Say No to the Duke

by James, Eloisa

  “It begins in a couple of hours,” Aunt Knowe replied. “Betsy, was your costume delivered to you?”

  “Yes, it was,” Betsy said, not daring to look at Jeremy.

  “I sent for a costume of my brother’s,” her aunt said. “I expect it will fit very well. Thankfully, neither of us has fattened with age.”

  “Three ladies in breeches will attend this auction?” Jeremy asked.

  “That’s the size of it,” Aunt Knowe said, finishing off a piece of buttered toast. “I have no fear for myself. I look uncannily like my brother and I could impersonate the duke in a pinch. I might even introduce myself as him. I haven’t been sufficiently groveled to in my life. This is the chance to make up for lost time.”

  “I feel the same!” Betsy exclaimed. “I plan to make up for lost time wearing a corset.”

  Jeremy choked back a laugh.

  Aunt Knowe patted his hand. “No jesting, my dear. Until you’ve experienced whalebones, you must bite your tongue. That’s true of you as well, Betsy, when we enter the auction house. Your voice is too high, even for a boy. You can bid with a wave of your catalogue.”

  “Certainly,” Betsy said, excitement bubbling in her stomach.

  “Emily’s voice is even higher than yours,” Aunt Knowe continued. “What’s more, you’ve spent an entire Season practicing maidenly tranquility, but she was married out of the schoolroom, so silence will be a trial for her.”

  “Maidenly tranquility,” Jeremy said, his eyes glinting with laughter. “I gather I should have spent more time in the ballroom this last Season. You didn’t bother with that trait in the billiard room.”

  “You were silent enough for both of us,” Betsy retorted. “Sitting in the corner, brooding over your whisky, pretending to be inebriated.”

  “Better than pretending to be maidenly?” He raised a devilish eyebrow. “Hmmm.”

  “Hush, both of you,” Aunt Knowe ordered. “Back to my point, Betsy. You must keep your mouth shut or risk discovery.”

  “Will there be dire consequences if we are caught?” she asked.

  Her aunt was busily buttering her third piece of toast. “Emily and I will be with you. If we’re all in fancy dress, the event turns from a scandal to a lark.”

  “In that case, you should wear a gown!” Betsy told Jeremy. “Perhaps one of yours would fit him, Aunt Knowe.”

  Two appalled looks greeted this idea.

  “Absolutely not,” Aunt Knowe cried. “His chest is twice the breadth of mine, Betsy. He’d ruin my bodice!”

  Jeremy appeared to be struck dumb with horror.

  “I think Jeremy would make a delectable lady,” Betsy said, giggling. “Yes, his chest is somewhat hairy—”

  “I do not want to know how you are aware of that fact!” Aunt Knowe barked.

  “He changed shirts in the stables,” Betsy said, ignoring Jeremy’s intrigued response to her comment.

  “I believe it is likely that our escapade will result in more prints,” her aunt said. “If you will forgive my presumption, Jeremy, I have a strong feeling that Mr. Bisset-Caron will dine out on the story for weeks.”

  Jeremy’s eyes darkened. “He’ll do nothing of the sort.”

  The duchess marched into the room, her cheeks bright red from cold.

  “We’ve been to St. Bartholomew’s,” Her Grace announced. “The butcher and baker are open no matter the snow, and the auction opens in two hours!”

  Thaddeus followed her into the room, his brows knit. “There’s no sign of a footman,” he said testily. “Unless I burdened my mother’s maid, I had no one to take my coat.” He took off his snowy caped greatcoat and slung it over the chair, put his hat and gloves on a side table, and leaned his cane against the wall.

  Apparently he didn’t care to eat in the vicinity of his outerwear, and he was visibly cross as the dickens. Though to be fair, he must have risen at six to escort his mother to church.

  With that in mind, Betsy gave him a warm smile and handed him a platter of coddled eggs.

  After eggs, toast, herring, and sausage had been consumed, the duchess let out a crow of excitement. “My goodness, I clean forgot! We picked up the auction catalogue.” She turned to Thaddeus. “Where has it gone to?”

  He rose and took a rolled sheaf of paper from his greatcoat pocket.

  The duchess flattened it on the table, putting a teacup on one corner and a sugar bowl on the other.

  “Presenting a very extensive and valuable assemblage of drawings of all schools, and several specimens of the most valuable and rare works of the master of the miniature, Samuel Finney. I shall bid upon a miniature,” she announced.

  “We were all painted by Finney a few years ago,” Aunt Knowe said idly. “Dear me, I wonder what happened to them. Small things are so hard to keep track of, don’t you think? In fact, I have been painted by him several times. I do like miniatures.”

  “If your likeness is being auctioned, we shan’t let you go to a stranger’s home,” Betsy promised.

  “I thought miniatures were primarily exchanged between lovers,” Her Grace observed, twinkling at her old friend.

  Aunt Knowe waved her fork at the duchess. “Fiddlesticks! I am a pattern card of decorum, as you well know.”

  Just when the tea had gone quite cold, the innkeeper appeared with a fresh pot and a message. The marquess never ate before noon, and Mr. Bisset-Caron would spend the day in bed.

  “That will make the escapade easier, though I’m certain Bisset-Caron’ll hear of it from his manservant,” Aunt Knowe declared.

  Thaddeus and Jeremy exchanged a glance that suggested Grégoire would risk his head if he gossiped.

  To Betsy, Jeremy looked like a man ready to support her in wearing breeches, a man with a burden on his soul, with too many lines at the corners of his eyes.

  He looked as if he were hers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Betsy’s breeches were tight over her bottom, and the stockings itched. The shirt was so long that it hung to her knees and made it hard to stuff into her breeches.

  “Hopefully no one will pay much attention,” her maid said, looking her up and down.

  Betsy turned to the mirror. Her hair was braided, ready for a small wig that sat waiting. The wool stockings made her legs thicker, as if they might be a boy’s. She peered over her shoulder at her bottom. “I never knew my arse was so round. And I think of my bosom as small.” The shirt was tucked in but the buttons on her waistcoat gaped at the top.

  “Your bosom is not small,” Winnie stated. “I wound the muslin as tightly as I could.”

  “Your profile is not manly,” Winnie observed, after Betsy put on the velvet coat.

  Betsy turned to the side. Her chest curved and her bottom curved. “I have a much better figure than I thought,” she said wonderingly, running her hands down her front.

  “The problem is that no boy has that figure,” Winnie said.

  “I will be wearing a greatcoat,” Betsy said. “That would cover up the rear, at least.”

  “I’ll have to fetch it myself,” Winnie said. “You’re not going into the corridor dressed like that. Not with Lord Greywick and Lord Jeremy looking at you the way they do.”

  “And how is that?”

  “As if you’re a bone they’re scrapping over.”

  Betsy wrinkled her nose and moved over to the window. Snow was still mounded on top of the stone wall, but the inn yard was mostly clear and she could see carriages tooling slowly up and down the road. A robin was hopping along the top of the stone wall, its feet leaving marks that looked like the scratchings of an ancient civilization.

  Three grooms were clearing snow from the courtyard. The one on the right, with his back to her, had dark hair tied in a queue. It gleamed in the chilly sunlight. His shoulders rose and fell, scooping huge amounts of snow onto a shovel and throwing them on a pile to the side.

  “Which one of the two do you think I should marry?” she asked Winnie.

  “The visc
ount,” Winnie said from behind her back. “He’ll be a duke someday. What’s more, Lord Jeremy can be cross as the dickens. Mind you,” she added, “his valet talks about him as if he walked on water.”

  Betsy put a great deal of store by what servants thought of their masters. Two of the grooms trotted away, as if the third had dispatched them.

  He straightened and ran the back of his hand over his forehead. His breath puffed white as he wrenched off his greatcoat and tossed it over a hitching post. Then he began shoveling again. She knew those shoulders, even from the rear.

  “The household loves Lord Jeremy,” Winnie said. “Mind you, the same goes for the viscount. I haven’t heard a bad word about him, whereas Lord Jeremy drinks himself into a stupor and slides on the floor. No, there’s no question at all about which to marry.”

  “He is never truly inebriated,” Betsy said. The robin was tugging on a twig sticking out from the snow. It tilted its head and tugged, its claws tramping a flat space in the snow.

  The shoveler was working so hard that Betsy was amazed his linen shirt didn’t split between the shoulders. As he threw snow on the mound she caught sight of his profile.

  Nose. Chin. Shoulders.

  Jeremy.

  Winnie made an exasperated sound. “So says Lady Knowe, but evidence doesn’t agree, does it? Lord Jeremy drinks a whole bottle and then falls to the floor. It’s not as if he didn’t drink the bottle. Plus there was unpleasantness over in the colonies.”

  Betsy kept watching.

  “What are you looking at?” Winnie joined her at the window. “That’s a very nice back. I can see why you’re ogling the fellow.”

  “He’s not a ‘fellow,’” Betsy said.

  Was she “ogling”? Yes, she was. She would never have allowed herself to do something so improper a month ago.

  Winnie leaned closer to the window. “Lord Jeremy!”

  They stood in silent appreciation of the smooth motion with which Jeremy threw huge amounts of snow onto a shoulder-high mound.

  “He doesn’t suffer from ill effects of inebriation,” Winnie admitted.

  He was attacking the last patch of snow as if . . .

  Well, as if every snowflake were an enemy.

  “Something happened over there in the colonies,” Winnie said. “Something terrible. There are rumors . . .”

  “You mustn’t listen to them,” Betsy said sharply.

  “My point is that a man with darkness in his soul isn’t an easy one to tame. Husbands need taming, everyone knows that. You can tell that the viscount would never flaunt a mistress in front of you.”

  “Neither would Jeremy!”

  Winnie snorted. “I’ve heard stories as you wouldn’t believe—”

  “About him?”

  Down below them, Jeremy had straightened, wiping his forehead with his arm. Betsy’s skin prickled.

  What would those girls from school say if they knew what she was thinking? Did they ever watch a man doing honest labor and wonder if his sweat tasted salty or sweet?

  They would think she was lascivious, and they would be right.

  He pulled the strip of leather from his hair and shook it free.

  “Lord, but he’s a pretty man,” Winnie said with a sigh. “His shoulders are much bigger than they seem in a jacket, aren’t they? Or perhaps his hips are narrower.”

  Betsy bit back a remark. He wasn’t hers. Any woman could admire him. The snow was casting bright light, making Jeremy’s sculpted features stand out clearly. In the dark of the billiard room, they looked as if they were chiseled in harsh lines, but in clear morning sunlight, his profile appeared to be drawn by an old master.

  “Stop gawping over that man,” Winnie said, turning away. “Did you hear what I said?”

  Betsy remained glued to the window, irritatingly aware that her breath was quick and shallow, and her toes were curling. Jeremy’s shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to his arms and chest. Of course he wouldn’t strip it off, the way he had done at the stables. It was freezing outside.

  “Yes,” she said absentmindedly.

  He gave his hair a last shake and stretched. His shirt pulled free of his breeches, and she caught sight of his ridged stomach, an arrow of hair disappearing into his waistband.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  Unheeding, unknowing, he strode toward the inn, out of her sight in a moment.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jeremy had discovered to his surprise that vigorous exercise in the morning had become a necessity. He had managed a few hours of sleep before he woke at dawn. After fruitlessly staring at the ceiling, he flung himself out of doors and tackled the snow.

  It pulled his mind from the battlefield to the present. He wasn’t in the colonies. He was in a small inn crowded with eccentric, loud people of whom he was growing inordinately fond. Especially one of them.

  The corridor leading from the courtyard seemed dark and musty after squinting at piles of shining snow. There was no mistaking the tall figure of Lady Knowe, waiting for him.

  “Betsy has tamped herself down in the last years,” she said without introduction. Her eyes searched his face. “Believe it or not, she was the wildest of my children.”

  “I believe you,” Jeremy said.

  “Do you?” she demanded.

  How was he supposed to answer that? “I gather that you approve of Bess’s”—he caught himself—“Betsy’s wish to dress herself in men’s clothing. Since you are doing the same.”

  “Are you being judgmental?” Lady Knowe said. “It never suits a man to be judgmental. Life is far too easy for you, so you must reel in your tendency to censure others.”

  Life was too easy? Jeremy could feel his jaw tightening, but he nodded.

  Lady Knowe’s eyes softened. “Not in all ways, my dear,” she said, more gently. “But believe me, when it comes to relations between men and women, men hold all the cards. Betsy is finally letting herself out of a box she created.”

  “I see.” And he did.

  “Emily as well. She has been an excellent duchess and mother, and she’s finally doing something that she wants to do.”

  Jeremy nodded.

  “You and your father must watch out for Betsy, and Thaddeus will do the same for his mother.”

  Her Grace emerged from the door behind Lady Knowe, her mouth tight. “Thaddeus and I have come to a mutual decision that he should remain in the inn and not accompany us to the auction.”

  Lady Knowe muttered something under her breath.

  “I am going,” the duchess said, her voice rising loud enough so that it could easily be heard in the room behind her. “I shall attend the auction, with or without him, and frankly, I’d rather it was without. I can’t believe that a son of mine is such a priggish, self-righteous, prudish—”

  “We understand,” Lady Knowe said.

  “—puff of air!” the duchess finished triumphantly.

  Thaddeus appeared in the doorway, his expression imperturbable. “As you will have ascertained, Her Grace and I do not agree.”

  Lady Knowe shook her head. “Not the time to play the haughty duke, Thaddeus.”

  “I merely expressed concern,” he said.

  “I’d be honored to accompany you, Your Grace,” Jeremy said.

  “No, you will be accompanying Betsy,” Lady Knowe said. “In case the worst happens, I want someone with her who has a talent for fisticuffs, which I do not have, obviously. Your father can accompany the duchess.”

  Thaddeus’s eyes narrowed. “Your concern increases my own, Lady Knowe.”

  “No reason for you to worry,” Lady Knowe said dismissively. “In the unlikely event that an auction-goer has the temerity to question Betsy’s costume, I want him thrown out of the establishment.” Lady Knowe stared at Jeremy. “Do you understand?”

  “Completely.” The very idea of someone ogling Betsy’s arse—other than himself—made his blood boil.

  Thaddeus and his mother had begun to argue agai
n.

  “Go have a bath,” Lady Knowe said to Jeremy. “You’re sweaty as a pig and Betsy will be downstairs, in breeches, soon.”

  Jeremy bounded to the top of the stairs. As he walked by Betsy’s door, it sprang open and a slender hand emerged, curled around his wrist, and tugged.

  “I need you,” Betsy whispered. She tugged again.

  He went, because although she didn’t know it, he would always come when she needed him. Whenever she needed him.

  Inside the chamber, his eyes went straight to Betsy’s face. She looked as exquisite as ever: A man’s wig suited her. She generally wore towering creations or arranged her own hair into powdered mounds on her head.

  A small white wig focused attention on her face, especially her dark, arched eyebrows. She looked unmistakably like a Wilde. She was damned beautiful.

  But then, Wilde men were beautiful. It was one of the irritating things about them, to Jeremy’s mind. North and Parth didn’t even have spots, back in school when every normal boy was a pimply mess.

  “Did you get spots as a girl?” he asked.

  “What? Jeremy, pay attention!”

  He was paying attention. Every part of his body longed to look below her chin but he was a gentleman.

  “Spots!” she cried. “Who cares? I need help!”

  “May I look?” he asked, gesturing toward her lower area.

  “Of course, you may look!” Betsy replied, her voice rising. “No one is going to believe I’m a boy.”

  His eyes drifted to a decently tied cravat and down to her chest. “How on earth did you flatten yourself to that extent?” he asked, rather stupefied.

  “I bound my breasts,” she said impatiently. “Besides, a corset—oh, never mind. That’s an improper subject of conversation.”

  “Most of our subjects of conversation are improper,” Jeremy pointed out. “Do you normally stuff your corset? Not that I mind in the least.”

  “You needn’t share your opinion of my breasts!” she shot back.

  “Your breasts—” But he broke off. A better man than he wouldn’t have ogled her from the corner of the billiard room until he could trace her breasts in his mind’s eye and almost feel them plump into his hands.