Wilde Child EPB

by James, Eloisa

His expression was impossible to decipher. “And?”

  Her mind spun, finding the best answer, the most cautious answer, the one that would cause her the least humiliation.

  “Very good,” she said in a confiding tone. “Excellent.” She met his eyes and let clear honesty shine in her own. “You kiss marvelously, Thaddeus.”

  It worked.

  Lavish praise did for him what gushing acknowledgments of her beauty did for her.

  The edges of his mouth tightened.

  “We should return,” she said. “I enjoyed rolling in the grass with you, Thaddeus, I truly did, because your kisses are wonderful. Better than Anthony Froude’s by far.”

  With a sinking feeling, she watched as he stood up and then held out his hand to help her to her feet, the very image of a proper gentleman once again.

  In case the compliment wasn’t enough to squash the idea that she was besotted, she put a hand on his arm and looked up at him, giving him a frank look. “I haven’t hurt your feelings, have I?”

  “Certainly not. Why would you think that?”

  “I just wanted to make sure.” She hesitated, counting the seconds, and then added, “You are finding me a husband, after all.”

  His eyes were completely shuttered by his thick eyelashes. “I had not forgotten.”

  “Of course not.” She smiled. “I have several candidates in mind for you as well. We shouldn’t frolic about in the grass again, though. It isn’t proper for two people of our age.”

  “Of our age?”

  “I didn’t mean to say that we shared our birthdays. I meant for two people such as we, who have made up our minds to seriously commit to a future life,” she said. “I consider my days of kissing random gentlemen to be in the past.”

  That did it. His eyes narrowed.

  Thaddeus didn’t like being compared to a random gentleman. Why would he? He was a future duke, no matter what his father had to say about it.

  They walked back to the castle side by side, bare feet scuffing through grass. Gully was nowhere to be seen as they walked through the orchard.

  “I fear your shoe has been taken to the stables,” Joan said.

  Thaddeus was staring ahead; he didn’t even turn his head. “A gift to the castle goat.”

  They crossed the lawn in silence; presumably Fitzy was dozing somewhere in the shade.

  Thaddeus pulled open the tall double doors that led to the library. “I will return the basket to the kitchens.”

  “Thank you,” Joan said quietly.

  She’d fallen in love, and that love felt like a millstone around her neck. He wanted her, but didn’t love her. She wasn’t even certain that he liked her.

  And she loved Thaddeus, every inch of his disagreeable, composed, ducal self, from his hairless toes to his tousled head. She wanted all of it. Even the moments when he made his face unreadable and yet disdainful.

  She walked past him, her bottom prickling at the idea he might be watching her. She could still feel the warm imprint of his hand clasping her rear.

  Leaving the library, she paused and looked back, but Thaddeus hadn’t followed. He was crouched down at the side of the room, staring into Aunt Knowe’s knitting basket. There couldn’t be anything very interesting there; her aunt never got farther than creating squares or rectangles, all of them adorned with holes, because she couldn’t seem to avoid dropping stitches.

  But Joan had a sudden thought and turned back. “Is it a nest of mice again?” she called, stopping about halfway back and making sure a chair was between them, in case a mother mouse was about to make a break for freedom. “You could bring them outside. Or ask Prism to do so. I’m afraid that the castle is very old, and mice are inevitable.”

  Thaddeus looked up at her, and to her relief, the wary look had disappeared from his eyes. “I am starting to believe that Lindow Castle is akin to a menagerie.”

  Joan took a wary step backward. The last time a family of mice were born in Aunt Knowe’s basket, she had decided to let them be. Joan had avoided the library for a month, until the babies were deemed old enough to be moved to the stables.

  “No mice,” Thaddeus said. “It’s Percy. Our piglet has apparently been transported to a somewhat cramped bed in the castle.”

  “Percy?” Joan frowned. “Percy sleeps in Cleopatra’s cowshed. I visited him there this morning.” She walked back. Sure enough, Percy was curled in a tight ball, napping peacefully. He barely fit into the round basket, but he looked comfortable enough at the moment. “He can’t stay there,” she said unnecessarily.

  Percy opened sleepy, long-lashed eyes, so she crouched down and gave him a rub. Her knee touched Thaddeus’s, sending a pang through her body. “Hello, Percy, old fellow,” she said, shifting away.

  The piglet grunted in a welcoming sort of way.

  Joan was tinglingly aware of Thaddeus crouching beside her. He turned his head, and their eyes met. Joan caught her breath. His eyes were so beautiful: grave, honorable, everything she could ever want in a man.

  Facts tumbled through her mind. She was smitten. He couldn’t know she was smitten. She wanted to kiss him. He couldn’t know she wanted to kiss him.

  They were still looking at each other, speechlessly, when the library door opened with a bang, followed by the sound of running footsteps.

  “Joan!” a voice shrilled. “It’s me, Artie. Did you see Percy? He’s my baby now, and I’m bringing him supper.”

  Joan turned around with a huge grin. Her six-year-old half sister trotted toward her, a cream puff in each hand.

  “Hello, darling,” Joan said, holding out her arms.

  Artie swerved past her. “Hello!” She dropped to her knees by the basket. “Are you quite fine, Percy?” she asked breathlessly. “See what I brought? Cream puffs! You love cream puffs!”

  Thaddeus was chuckling on Joan’s other side, his big body vibrating slightly. Sure enough, Percy thought a cream puff was a very fine gift. He uncurled himself with some difficulty, stood up, and snuffled one up. It wasn’t the neatest meal in the world.

  “I hope your aunt doesn’t value her knitting,” Thaddeus murmured.

  “Those are her scraps and remnants,” Joan said. “We should take Percy back to his shed, Artie,” she added. “Percy is not an indoor pig.”

  Artie’s eyes narrowed. “He could be.”

  “Your mother has already said no, hasn’t she?”

  Artie’s mouth pressed together.

  “And your governess?”

  “They will never know he’s here,” the little girl argued. Her brows drew together. “What are you wearing?”

  Joan glanced down at her breeches. “A costume that your uncle North used to wear when he was a boy.”

  “What will Percy eat besides cream puffs?” Thaddeus asked. “He doesn’t have a trough in the library.”

  Artie cast him the same narrow-eyed look. “I’ll bring him carrots every morning and cream puffs in the afternoon.”

  “That sounds like a pleasant repast, but not enough for a growing piglet.” Thaddeus scooped up Percy, tucked him under his arm, and rose to his feet. “Lady Artemisia, Percy needs to sleep in his own sty.” The piglet grunted, looking longingly at the second cream puff clutched in Artie’s fist, threatening to spill cream on the Aubusson carpet. “Let’s give him to a footman, so he can sleep in his own bed tonight.”

  Joan held her breath. Her half sister Artie hated her full name, but all the same, she scrambled to her feet.

  “Percy isn’t going to be bacon when he grows up,” Artie informed Thaddeus as they walked from the room. “Erik said he is, but that’s because Erik is mean and bad!”

  “Erik is not mean,” Joan said from behind them. “He’s just twelve years old, Artie. It makes him want to tease you.”

  “That’s bad,” Artie repeated. She looked up at Thaddeus. “Did you tease your brother when you were twelve?”

  He shook his head, looking down at her. “I don’t have a brother.”

&n
bsp; “You can have my cream puff,” Artie said, holding out the battered puff. “Percy doesn’t need two.” Her tone was appalled, as befitted a young lady who’d grown up in a nursery full of children.

  “Thank you,” Thaddeus said, accepting the puff and promptly taking a bite. “It’s excellent.”

  Artie was silent as they left the room. Then, once they’d handed over Percy to be returned to the shed, she asked, “Did you have a piglet when you were a little boy?”

  “I had a donkey,” Thaddeus replied.

  Apparently suddenly remembering that she was a duke’s daughter, Artie bent her knees into an approximation of a curtsy. “Good afternoon. I would like a donkey,” she told him. “For my birthday, which is happening soon. Percy would be happy too.”

  “I’ll consider it,” Thaddeus said gravely.

  Artie turned to Joan. “And those—” she said, pointing to Joan’s breeches. “I want those.”

  Joan could just imagine the Duchess of Lindow’s face when she heard that her little daughter wanted to wear breeches.

  “I’ll consider it,” she said, stealing Thaddeus’s line.

  Artie squinted at them, and then, in a magnificent approximation of Aunt Knowe’s voice, said, “See that you do.”

  Joan was still gaping after her little sister, who was dashing up the stairs to the nursery, when she realized that Thaddeus was laughing again. Bellowing with laughter.

  “She’s the picture of your aunt Knowe,” he said, when he caught his breath.

  “I agree,” Joan said. And: “You’re laughing again!”

  Thaddeus glanced over her head, but the footman usually stationed in the entry was still delivering Percy to his stall. Before she could say another word, he caught her up in an openmouthed, rough kiss.

  “I laugh around you,” he said, his voice as rough as his kiss. “Damn it.”

  Joan knew when to extract herself from a man’s embrace, even if she wanted nothing more than to kiss this particular man again.

  “Thank you for the fencing lessons,” she said, stepping away. She turned and followed Artie up the steps, impatient to be upstairs and away from the onslaught of emotion that Thaddeus was causing her.

  If they were alone together again—if they practiced dueling again—they couldn’t go to the island. It was too tempting.

  He was too tempting.

  Damn it all.

  Chapter Eleven

  Joan strolled into the drawing room that night and realized instantly that Otis, who was usually of a sunny disposition, was not happy. He was seated on a sofa beside Aunt Knowe, his brows meeting above his nose.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked.

  “My father arrived this afternoon and will join us in a minute!” Otis hissed. “Prism didn’t warn me, and here I am.” He plucked at his gown with an expression of extreme distaste. “My father is going to be shocked, if not apoplectic. The only thing worse would be if Lady Bumtrinket made an appearance.”

  “I told him that it would be better to get explanations out of the way now,” Aunt Knowe said, smiling broadly. “It’s good for a man to experience a surprise now and then.”

  Joan opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the drawing room door opened. “Sir Reginald Murgatroyd,” Prism announced, nodding to Otis’s father. And, “The Duchess of Eversley.” Thaddeus’s mother.

  Watching them stroll across the room was like waiting for the storm to roll onto the coast from the sea.

  Otis seemed frozen. Sir Reginald was walking slowly, with Thaddeus’s mother on his arm. Speaking of whom, where was Thaddeus?

  Otis tottered to his feet; Joan had to grab his elbow to keep him from falling over as his father and Her Grace appeared.

  “Good evening, Lady Joan. What a pleasure to see you,” Sir Reginald said, bowing as deeply as his corset would allow.

  “Good evening, Sir Reginald, Your Grace,” Joan said, dropping into a curtsy.

  Otis’s father straightened. “And who is . . .” His voice died out, and Joan watched his face fade to the color of overcooked oatmeal. “Dear me. It seems to be . . . Otis. I didn’t—”

  “I would curtsy,” Otis said, “but I find a corset to be confining. This is merely a jest, Father. You know I didn’t care for wearing a gown as a vicar.” There was a note of desperation in his voice.

  “I find your son’s attire very amusing, Sir Reginald,” the duchess put in. “He’s been such a good sport, playing the role of Ophelia in Hamlet.”

  “My father asked Otis to play Ophelia as a special favor. He didn’t want to. I am playing Hamlet,” Joan rattled off.

  Sir Reginald blinked.

  “In breeches,” she clarified.

  “I wouldn’t be wearing this gown other than in rehearsal,” Otis added, “but the director feels that I do not appear sufficiently feminine. He asked me to remain in costume for the remaining days before the performance.”

  “Instruct your man to shave you thrice before you go on stage,” his father said, his eyes resting on Otis’s chin. He turned to Joan. “Did you say that His Grace asked my son to play this role? Why, in God’s name? I am inordinately proud of my children, but Otis cannot be described as an attractive young lady.”

  “I begged to play Hamlet,” Joan explained, “but my father insisted that Hamlet’s beloved, Ophelia, could not be a professional actor. I assure you that Otis was my last resort. I asked every lady in the castle. My sister Viola would have done it, albeit unwillingly, but she is expecting a child in a week or so.”

  “An Ophelia ripe with child might actually have made sense,” Sir Reginald commented.

  “Joan was beginning to despair before Otis agreed to play the part,” Aunt Knowe put in. “She even begged me to take the role, but I am no nubile maiden.”

  “Neither am I,” Otis said, pointing out the obvious. “Father, I thought you planned to stay in London and would never learn of my less-than-glorious acting career. If you’ll forgive me, I shall sit down, as I find high heels uncomfortable, if not dangerous.”

  They all seated themselves. Joan cast a desperate look at the door. Where was Thaddeus? He had a way of soothing things over that would be helpful at the moment.

  “I found London somewhat lonely,” Sir Reginald said, “but my dear friend the duchess wrote me that she was visiting you, and suggested I join you.” He gave the Duchess of Eversley a wry smile. “She neglected to tell me that I would find my son wearing a gown!”

  Her Grace broke out into a musical fit of giggles. “It was meant to be a surprise! If only you could have seen your own face!”

  “I was definitely surprised,” Sir Reginald allowed.

  “That’s what’s so much fun,” Aunt Knowe said, grinning widely.

  Otis clamped on Joan’s arm. “That was very nearly a disaster,” he breathed, as Sir Reginald began chatting with Her Grace and Lady Knowe.

  “Your father was quite courteous,” Joan said. “Some men would have become inarticulate with rage.”

  “Father’s not like that. My guess is that he’s mostly hurt that I didn’t invite him to the performance,” Otis said glumly. “I was hoping he’d never find out. Now he’ll tell my sister, and she’ll plague me to death. I’m a rotten Ophelia, Joan.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “And I hate wearing this godforsaken garment,” he added.

  “I’m sorry,” Joan said again.

  “But, on the other hand, I can introduce Father to Madeline.” Otis brightened and turned toward Sir Reginald and the Duchess of Eversley. “Tomorrow I shall introduce you to Mr. Wooty, the manager of the Theatre Royal.”

  “We shall invite Mr. Wooty to dinner tomorrow,” Aunt Knowe said, smoothly picking up her cue. “Including his wife and lovely niece Madeline, of course.”

  “Mr. Wooty has been extremely accommodating,” Otis told his father. “His theater company is one of the best in England, and I’m sure my portrayal of Ophelia gives him dyspepsia. Joan and I and the
duchess plan to visit Wilmslow the following evening for the performance, if only to see what true Ophelia looks like on the stage—one who can remember her lines, for example.”

  “I recall your first celebration of Mass as a vicar,” his father replied, wincing. “Memorization is not your forte.”

  “Loyalty is one of my favorite qualities,” the Duchess of Eversley said diplomatically. “No one can doubt the deep friendship between Lady Joan and your son.”

  “When in Wilmslow, will you stay overnight at the Gherkin & Cheese?” Sir Reginald asked Joan. “They have an excellent cook.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Perhaps you would accompany us,” the duchess suggested. “I’m afraid that I cannot countenance two performances of Hamlet in a row, so I should be very glad of company during the evening.”

  “Of course!” Sir Reginald cried.

  Joan was fascinated to see how friendly the two of them were. Sir Reginald’s wife had passed away years ago, and the duchess’s husband had left her when Thaddeus was only a small boy, as she understood it.

  But of course nothing could happen between them. The Duke of Eversley might flaunt his mistress, but Joan had no doubt but that the duchess would remain faithful to her marriage vows.

  Just then her father and mother strolled into the room, followed by Viola and Devin . . . but still no sign of Thaddeus. Not that she was watching for him in particular, of course.

  “How did your lesson in fencing go this afternoon?” Otis asked.

  Joan very nearly opened her mouth to say something absurd: It was the best afternoon of my life. But she caught herself. “I feel much more confident about Act Five. How is your grasp of Ophelia’s lines?”

  “Madeline tested me over and over,” Otis said.

  He didn’t sound disgruntled. In fact, he was turning a little pink.

  “You like her?” Joan whispered.

  “She’s a lovely young woman. But I was in a dress all day,” Otis hissed.

  “Madeline is not a lady,” Joan pointed out, somewhat hesitantly.

  Otis shrugged. “I have my own estate. Why should I care about that? Society will accept my wife, or I will go my own way.”