts. How far is this church?”

  “At the end of the street,” Betsy said.

  “It is too cold to walk even that far,” Grégoire stated. “It’s positively barbaric the way the wind cuts through my cloak.” He waved his stick at the coachman. “I will wait for you.”

  “Just how interested are you in seeing the church, Lady Boadicea?” the marquess asked.

  A groom jumped down and opened the carriage door. “Grégoire is right; it’s too cold for walking,” Jeremy said, drawing Betsy toward the vehicle.

  Once they were all seated, in the sudden silence that follows an escape from a storm, the marques
s asked, “Lady Boadicea, might we change your mind as regards the church? I’m afraid the building will be bitterly cold.”

  “I will admit to feeling chilled,” Betsy said, her teeth chattering. “Perhaps we should join the Duchess of Eversley, Lord Greywick, and my aunt, Lady Knowe, at the auction house instead of continuing to the church.”

  Jeremy wrapped an arm around her shoulder and then, as his father looked surprised: “We are merely friends. As Grégoire said, Lady Boadicea is almost betrothed to Greywick. In fact, the duchess treats her as a daughter-in-law.”

  “Almost,” his father repeated. He smiled, and a flame lit somewhere in the region of Jeremy’s frozen heart. He used to love that smile: It appeared rarely, and as a boy, Jeremy would do anything for it. Learn three Latin declensions before bedtime, bring home top marks in history, argue his instructors to a standstill . . . knowing his father was doing the same in Lords.

  “I don’t mean this unkindly, but I doubt very much that the Duke of Lindow would embrace my cousin as a son-in-law,” Grégoire said in his most waspish manner.

  The marquess leveled a tremendous scowl. “What did you mean by that?”

  “Since Lady Boadicea has, as we established, very nearly reached an understanding with Lord Greywick, I can say freely, amongst the family as it were, that Jeremy’s nerves are not at their best.”

  “What in the hell are you talking about?” the marquess thundered.

  “I had an unfortunate episode after some fireworks exploded in Vauxhall Gardens,” Jeremy said. It wasn’t how he would have chosen to inform his father, let alone Betsy. “I lost sensibility for some time.”

  Betsy said nothing, but shifted closer to him, her side pressing against his.

  “The details are unpleasant,” Grégoire agreed with a sniff. “I wouldn’t wish you to have misplaced hopes, Uncle. Nothing has leaked to the stationers about Jeremy’s illness, but one can’t count on that.”

  The marquess regarded Grégoire with withering scorn and pointedly gave him his shoulder. “I suggest that you visit St. Bartholomew’s on a summer day, Lady Boadicea. My coachman knows something about these parts. Earlier, he suggested we retire to the Honeypot for hot drinks. Best inn for miles around.”

  At Betsy’s nod, his father opened the window and shouted to his coachman, and the vehicle lurched into movement.

  “Dieu soit loué!” Grégoire said, under his breath.

  “Lady Boadicea, are churches a particular interest of yours?” the marquess asked.

  Jeremy stared out the window at the gathering swirls of snowflakes while his father and Betsy talked about churches they had visited. He had decided never to see his father again. That seemed childish in retrospect and yet—

  His ownership of a blackened soul was not childish. Next to him, Betsy’s warm hip—or at least all the skirts that bunched up next to her hip—pressed against his greatcoat.

  That slight touch inspired a flash of desire so intense that he felt it in the back of his teeth, along with an inexplicable dose of comfort.

  The carriage wheels were muffled by snow as they trundled along the cobblestones. At some point, spring would come. Robins and wood pigeons would sing again. Hawthorn would blossom.

  “If this snow keeps up, we’ll have to spend the night in Wilmslow,” his father said, twitching aside the curtains. “Hopefully the Honeypot has enough rooms. Apparently, there’s another inn as well. Not the Fox & Hound, a more interesting name than that.”

  “My aunt is fond of the Gherkin & Cheese,” Betsy said.

  “That’s the one,” his father said. He turned to Grégoire. “We’ll let you out at the Honeypot; if the duchess and her party are there, send to us at the Gherkin. If not, take a carriage and join us.”

  “Dropping off a groom would be sufficient,” Grégoire said sulkily. “Or you could simply wait for me while I inquire about Her Grace.”

  The marquess looked at his nephew down the length of his nose. “One does not keep a lady waiting in a chilly carriage.”

  Betsy burst into a flurry of small talk, as marked as if butterflies suddenly fluttered all around her head. She peppered the marquess with charm, but Jeremy had known him a lifetime. He saw a puzzled light at the back of his eyes. Betsy was hiding herself so well that his father was confused.

  They pulled up to the Honeypot. Grégoire got out of the carriage and disappeared into the blowing snow.

  “That boy soured while you were at war,” the marquess said, tapping a hand on his knee. “Mayhap he talked himself into a belief the title was his.”

  “Did you notice that his mention of a Vauxhall print was close to a threat, Jeremy?” Betsy said, as the carriage set off for the Gherkin & Cheese.

  She used his first name before his father—and the marquess took note. With an effort, Jeremy wrenched his mind back to Betsy, who was explaining the times when the Wildes had discovered acquaintances were selling sketches, or even just ideas for them, to stationers in London.

  “The prints travel all about the country on tinkers’ carts,” she was saying. “They have plagued my brothers.”

  “Was Grégoire with you at Vauxhall when you fell ill?” his father asked.

  “No,” Jeremy replied. “You and I haven’t spoken in many months,” he added. “Have you been well?” The marquess looked older, his nose beakier, his eyes paler blue than a year ago.

  “Yes. Other than the fact I have worried about you.” He turned to Betsy. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable by answering so truthfully. I can see you are my son’s dear friend.”

  “I am honored,” Betsy said.

  The carriage was quiet for a moment. Jeremy and his father hadn’t spoken since shortly after he staggered off the boat from America, shuddering at the faintest sound, waves of shame and grief cutting him to the bone on a daily basis. They had quarreled within days of his landing in England, and after that, Jeremy couldn’t face him.

  “You are so bloody effective,” Jeremy said, forcing the words out of his mouth. “If you’d been there, in the colonies, the whole thing would have been done right. You’d have brought your men home.”

  The marquess shook his head, his eyes unreadable in the dim light in the carriage. “There is no right in war. There’s only what happened.”

  “I followed orders,” Jeremy said, a swell of bitterness riding his tongue. “You wouldn’t have followed orders. It wasn’t fair of me to blame you for it.”

  The marquess frowned.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Jeremy said. “You would have marched your men out of there and discovered that the colonel in charge had fled. Your men would be home with their wives now. I just kept running across that field, from side to side.”

  “Had I taken an oath to serve in His Majesty’s forces, I would have followed orders,” his father stated. “The fact that the War Office decided not to court-martial that blasted colonel is an outrage, an affront to every man who fell on the field.”

  Jeremy quirked up the side of his mouth in a failed attempt at a smile. “Be that as it may, I shouldn’t have blamed you for my failures.”

  “You thought I would have succeeded where you failed—but you didn’t fail,” the marquess said.

  “He did,” Betsy said suddenly.

  The coach went silent again, but for the slush of the wheels on snow.

  The marquess’s eyes narrowed and if he’d looked confused before, now he looked at Betsy with daggerlike contempt. “I assure you, Lady Boadicea, that I have read the reports of my son’s service myself. He kept his men together in battle, in the face of insurmountable odds. Had the coward’s battalion joined them, as planned, Jeremy’s actions likely would have turned the fate of that particular battle.”

  “I know that,” Betsy said.

  “My son received an honorable mention in the dispatches,” the marquess barked.

  The carriage was drawing to a halt, but Betsy leaned forward like a gladiator about to whip up her steeds. “A true leader
feels he has failed every man he loses,” she said, contained anger equal to the marquess’s in her voice. “My brother North is such a leader. And your son is such a leader.”

  Jeremy’s mouth twitched, an involuntary movement.

  “If you ask him, Jeremy will deny it,” Betsy said.

  Jeremy opened his mouth. “Because—”

  Betsy cut him off. “He will say that North is a better man. The guilt is intolerable. You couldn’t understand it. If you say his experience was not a failure, you ignore his feelings.”

  “Balderdash!” his father barked. He turned to Jeremy, his eyebrows nearly meeting. “Do you think that I know nothing of guilt?”

  The wind had picked up and was rocking the carriage.

  “An entire platoon was lost,” Betsy said. “With all due respect, Lord Thurrock, no guilt you feel could equal that which your son experienced.”

  Jeremy’s mouth curled in a genuine smile. “I can fight this particular battle,” he said to Betsy. “If not the other.”

  “You did fight,” Betsy said. “You just didn’t win. You tried. To my mind, every battle is a failure.”

  “You have a point.” The knowledge settled into his bones with surprising warmth.

  “I know guilt,” his father said stubbornly.

  Without any of the three of them noticing, the carriage had halted. Now the door opened, letting in a swirl of freezing air. Outside the door a groom in red livery stood stiffly next to a mounting box rapidly turning white with snow.

  Betsy bent forward and left the carriage without a word to Jeremy or the marquess, holding out her gloved hand for the groom’s aid.

  His father made no move to leave. “I don’t know why you thought I blamed you, Jeremy, but I didn’t. God knows I never would.”

  “I didn’t truly think that,” Jeremy said, touched despite himself. “I was an idiot, that’s all. I’ve always thought of you as one of the most competent men I’ve ever met.”

  His father’s mouth wobbled.

  “I couldn’t help making the comparison. I didn’t look outside the battlefield, you see. On one level I followed orders. But on another, I should have realized that something had gone wrong. I should have sent someone to investigate. Instead, I just kept running across that bloody field.”