Say No to the Duke

by James, Eloisa

  “Queen Boadicea was a failed warrior, much as you were,” Grégoire said, raising his glass. “It must create a bond between you.”

  Jeremy tossed off the toast and put down his glass.

  An icy sensation was building in his chest. Grégoire was right about one thing. The thought of a red welt across Betsy’s cheek made his heart stop. He had carried her home from the brewhouse; her bones were as delicate as a bird’s in comparison to his.

  If he mistook her for a soldier and threw her against a wall . . .

  He might kill her indeed. A shard of agony speared through him at the thought, throwing him back onto the field where flies circled the faces of dead men, and every death was his fault. If he . . . if that happened to Betsy or to anyone he loved, it would flay him to the bone.

  For months, he had sat in a corner of the billiard room and shook silently, trying to barricade his mind against the memory of war and failing. It had been quiet in the corner, and dark.

  No sounds, no smells, nothing to rip him out of his fragile hold on reality and hurl him into the past.

  He’d been a coward.

  “You think that a gunshot would do it?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Look what happened at Vauxhall,” Grégoire said. “You can simply shoot my pistol out the window. We’ll call it an accidental shot that happened while I was cleaning the weapon before leaving tomorrow.”

  As if anyone would believe that Grégoire cleaned his own weapons.

  Jeremy rubbed his hands over his face, thinking. He had nothing to lose, because he actually was sure of his own mind. It wasn’t whole, by any means. But he had spent months staring into the dark, brooding over what happened.

  The darkness didn’t own him any longer.

  “Right,” he said. He shoved open the window and pointed Grégoire’s pistol into the darkness.

  “Aim at the sky,” Grégoire cried.

  The sound exploded in the small room with the force of a cannon.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Betsy woke at the sound of a gunshot. She sat up, shocked to find she was naked, shocked to find she was alone.

  Footsteps pounded down the corridor and paused. “If you have a man in there, send him down,” her aunt bellowed. “There’s a burglar in the castle!”

  Betsy swung her feet out of bed. The moon was shining in the window, but she couldn’t see her nightdress. She pulled on her wrapper and knotted it tightly. No slippers, but the boots she had worn to the auction stood against the side of the room. She stamped into them and started out into the corridor.

  She followed loud voices to the library and froze in the doorway.

  Jeremy was lying on the floor, her aunt kneeling beside him. Her heart skipped a beat. She threw herself across the room and dropped at his side. “Is he shot? Is he—”

  “No,” Aunt Knowe barked. “There’s been a damned fool game and when he wakes up, I plan to kill him myself.”

  “No blood,” Betsy said on a gasp, her hands flying over Jeremy’s chest. He felt warm, his heartbeat reassuringly strong.

  “Yet he’s insensible,” her aunt said, frowning. She was holding his wrist, counting his pulse.

  “Jeremy doesn’t play games,” Betsy said. She stood up, trusting him to Aunt Knowe. Prism was there; servants milled about. Jeremy’s father burst through the door. A smell of gun smoke lingered in the air.

  Grégoire was just where she would have expected, off to the side wearing an expression of elaborate concern. She marched toward him, brushing past the butler.

  “What did you do?” she demanded. Unlike the rest of them, he wasn’t dressed for bed. His shirt collar was ripped and he wore no wig. His hair was disheveled.

  She was startled to see true dislike in Grégoire’s eyes, though his troubled expression deepened. “My cousin and I discussed the impairment he had suffered in the war.”

  Everyone turned to look.

  “And?” Betsy demanded.

  “My cousin shot the pistol out the window to prove to himself that he suffered no ill effects. Unfortunately there were effects. He attacked me.” Grégoire waved his hand to indicate his torn collar.

  “Nonsense,” Aunt Knowe said flatly. “If Jeremy attacked you, you’d be dead.”

  “I might have been,” Grégoire retorted. “Luckily my valet was able to subdue him.”

  The marquess had been crouching beside his son, but now he rose and came to stand at Betsy’s shoulder. She glanced up, surprised to realize that Jeremy had inherited more from his father than she realized. The marquess’s amiable countenance had taken on an altogether darker cast.

  Grégoire moved sharply and then clarified, “My valet saved my life!”

  “It appears your valet struck Lord Jeremy violently on the head,” Aunt Knowe said. “He’d better hope that His Lordship recovers quickly.”

  Betsy whirled. Her aunt was gently holding Jeremy’s head. “A knot is rising very quickly. All the same, I am surprised that he isn’t awake.”

  “He’s not himself,” Grégoire stated. “He suffers from an injury that is not uncommon among soldiers.” He turned to Betsy. “If you marry him, he may kill you without knowing it. He may brutalize you or your children.”

  “You pathetic little worm,” Betsy spat, taking a step closer to him.

  He looked down his nose, an expression of blinding contempt on his face. “You dare say that to me? You? I would rue the day that a strumpet became the Marchioness of Thurrock! Like mother, like daughter.” He turned and raised his voice. “I had to rout my cousin out of this slut’s bedchamber this night.”

  Before Betsy could answer, a powerful thunk split the air. Grégoire actually came off his feet before he slammed into a wall and slid down it.

  “My son is incapacitated,” the marquess said grimly, “so I defended the family honor for him.”

  It had finally happened: Betsy had been called a slut and compared to her mother in public. The sky didn’t fall.

  “I say,” Grégoire bleated, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Haven’t I been attacked enough for one night?”

  A heavyset man was sliding toward the door. It had to be Grégoire’s valet. “Stop him,” she called. Two footmen lunged toward the man.

  Aunt Knowe had been waving sal volatile under Jeremy’s nose. “He moved,” she reported, tapping his cheek. “Time to wake up and slaughter your cousin, Jeremy.”

  “I heard that!” Grégoire said, from where he sat against the wall, dabbing his lip with a handkerchief.

  Betsy marched over to him, her boots thumping loudly. “I would demand an apology, except you’re right,” she said. “Jeremy was in my bedchamber because we plan to marry and have many, many children. You will never inherit.”

  “I believe your father will disagree,” Grégoire said with a titter. “You may have given my cousin your maidenhead, but will your father agree to your very life being threatened?”

  Behind her, Aunt Knowe growled, “What an imbecile.”

  “I agree,” Betsy said.

  She moved even closer to Grégoire. He looked up and sneered. “Are you planning to slap me? It won’t change the truth, and the truth will out!”

  “I expect you’re right,” Betsy said. It was enormously satisfying to slam her boot between his legs. She enjoyed the gasp and the utter shock in his eyes before he screamed and rolled to the side, curling into a ball and rocking back and forth.

  A strong arm wrapped around her shoulder before she could draw back her leg and do it again. “Jeremy will be proud of us, don’t you think?” a deep voice asked.

  Betsy grinned up at the marquess.

  “Jeremy is awake. Someone take that fool valet away and question him,” Aunt Knowe ordered, getting to her feet.

  Betsy flew back to Jeremy and knelt at his side. He stared at her, squinting, then put a hand on her cheek. “Hello, beautiful,” he murmured.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “My wife,” he said, his
eyelids closing on a smile.

  “Wife?” Grégoire rolled up to his knees. “That’s a lie!”

  “You’re the fool,” Aunt Knowe said, staring down at him, arms crossed over her chest. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to acquire a license, you imbecile.”

  Betsy squeezed Jeremy’s hand. Perhaps Aunt Knowe was right, but to the best of her knowledge, Jeremy hadn’t acquired such a license. Yet.

  “Unless you want me to second my niece and kick any of your future offspring into eternity,” Aunt Knowe said grimly, “tell me what you did to her husband.”

  “I did nothing! My valet cracked him over the head because he was about to murder me. Tell them, Jardin.”

  The valet was standing near the door, a footman at each arm. “I defended my master.”

  Betsy kissed Jeremy on the lips and he opened his eyes again. “What happened?” she asked.

  He frowned.

  “You shot a pistol,” she prompted.

  He sat up and his hand went straight to the back of his head. “Bloody hell.”

  “You went mad, just as I predicted,” Grégoire shrilled. He was on his feet, glaring around the room. “The shot went off and he began growling like a wild animal and lunged at me. I expect he thought I was another soldier.”

  “I don’t remember that,” Jeremy said.

  “You wouldn’t,” Grégoire said, his voice more confident. “You didn’t remember Bedlam either, did you?”

  “How does he know about that?” Aunt Knowe asked.

  The marquess moved to Jeremy’s side. “Bedlam?” Jeremy’s father’s voice was anguished.

  Jeremy held out his hand and after an infinitesimal pause, his father pulled him to his feet. “Nothing important. Grégoire bribed the attendants for details, the better to circulate a print of it,” Jeremy explained.

  He looked to Betsy and she flew to him, nestling against his chest.

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Hell of a headache. Who knocked me out?”

  “My valet saved my life,” Grégoire repeated. “Did you marry that woman?”

  Jeremy’s arm tightened around Betsy. “Not yet.”

  “You ignore evidence at your own peril! I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a year from now your wife is found shot dead and your only excuse will be that you can’t remember.”

  “Never!” Betsy said, turning so that her back was to Jeremy’s front, as if she could defend him with her body.

  “He cannot marry you,” Grégoire said flatly. “For all my cousin acts like a beast, he’s a gentleman. A surprisingly ethical one too.” His voice was bitter. “A hero on the battlefield, by all accounts.”

  “You would know.” Jeremy looked at his father. “He knew the details of what happened in the colonies.”

  The marquess nodded. “I’ll take care of it.” Betsy felt suddenly sorry for Grégoire. But not very much.

  “We need to talk,” Jeremy said to Betsy, turning her gently in his arms.

  “He can’t marry you, because he genuinely cares for you,” Grégoire said. “I know him. The fear that he might hurt you at any moment would be between you your entire life. You—”

  “Enough,” Jeremy said curtly. Whatever was in his gaze made the words dry up in Grégoire’s mouth. Jeremy turned to Aunt Knowe, standing beside the marquess, both of them looking like soldiers waiting for orders. “Thank you.”

  Betsy took a deep breath.

  She didn’t like the edge in his voice. She didn’t like the feeling that he’d made a decision without her, one that could change the current of her life.

  But it wasn’t a fight she chose to have in public.

  She slipped her hand into his. “I think you should rest.”

  “We will take care of this situation,” Aunt Knowe said. She folded her arms over her chest and gave Jeremy a level stare. “Don’t disappoint me and play the fool.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Jeremy walked beside Betsy, the splitting pain in his head not helped by the loud sound of her boots. It felt as if Grégoire’s valet had slammed him with a brick.

  He was beginning to wonder just how far Grégoire had gone to put Jeremy in situations where he might die. Wrapped in a straitjacket, drugged, with no one knowing any better? People died all the time in Bedlam.

  He pushed the thought away. His father and Lady Knowe would discover the truth. There was a time when he would have demanded to question the valet and his cousin, trusting no one but himself.

  But now he had family.

  Betsy pushed him down onto the side of the bed and then kicked off her boots and clambered up onto the bed to sit beside him. “How badly does your head hurt?”

  “Like the devil. Betsy—”

  “I don’t care how much of a gentleman you are,” she flashed, interrupting. “You’re not allowed to push me away. You would never injure me. In fact, there’s something very odd about his entire story.”

  Her eyes were wide and strained. Jeremy reached out, meaning to pull her into his lap, but she shook him off.

  “Listen to me,” she said fiercely. “You will never injure me. I won’t allow it. I’ll throw sausages at your head, if that’s what’s needed to wake you up.”

  Something resembling laughter rose in his chest.

  “You offered for me and I shall hold you to it.” She sounded confident, but a tear slid down the curve of her cheek.

  “Bess,” Jeremy said, his throat tight, but she didn’t let him finish. Instead she pounced on him. Clamped her mouth onto his.

  He should . . .

  The thought slid away. Her tongue slipped into his mouth. She kissed him with heart-aching tenderness.

  Betsy put her love, her belief, and her loyalty into that kiss. And her courage, because her heart was hammering a fearful rhythm. “I won’t let you go,” she gasped, between kisses. “Don’t throw me away.” Tears stung her eyes. “You won’t hurt me.” She stopped, unable to find the right words. “You won’t,” she whispered, her throat raw.

  “It would rip me apart if I injured you,” Jeremy said. One hand caressed the curve of her cheek. “You understand, don’t you?”

  “You would never hurt me if you were in your right mind. If you thought I was an enemy soldier, you might try. I would stop you.” Her voice broke. “I promise that.”

  He swooped down, kissing her with so much passionate intensity that a tingle of hope went through her. “I told you that the gentleman in me was burned away by the war,” he growled.

  She hadn’t believed him then or now.

  He nipped her lip. “For God’s sake, Bess, I’m sitting in the bedchamber of a virgin whom I deflowered before marriage.”

  Sure enough, the man looking at her was burning with primitive, raw desire and possession. “I mean to keep you,” he said harshly.

  A smile broke out on her face.

  “I’ll keep drinking Lady Knowe’s tisanes, and I’ll avoid whisky, and I’ll spend my life in the stables, but I won’t give you up.”

  She sighed into his mouth, her breath joining his. “Truly?”

  “Not until your life or mine comes to an end.”

  “Not even then,” she whispered. “Promise?”

  Jeremy managed to smile at her.

  Love flooded through him, changing his very essence, making him new. “I promise,” he said huskily. “And beyond.”

  Betsy pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “We’ll have to start going to chapel on Sundays,” she said, the love in her voice settling on his skin like a caress.

  “We could simply act like the angels we saw,” Jeremy murmured, tipping her backward. “Bess, I don’t think I will injure you. I don’t believe I ripped Grégoire’s shirt.”

  She nodded. “That was odd, wasn’t it? It ripped along the collar.”

  “As if the stitches had been previously loosened,” he agreed. “I don’t believe I would become violent even if fireworks went off under my chair. I know myself a hell of a lot better than I did
before I went to war.” He brushed a kiss across her lips.

  “If you had become violent,” Betsy said, “Grégoire would have been the one lying on the floor immobile, wouldn’t he?”

  Jeremy nodded. His eyes were unapologetic. “I was trained as a warrior, and hardened under hellish circumstances, Betsy. If I become violent, it won’t be pretty.”

  “But that means . . .”

  “It calls into question the story I was told about Bedlam,” he agreed. “I can’t say that I really care, though, as long as you don’t.”

  “I do,” Betsy said fiercely. “Your cousin is . . . I don’t have words for what he is!”

  “My cousin is being questioned by my father and your aunt,” Jeremy said, his eyes laughing. “‘In mortal danger’ might describe Grégoire.”

  “He deserves it,” she said stoutly.

  “He’s a fool,” Jeremy said, nudging her with his hips.

  “Your head?” Betsy asked.

  “It hurts,” Jeremy admitted. He rolled his hips again. “I can be distracted.”

  Betsy grinned. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Grégoire bribed the colonel to flee,” the marquess declared, fury nearly choking him. “The man wasn’t a coward, as the ministry thought: He was a criminal who took a bribe!”

  Jeremy narrowed his eyes. “How was that possible?”

  “Grégoire sent a man to the colonies with money and a mandate to put you in danger. The same man followed you after you returned to London,” Lady Knowe said. “He took advantage of the fireworks episode to have you whisked off to Bedlam, drugged to the gills, and bound in a straitjacket. Meanwhile, Grégoire stayed far away in case your unfortunate demise was ever questioned.”

  Jeremy nodded.

  “How can you be so calm?” his fierce warrior queen demanded. Betsy’s hands were on her hips, as she scowled at him. “That man tried to take your life! He’s almost a murderer.”

  “Grégoire refuses to admit it, but he is a murderer,” Lady Knowe put in. “Grégoire’s wish to ensure that Jeremy died on the battlefield led directly to the death of many men.”