Say No to the Duke

by James, Eloisa

  The auction house was a large building fronted with shallow steps and a sign decorated in gold that announced the ownership of Mr. Phillips, renowned auctioneer of London, Stratford-upon-Avon, and Wilmslow.

  A butler opened the door as they approached, bowed, and asked for their names.

  “The Marquess of Thurrock and party,” Jeremy’s father said, pulling off his tricorne.

  A well-proportioned man wearing an excellent suit and a superior, though not extravagant, wig made his appearance. “Your Lordship,” Mr. Phillips said to the marquess, “it is my honor to welcome you to the smallest of my auction houses.”

  “I knew Finney as a boy,” the marquess told him. “I’ve a mind to acquire one of his little pieces, as long as the price is right. Brought some friends with me.”

  The auctioneer’s shrewd eyes paused for a moment on Betsy, who gave him the smallest of chin nods. For a moment, he looked puzzled, then, to Betsy’s satisfaction, he looked past her to Jeremy, Aunt Knowe, and the duchess. He blinked, visibly registering their clothing and deciding that the Marquess of Thurrock’s party was not as tasteful a group as he would expect of a nobleman’s friends.

  “You are most welcome to enter the salon,” he said, waving in a stately manner toward large open doors. “We will begin with drawings that I acquired at great effort on the continent and follow with exquisite examples of Samuel Finney’s miniatures.”

  The salon proved to be a tall-ceilinged room, every inch of which was painted with a relentless number of cupids, interspersed with a cloud here or there.

  “Look up,” Jeremy murmured in Betsy’s ear, nudging her as they sat down.

  Obediently, she tilted her head back, and her mouth fell open. The ceiling was a riot of cherubs, lying on clouds, playing harps, quaffing wine, and—

  Aunt Knowe’s familiar bellow of laughter rang out as the rest of the party seated themselves. It sounded reasonably manly.

  “Don’t speak loudly,” Jeremy reminded Betsy, just in time.

  “The cupids,” Betsy whispered.

  “Engaging in intimacies.” His eyes had a devilish, laughing glint. “I’m reassured to discover that heaven won’t be as tedious as one is led to believe. I’ve never been able to sing, let alone strum a harp.”

  “Indeed,” Betsy murmured. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the joyous, erotic cupids. Some acts she readily recognized. But others were more mysterious. In fact, the more she looked, the more curious she grew.

  Their chairs were positioned close together, Jeremy’s leg and arm pressed against hers. Under normal circumstances, she never felt a gentleman’s leg if it was close to hers; her skirts precluded any such intimacy.

  But now . . .

  Two pairs of breeches was an entirely different situation. Her heart had quickened, thanks to the riotous cupids, but that was nothing compared to how she felt when she saw their legs pressed together.

  “Are your sensibilities offended by the ceiling?” Jeremy asked, a deep ribbon of amusement running through his voice.

  “I’m not missish,” Betsy informed him. “I would—” She coughed and deepened her voice. “I would like a closer look at the pair in the left corner to the front.”

  Jeremy took a swift glance in that direction and laughed. “You delight me.”

  The marquess, Aunt Knowe, and the duchess were seated on his other side. Slowly the seats behind them began to fill. Some men looked to be merchants, and some of them were obviously factotums, ready to bid for their masters. In the row just behind them, one gentleman sat by himself.

  She sat quietly as the first few drawings were knocked down, enjoying herself more keenly than she had in months. In the rows behind her, men were shouting, bidding and outbidding, cursing freely.

  All the things they never did in a ballroom.

  She was half turned so as to see the ranks of men behind her when Jeremy leaned close and whispered, “I have been paying close attention to the ceiling.”

  “Oh?”

  “The couple you identified is particularly adventuresome. You have good taste.”

  Betsy was having the best afternoon of her entire life. Jeremy’s arm was touching hers, and her leg was tingling as if she were immersed in a hot bath.

  “I have never doubted my taste,” she told him. “Aunt Knowe assured us many times that she had shaped our tastes after her own, and therefore we need never doubt that our instincts were beyond criticism.”

  Jeremy laughed under his breath. “I grow more fond of Lady Knowe by the moment. Shall I inquire what she thinks of that particular set of cupids?”

  Betsy narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Gentlemen discuss these matters amongst themselves,” he assured her. He made a case of looking up. “I particularly like that cupid on his knees, happily engaged in his work. One wouldn’t want to see reluctance on his face during that particular act.”

  “No,” Betsy said faintly.

  The auctioneer had already knocked down any number of drawings, but now he cleared his throat with particular emphasis. “Five drawings, by Rubens and Rembrandt, to be sold as a lot.”

  Before he began the bidding, Aunt Knowe brandished her catalogue in the air.

  “In the front row, at twenty shillings.”

  After that the bidding was fast and furious, but Aunt Knowe was not to be beaten, waving her catalogue as if she were a butler summoning a hackney.

  “Do you wish to bid?” Jeremy asked.

  “Against my aunt?”

  “Or for the next lot,” he suggested. “That’s what we came here for, after all.”

  “Sold!” the auctioneer bellowed, his smile widening. “Sold to the Marquess of Thurrock’s party for five pounds two shillings.”

  “Your turn to bid,” Jeremy said.

  “If I see something I love, I shall,” she replied. “I thought I wanted to bid for the sake of it, simply to play a man.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “Being a man is not the act of buying things. It’s the freedom to sit here under shameless cupids and spread my legs in a most improper fashion. I am slouching in my chair!” She couldn’t stop the grin on her face.

  Jeremy frowned. “You never slump?”

  “I wear a corset and, often, a high wig,” she told him. “Slumping is inadvisable. Sometimes my back is in agony by the end of a long evening.”

  Hopefully, no one saw one gentleman’s large hand slipping under his neighbor’s coat, the better to caress his spine.

  “You’ll make me blush!” Betsy whispered.

  Jeremy withdrew his hand with a low laugh. “Fair warning: I may make it my life’s ambition to bring that color to your cheeks.”

  The auctioneer had burst into another flurry of activity, as drawings by “the youthful prodigy, William Beechey” were being knocked down.

  “After Rembrandt,” Aunt Knowe said to the marquess in a penetrating whisper. “Poppycock! I hardly consider that the action of a prodigy!”

  “What I most like about these cherubs,” Jeremy murmured, “is the fact that they do not worry about the color of their faces, or even their expressions.”

  “I would care,” Betsy said, leaning back in her chair so that it wasn’t as obvious that she was craning her neck. “I will always care.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “You have no idea what it’s like to be a woman,” she whispered, glancing behind them to make certain that the gentleman wasn’t paying attention. Luckily, he seemed entirely engrossed in the auction. “No woman could abandon herself to . . . to that degree! Such intemperance isn’t proper.”

  “My experience of women suggests otherwise,” Jeremy said, stretching his long legs so he could cross his ankles. “A woman can find herself so engaged in the moment that she entirely forgets about her appearance. Of course, ladies may be more circumspect.”

  Betsy was thinking so hard about lust and ladies that she didn’t answer until he nudged her with his elb
ow.

  “Didn’t offend you, did I?”

  Betsy started. “No. I’m simply thinking about what it’s like to be a lady.”

  “We men don’t know much,” Jeremy said, obviously enjoying himself, “but it seems the very devil to me.”

  “Why so?”

  “We agree that these cupids are shameless,” Jeremy said.

  “Indeed.” Betsy nodded.

  “British ladies are taught so much about shame that they are rarely shameless. They’re married off to near-strangers, which doesn’t help, of course.”

  “Shame is not merely a lady’s affliction,” Betsy pointed out.

  “But ladies wield it against each other like a club.”

  “I think one ought to be ashamed to break certain rules.” She was thinking of the prints that people made of the Wildes, and her growing suspicion that Grégoire was supplementing his income by shaming Jeremy in print. Or in prints, to be more exact.

  “At certain times one ought to be lost to shame,” Jeremy said.

  “Only if other people aren’t hurt.” Betsy was trying to think her way into an understanding that would encompass shameless pleasure and babies and a husband.

  “I can agree with that,” Jeremy said. “Loyalty outranks shameless pleasure.”

  “Are all rooms frequented by men decorated in this fashion?” Betsy whispered to Jeremy. She had discovered a pair she’d overlooked. She’d like to ask what they were doing; perhaps she could mention it later, in private.

  “Only the good ones,” he responded. “This ceiling is particularly creative.”

  “I have very little with which to compare,” Betsy said.

  “Nicely put,” Jeremy said. “‘With which to compare,’ indeed. I like a man who maintains grammar in the face of erotic art.”

  She frowned at him.

  “Men can become incoherent when presented with a plethora of erotic activities.”

  Suddenly, a head poked between their shoulders. “A plethora implies too much, an extravagance, a superfluity, or a surfeit. Are you discouraging your young friend from engaging in such heavenly activities?”

  Betsy jumped and let out a squeak. Then she quickly cleared her throat. “A good question,” she said, pitching her voice as low as she could.

  The man who had been seated behind them and apparently eavesdropping had coarse gray hair that frizzed from under a carelessly positioned wig. He wore a striped coat and a lace-trimmed cravat. His eyes were very bright, and his eyebrows very bushy.

  “Good afternoon,” Jeremy said.

  “I apologize for intruding,” the gentleman said. “I am extraordinarily precise by nature. It’s practically agony to hear a word misused.”

  “I did not misuse it,” Jeremy replied. He waved his hand at the ceiling. “This activity is entertaining, but it reminds me of morning prayers in a chilly chapel: too much of a good thing.”

  “Very clever to contrast one heavenly activity with another that claims to lead to clouds, cupids, and the rest,” the gentleman said approvingly.

  Whatever he might have said next on the subject was lost when the auctioneer announced, “And now for the miniatures of the renowned Samuel Finney, portrait painter to our beloved Queen Charlotte, member of the Royal Academy of Arts.”

  The room went silent. Lady Knowe snapped to attention as the auctioneer’s assistant began unwrapping the first miniature from a silk cloth.

  “Aha!” the gentleman said, and flung himself back in his chair so that it creaked in protest.

  “Do you intend to acquire a miniature, sir?” Jeremy asked, turning.

  The man snorted. “Absolutely not! I’ve come along to see what they sell for.”

  “Do you own some of Mr. Finney’s artworks?” Betsy inquired.

  He looked at her, and one of his bushy eyebrows sprang up. “You could say that.”

  She turned about quickly and faced the front, feeling certain that he knew she was a woman.

  “I painted them,” said the man, in a more disinterested than boastful fashion.

  Betsy couldn’t stop herself from turning about again. “How do you do, Mr. Finney? I’ve admired your work.”

  Then, as his eyes crinkled in amusement, she realized that she’d forgotten to pitch her voice to a lower register.

  Mr. Finney leaned forward and tapped her on the shoulder. “I don’t paint any longer. I’m justice of the peace for the parts around here, and it keeps me busy. But damned if I wouldn’t like to paint you, my dear.”

  Jeremy’s face suddenly grew dark. “Mr. Peters is not ‘your dear,’” he said, managing to sound pleasant yet threatening.

  “Mr. Peters, is it?” Mr. Finney beamed. “I’ve got the best of references. Why, I painted several people in this room, though they haven’t yet recognized me. Growing old is an excellent disguise, better than breeches.”

  Betsy managed to choke back a laugh.

  “I only occasionally dabble these days, but I’d take you on, Mr. Peters.”

  The auctioneer held up a small oval painting in a gold frame. “Portrait of a Lady in a White Dress and Matching Under-Dress,” he announced. “Starting at twenty shillings.”

  The painter snorted, but settled into silence.

  Betsy had hoped to buy a miniature, but she quickly realized that Mr. Finney’s miniatures cost far more than she could afford. Jeremy glanced at her a few times, but she shook her head. Aunt Knowe, on the other hand, bid with gusto and won two miniatures, one of a young boy and another labeled The Virgin Mary, which led to robust snorting from the row behind.

  “The baker’s wife,” he said. “Eight children, if she had one!”

  “A Young Man,” announced the auctioneer. “Verso reads, ‘To P, with all my love.’”

  Betsy looked down at her catalogue. It was her favorite among them; not only did the boy have a longing expression, but his eyebrows suggested a Wilde.

  Her aunt must have thought so too, because she leapt into bidding with a frenzy, and when she realized that the duchess had bid against her, she pointed at Her Grace and bellowed, “Cease at once, sir!”

  “Your aunt plays an excellent man,” Jeremy murmured in her ear. “Surely you wish to bid against both of them?”

  Betsy saw that the duchess was backing down with a great waggling of her eyebrows. “We should have arranged among ourselves which paintings we wished to buy. Thank you, but no. These are far too expensive.”

  “I agree,” said a grumpy voice behind her. “That’s an early effort, and it isn’t even enameled.”

  “Money is not a concern,” Jeremy told Betsy.

  His father leaned from his other side. “Neither of us has anyone to spend money on.” He began to lift his catalogue.

  “Make him stop!” Betsy whispered, laughing. “Just imagine how angry my aunt will be if your father outbids her.”

  “I shall paint Mr. Peters with enamels,” Mr. Finney said conversationally, hitching his chair forward. “That’s the great thing now. I might as well turn out a few more of them between quelling riots and jailing malcontents and the like. Enamels catch the tender gloss of a beautiful woman’s cheeks as mere paints can never do.”

  Betsy smiled at him. “Stop,” she whispered.

  But the old man was irrepressible. “I’ll paint you in breeches,” he whispered back, “but perhaps with an overskirt? In a rose garden.”

  “Sir,” Jeremy said, turning to him with a ferocious scowl.

  “You are lucky to have such a protective companion.” Mr. Finney reached over to tap on Aunt Knowe’s shoulder.

  She startled on seeing him and smiled. The moment she won the miniature of the boy, she rose and beckoned to Mr. Finney. They left the room together.

  “You’re going to be painted by a famous miniaturist,” Jeremy said. “What do you think of that?”

  “He wants to paint me in breeches,” Betsy breathed into his ear.

  “So do I,” Jeremy said. “I don’t know how to paint so you�
��d have to pose for hours. Days.”

  Another miniature was knocked off, but without Mr. Finney’s exclamations and Aunt Knowe’s excitable bidding, the auction was less interesting. The duchess managed to win a portrait, A Lady in Brown.

  Aunt Knowe was waiting for them in the carriage. “Yoo-hoo,” she called, opening the door. “The most marvelous thing, darlings! We’re going to Fulshaw Hall for supper. It’s Samuel Finney’s manor house, just south of here.”

  Snowflakes were whirling around Jeremy’s shoulders, tiny ones catching the light from the open door of the auction house.

  “I have one addendum to our discussion of shame,” he said to Betsy.

  “Yes?”

  “Shame cannot be my daily companion, if I’d like you to be my daily companion.”

  The duchess was being hoisted into her carriage; apparently she found breeches somewhat confining.

  “The same is true for you,” Jeremy said, his eyes searching hers: tender, ferocious, longing. All kinds of emotions that she’d never seen from any man who’d proposed to her. There was nothing respectful about Jeremy. He would challenge her every day. Her whole life.

  Her aunt was biding her time in the carriage, but any moment she would bellow for them.

  “Or you can say Yes to the duke, instead of No,” Jeremy continued. “When you are certain about your choice, let me know. If you decide to become a duchess, tomorrow my father and I will return to his—to our—house.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The temperature had fallen by the time the carriages reached the inn, allowing their passengers to dress for dinner, including Thaddeus but not Grégoire, who was still bed-bound, before taking them on to Fulshaw Hall. The air had turned to a thick blanket, hanging close to the ground. Snowflakes were everywhere, quickly blinked from eyelashes and settling again a moment later.

  The manor was barely visible through the swirling snow, although light spilled from windows and the open front door. Jeremy squinted at it. Seven bays, plum-colored, patterned brick . . . the painter had done nicely for himself.

  Or perhaps Finney had inherited it.

  Inside, he looked for miniatures, but didn’t find any: In fact, it was a perfectly ordinary house. Mr. Finney lived with a widowed cousin named Mrs. Grabell-Pitt, who looked somewhat faint when she realized that her house had been graced not merely with a duchess, but with two Wildes. After that, she did nothing but smile, displaying long rows of saffron-colored teeth.