Wilde Child EPB

by James, Eloisa

  With Thaddeus.

  If she wasn’t careful, she would begin hoping. She would rather die than long for a man who didn’t love her.

  Oh, Thaddeus liked her. And he liked kissing her.

  But love?

  He didn’t even believe in the emotion, and she had a feeling that when this particular future duke made up his mind, he didn’t change it. What’s more, as they’d both agreed, he needed a woman from the nobility, not an illegitimate woman on the edge of being thrown from society.

  Thaddeus looked up at her and then wrapped a second hand around her other ankle. “Sit down?”

  “We should . . . we should practice dying,” she said. She realized what she’d just said and felt herself turning pink.

  “La petite mort,” Thaddeus said, his accent perfect, naturally. “The French think an orgasm is the closest to Paradise that humanity can reach, so: a little death.”

  Joan sat down before him. His hands slipped from her ankles. “That was wonderful,” she said bluntly. “I can’t imagine what got into either of us. Perhaps Aunt Knowe made the plum jerkum stronger than it normally is.”

  He shook his head. “I had only a swallow.” He leaned forward and brushed her mouth with a kiss. “I don’t want to drink anything because I can still taste you on my tongue. Essence of Joan, far more sparkling than plum jerkum.”

  Color flooded Joan’s cheeks yet again. She cleared her throat and looked away.

  He caught her chin with his hand. “Never come here with another man. Promise me, Joan.”

  Joan stared at him. Where did that come from?

  Thaddeus stared into her eyes as if he were asking for a vow.

  “No. I won’t promise.”

  He winced, and his brows drew together.

  She forced the words out of her mouth. “I don’t break vows, so I won’t make that one. I might bring my husband here someday, Thaddeus.” She paused, curving her hand around his strong jaw. “That doesn’t mean I will ever forget the pleasure you gave me.”

  Her heart was thudding a heavy rhythm, because she loved him. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

  She didn’t.

  He nodded. “I asked you an ill-phrased question. I simply worried that another man would take advantage of you if you brought him here.”

  Joan felt a drop of ice down her back. Her hand fell from his cheek. Did he think that because she let him take off her breeches, she would do the same for any gentleman with whom she picnicked?

  Perhaps . . . why wouldn’t he think that?

  “A husband by definition can’t take advantage of me,” she pointed out.

  “I am finding you a husband,” Thaddeus said. Hatefully, he looked relieved at the thought. Happy, even, to be handing her off.

  “You seem to think that”—she swallowed hard—“that this experience will lead me to escort gentlemen to the island on a regular basis.”

  He looked appalled. “I didn’t mean to give you that impression.”

  “Good,” she said evenly. “I shall wait for that husband you’ve promised. I will bring him, if you don’t mind. This afternoon has been a revelation.”

  Thaddeus was good at controlling his expression, but something flashed through his eyes, and she caught it.

  “After all, I might wish to unclothe him,” she added.

  She let her eyes deliberately fall down his front, straight to his crotch where a large bulge inflated his breeches. “I would like to see a man in the sunlight, rather than only under the bedclothes. I gather that is the practice of most married couples.”

  He nodded, and fury marched up her back because Thaddeus showed no sign of caring in the slightest. It was as if she’d told him that she would give her future husband an engraved snuffbox for his birthday.

  “Perhaps I could return the pleasure that you taught me,” she added. “To him.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a throb in his breeches. It was comforting. He might not want to marry her, but he did want her. That had to be good enough, when it came to Thaddeus Shaw.

  All this emotion she felt for him had sprung from nothing, and surely it would go away just as easily.

  She got up and pushed a few more boxes off the cloth, then reached over to grab her rapier, still kitted out with training tips. To her dismay, bending over made her private parts brush against the seam of her breeches, sending a pulse through her body.

  “So how should I die?” she asked, turning to him.

  He had come to his feet, of course. “Quietly. A prince dies without vulgar moans or groans, and certainly without writhing.”

  “How do you know?” she asked rebelliously. “I think my family would enjoy seeing Hamlet take his time to die.”

  Thaddeus shook his head. “The man has spent his entire life training to be king. A king dies in silence, without displaying pain or fear.”

  She stilled. “Is this what you meant when you said your father is a coward?”

  “To some extent. In my father’s case, impending death has reminded him of the mistakes he made in life. In Hamlet’s case, although Ophelia is dead, he seems to have few regrets.”

  Joan scowled. “I’m starting to dislike Hamlet, which is unfortunate, since I have to play the fellow tomorrow.”

  “Let him die like a prince,” Thaddeus said. “He lacks dignity throughout, with his uncle mocking his black clothing, a ghost bullying him, his wretched behavior toward a young lady exposed to her brother and the whole court. His own mother says he’s fat and short of breath. Give him back that, at least.”

  Joan sighed. “Your version of Hamlet is so much less heroic than mine.”

  Thaddeus stayed silent.

  For the next hour, they practiced death: dignified, quiet collapses.

  “I have it,” Joan said. She fell back a step from his sword and collapsed in a gentle heap, slow and silent. “He was a prince forced to be a puppet,” she said, looking up from the ground. “I shall play him as a man grateful to be freed.”

  Thaddeus stared down at her, looking struck.

  “You agree?” she asked, poking him in the bare ankle. His ankles were as strong as the rest of him. If things were different, she would roll to her side and . . .

  “I think Hamlet was trained for the role of king, not prince,” Thaddeus said. “His uncle stole the title, and he lost his compass.”

  Joan thought about answering, but the parallels were all too obvious. Thaddeus was losing his compass with her, but he would find it again. Without her, obviously.

  For the first time, she thought about which woman she would recommend that he woo. The very idea sent a pang of fury through her and she leapt to her feet. “Let’s practice the duel this time.”

  A half hour later, they were lying beside each other on the flowered cloth, panting. Thaddeus as well, Joan noticed with pleasure.

  “You’ve improved,” Thaddeus said, his chest rising and falling. His arm brushed hers. He was hot as a coal.

  She hadn’t really improved, but it was amazing how a flash of anger could fuel a counterfeit duel. She had to remember that for the performance: Imagine Thaddeus courting a lady. A gentle, sweet, well-bred lady.

  Over the years, she’d learned how to put away painful thoughts, but this one was hard to banish. There was no woman in all of England whom she could happily envision as his future duchess.

  “Have you decided what you wish to do about your father?” she asked, trying to change her train of thought.

  Thaddeus shook his head. His hair was the dark gold of ripe wheat.

  She rolled onto her side and touched a thick lock. “Do you hate wearing a wig?”

  He was staring up at the leaves. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve never given it any thought. Why entertain the question, if a gentleman must by definition wear a wig in public?”

  “Because a gentleman is not always in public,” Joan pointed out. “My father rarely wears one in Lindow Cas
tle. My brothers used to share a few wigs and jam one on only when forced. Of course, my oldest brother, Horatius, was always immaculate before he passed away. Powdered and bewigged.”

  “I remember,” Thaddeus said. “Do you miss him?”

  “Yes,” Joan said. “He was stuffy, but we adored him in the nursery.”

  “He wasn’t stuffy as much as perfect,” Thaddeus said.

  Joan laughed. “A fault you share, then.” She twisted the lock of hair she held, making it glimmer. “What does your father gain by publishing such a letter if he can’t back it up with a marriage license?”

  “His family will launch a legal claim on the estate,” Thaddeus said tonelessly. “They’ll try to break the entail by making an appeal to Parliament.”

  “But they won’t succeed.”

  “He’s mad,” Thaddeus said, squinting at the leaves. “I am certain his solicitors have told him repeatedly that he has no claim. This is a last, desperate attempt.”

  “To destroy your lives? To spend absurd amounts of money on lawyers? There has to be more to it!”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “It’s stupefying,” Joan argued. “Nonsensical.”

  “He’s enraged that he married the wrong woman,” Thaddeus said. “He told me once that his parents forced him to marry my mother, even knowing that, according to him, he was secretly married to another. He firmly believes that the law of primogeniture, giving everything to the eldest son, is evil. This is his last attempt to change English traditions going back hundreds of years.”

  “So the letter will launch a moral campaign?”

  “Backed by selfishness,” Thaddeus said wryly. “As is so often the case.”

  Joan caught up his hand. Thaddeus’s fingers curled around hers, but he didn’t turn his head.

  They lay in silence, their fingers linked. Off to the side, the squirrel was chattering to himself, busily going through every one of the open boxes and selecting items to put to the side.

  “He’s making plans for the winter,” Joan said softly.

  “My father is doing the same,” Thaddeus said. “He’s afraid that I’ll throw out his other family and refuse to support them. He thinks that if the court of public opinion is brought into play, I’ll be shamed into supporting them. Or perhaps his solicitors will ask for a settlement in lieu of withdrawing the petition to Parliament. I wouldn’t be surprised if his letter implied that I had found and destroyed his first marriage license.”

  “Hell.” Her fingers tightened around his. “That’s absolute rubbish. He doesn’t know you, does he?”

  “No.” Finally, Thaddeus turned his head. She felt the shock of his gaze down her back. Into . . . perhaps into her heart. “He doesn’t know me, and he has never cared to. I represent his life’s greatest injustice, not that he ever gave my mother a chance.”

  “If he did know you, he would realize that you would never throw your own family onto the road, especially because that family had the worst of a very poor bargain.”

  “What bargain?”

  His eyes crinkled a bit at the edges. A smile wasn’t visible, but it was there. “You smile with your eyes, did you know that?” Joan asked.

  “What bargain?” he repeated.

  He was a stubborn man, she could see that. It was absurd to fall in love with someone so unyielding and pedantic and—and ducal.

  Too late, too late.

  They had to leave. Even holding his hand made her feel slightly dazed.

  “You have your mother; your half siblings have your father,” she said. “The duchess is wonderful, and he is selfish, peevish, and now, demented.”

  Thaddeus smiled wryly.

  “We should return to the castle,” Joan said.

  Thaddeus helped her collect the food that the squirrel had rejected, and they walked back down the path to the boat waiting in the reeds, across the water . . .

  Back to the castle.

  Back to reality, Joan told herself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Lindow Castle ballroom didn’t have a curtain to fall before the stage, nor trumpets to signal the entrance of the king, nor the cannons called for in the script of The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

  But as Act Five drew to a close, Joan was certain that Lindow Castle had hosted an excellent Hamlet. Certainly, the audience had loved it. Everyone attended: the family and guests, all the household staff who could be spared.

  Mind you, there were hiccups.

  Otis uttered his lines perfectly until the scene in which Ophelia enters in a mad state and tosses around flowers. At that point, the giggles of the younger Wildes and kitchen maids infected him, and he tossed not only the flowers mentioned in the script, but a few from his hat as well.

  Joan fancied she did Hamlet a disservice in the famous To be or not to be speech. She wasn’t a suicidal person—and as the play progressed, she began to suspect that she wasn’t an actress either. In fact, after spending her entire life longing to be part of a theater company . . . she wasn’t sure any longer.

  To play a role, you have to be that person.

  Be Hamlet. Love Hamlet.

  She didn’t love Hamlet. In fact, the last two weeks had taught her that he was pretty unlovable, and he should have counted his blessings when Ophelia wrote him adoring letters and climbed in his bedchamber window.

  Her favorite part of the performance came when she was drumming her fingers on Hamlet’s sword, and she glanced at the audience (seated all of two feet away) and saw Thaddeus’s eyes narrow. Everything in her wanted to give him an impudent smile, but she didn’t.

  She was professional, if only for that night.

  The mood after the performance was celebratory, with champagne circulating around the ballroom.

  “Bravo, Hamlet!” Mr. Wooty cried, coming up behind Joan. “You did the prince proud, Lady Joan, you truly did.”

  She smiled at him. “I am so grateful that you allowed me to perform with your troupe, Mr. Wooty. And that you took on Otis as well.”

  “Mr. Murgatroyd has a rare hand for the comic,” the director said. “He could make his fortune on the stage. He knows the mood of an audience. Even if he forgets his lines, it wouldn’t matter. Mind you, no more lady’s roles. I’d give him the part of a Fool.”

  “Yet after tonight, I believe that I could not make my fortune,” Joan said, coming out with it. “Could I, Mr. Wooty?”

  There was a brief silence, and then he said, “A woman as beautiful as yourself would always be welcome in a theater company. It’s a difficult life, Lady Joan.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Joan replied.

  “You are very much yourself,” Mr. Wooty said apologetically. “A great lady, the daughter of a duke. That lady shone through Hamlet’s complaints, I’m afraid.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Wooty,” Thaddeus said, strolling up. “May I offer my congratulations on a stellar Shakespeare performance?”

  Mr. Wooty turned to him with a distinct air of relief. “You may!” he boomed. “This young lady had a great deal to do with it, of course.”

  “Lady Joan was a brilliant Prince of Denmark,” Thaddeus stated.

  Joan saw complete sincerity in his eyes. She sighed. “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Of course you were,” Thaddeus declared, a ferocious scowl uniting his eyebrows.

  Aunt Knowe joined them. “I was eavesdropping,” she said without a drop of remorse. “Am I to understand that you didn’t care for your own performance, Joan?”

  “I was fine,” Joan said, a curious sense of freedom blooming in her chest.

  Aunt Knowe wrapped an arm around her waist. “Dear one.”

  Joan rubbed her ear against her aunt’s shoulder. “Mr. Wooty, you are so kind to have given me this opportunity.”

  “It was my pleasure, my lady, and I would disagree with your assessment.”

  “What’s your Hamlet usually like?” she asked. “I mean, as performed by the actor in your company?”r />
  “Every Hamlet is different, my lady. My current Hamlet plays the role with bravado. The actor has a past, which helps.”

  “Surely most actors have led interesting lives,” Aunt Knowe said. “What sort of a past?”

  “On the high seas,” Mr. Wooty said, looking disapproving. “Grew up a lad on the ships, and I’ve chosen not to inquire too closely into the circumstances of his father’s naval career.”

  “Black sails?” Joan cried. “The skull and crossbones, together with Walk the plank, lad?”

  “Could be,” Mr. Wooty said. “Could be.”

  “Or he could be a tailor’s son who dreamed of running away to sea, but joined a theater instead,” Thaddeus said dryly. “The life of many a pirate is cut short by violence.”

  “Or drowning,” Aunt Knowe put in.

  “My Hamlet’s not dead,” Mr. Wooty said. “My point is that he plays a different Hamlet, Lady Joan. Yours is thoughtful, dignified, and regretful. His is bursting with life and infuriated that the kingdom was snatched from his hands by his uncle. He plays the outraged heir; you played the grieving son.”

  Joan elbowed Thaddeus, and then said in a low voice, “I told you that you should have played Hamlet, rather than me!”

  Thaddeus flinched. “Never.”

  Mr. Wooty glanced over his shoulder and realized that Otis was talking to his niece in a low voice at the side of the room. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, bustling away.

  “I enjoy watching those two,” Aunt Knowe said, nodding toward Otis and Madeline. “She was in the corner acting as the prompter, and he played his part mostly for her.”

  “Except for the mad scene,” Thaddeus said dryly. “I fancy Otis came into his own when inspired by the nursery.”

  “Did you act at Eton?” Aunt Knowe asked.

  Thaddeus shook his head. “Not unless forced to do so.”

  “You preferred mathematics?” Joan asked.

  “Astronomy,” he said. “Which is close to mathematics.”

  Thaddeus had no particular expression, but as he began to explain the theory of galaxies to Aunt Knowe, Joan saw his eyes brighten. If he hadn’t been born to be a duke, he’d be a scientist. He would be writing about the stars, a member of the Royal Society, spending his evenings peering at the sky.