Wilde Child EPB

by James, Eloisa

  Or perhaps he would study animals, she thought, remembering the squirrel.

  “Do you have a telescope?” Aunt Knowe asked him, obviously coming to the same conclusion.

  “No need,” Thaddeus said. “I outgrew the interests of my boyhood.”

  Joan stood quietly, watching his face as he explained the mysteries of the universe to her aunt. She was in trouble.

  She felt far too much.

  A dangerous amount. She had instantly decided to give him a telescope for his birthday.

  Ladies didn’t give gentlemen gifts . . . unless they were married to them.

  She shouldn’t have taken off her shirt on the island, let alone allowed the intimacies that followed. She should have guarded her heart.

  Even looking at him made ripples of feeling wash through her body. Followed by a wave of panic. She had to cancel the trip to Wilmslow tomorrow. She didn’t particularly want to play Hamlet again, to be honest.

  Her fervent wish to play before a public audience?

  Not gone, but definitely muted. She’d learned something about herself in the course of the evening, and prudence suggested that she wave goodbye to Thaddeus Erskine Shaw and set about getting herself into a sane frame of mind.

  Plus, there was the bargain she’d struck with Thaddeus: She would perform for a live audience, and he would find her a husband.

  No performance, no husband.

  That was a double no when it came to finding him a wife. He could find his own wife. She wanted nothing to do with it.

  A flurry of movement caught her eye, and she realized that Viola was waving at her from the other side of the room. Her stepsister was seated in a large chair brought into the ballroom especially for her, as the imminent arrival of her child, despite Viola’s small frame, had made one of the flimsy gilt ballroom chairs an impossibility.

  Joan dropped a curtsy to Thaddeus and Aunt Knowe, still talking of stars, and headed over to Viola. “Hello, V,” she said, sitting down and realizing (for the thousandth time) how comfortable she felt wearing Hamlet’s breeches rather than a voluminous gown.

  “You were marvelous!” Viola said, beaming at her. “Wasn’t she, Devin?”

  Devin was standing behind his wife, a hand on her shoulder as if he were poised to snatch her into his arms and head upstairs. “Yes,” her husband agreed, his eyes warm. “You were an excellent Hamlet.”

  Joan grinned at her brother-in-law. He was a man of few words, but she had come to treasure every one. “Had you seen the play before?” she demanded. “Mr. Wooty just told me that my interpretation of Hamlet is the opposite of the Hamlet he usually stages.”

  “A first encounter is the best way to judge a performance,” Devin countered. “I hadn’t realized Hamlet was such a dislikable character, but you were entirely believable.”

  “He was so mean to poor Ophelia,” Viola said, squeezing Joan’s hand. “She was always my favorite character in the play. Shy, you could tell. At least, until she became mad.”

  Devin cleared his throat. “I’m not certain that Otis deserves the same accolades as does Joan.”

  “He doesn’t care,” Viola said, giggling. “Who is that extraordinarily pretty girl he eyed throughout the performance? He nearly fell off the stage at least twice.”

  They looked across the room to where Otis and his father were talking to the Wooty family. Everyone was smiling.

  “Dear me,” Devin said. “I believe that Otis has fallen in love.”

  Joan managed a smile. She was happy for her friend. But she was jealous too.

  She didn’t get a chance to talk to him for quite a while, until the theater company had retired to their wagons, the nursery had been ushered off to bed, Viola had departed on her husband’s arm, and everyone else was quietly leaving for their rooms.

  “Otis!” she cried, catching his arm.

  He turned to her with a beaming smile. “I’m betrothed!”

  “I thought so.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Madeline is a lovely woman.”

  “She’s beautiful, but most of all, she’s funny. I realized within an hour of talking to her that I couldn’t possibly marry anyone who didn’t make me laugh. She does.”

  Joan kissed him again, and then said, “Otis, I’d rather not do the performance in Wilmslow tomorrow night, if you don’t mind.”

  To her surprise, his brows drew together. “We’re traveling there tomorrow with the Wootys. I’ve talked them into staying at the inn with us.”

  “I don’t want to do it,” Joan said, unable to explain that she didn’t want to spend time with Thaddeus.

  “Is it because I’m such a bad Ophelia?” Otis asked. “Madeline said that I was fine until the mad scene in the throne room, but tomorrow I won’t let the absurdity get to me. I promise.”

  “You were quite good,” Joan said, feeling even more crushed. “Especially when you gave a flower to my stepmother. And when you threw flowers to the children. They loved that.”

  “Your stepmother’s name is Ophelia,” Otis said smugly. “I couldn’t neglect her under those circumstances.”

  “I don’t want to do a public performance,” Joan said starkly.

  “You weren’t a terrible Hamlet,” Otis protested.

  “I knew the part. But I wasn’t a good Hamlet, Otis. And don’t try to tell me that I was. I’ve been going to plays for my entire life.”

  “I thought you were excellent,” Otis said.

  “I was adequate,” Joan corrected him. She had never been the sort of woman who lied to herself, not about her parentage, her prospects, or anything else.

  “You can’t back out of tomorrow,” Otis said, abandoning the question of her acting skills. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking unusually stubborn. “The performance in Wilmslow has already been advertised. My future father-in-law can’t cancel it with no notice.”

  “You could pay him to do so,” Joan suggested. “Buy out the theater.”

  Otis rolled his eyes. “I’m not nearly as knowledgeable about the theater as you are, but even I know that the show must go on.”

  Joan opened her mouth, but Otis raised his hand. “I would rather that my future wife has made her last public performance, because Madeline doesn’t care for the stage. When her parents died and she came to England, she had no choice. Therefore, I play Ophelia tomorrow night.”

  “I feel for Madeline,” Joan said, “but I don’t want to play Hamlet again.”

  “Your Hamlet was unusual,” Otis said encouragingly.

  “Not heroic,” Joan said flatly.

  “You certainly brought forward the prince’s less valiant side, but it’s there on the page. I was startled when Hamlet casually announced he’d had his two friends killed. I don’t remember that detail from when we read it at school.”

  He caught her arm. “Please, Joan. I promised Madeline that I would take her part and I can’t do it without you.”

  “I suppose I owe you, since I forced you into a corset in the first place,” Joan allowed.

  Otis gave her a kiss and started to go, before turning back. “Don’t forget that my father and Thaddeus’s mother are accompanying us tomorrow, and they have no idea about the public performance. My man will sneak a trunk with your breeches onto the coach at first light tomorrow.”

  “All right,” Joan said. She’d never been so exhausted in her life. Hamlet was a long play, including the sword fighting. Even a dignified death was tiring.

  “I hate these skirts more every moment,” Otis grumbled.

  Joan followed him out the door.

  She only had to endure one day and evening with Thaddeus. She’d put on her breeches for the last time, and then return to the castle and don her skirts. She could tell him tomorrow that the bargain was off. It had been an absurd idea, anyway. She was no matchmaker, able to conjure up a future duchess.

  She could find her own husband, a kindly fellow with no ambitions to a dukedom.

  Someone who would adore her
unconditionally and always agree with her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  As the next day wore on, Thaddeus felt himself growing more and more angry, an emotion he abhorred at the best of times. It seemed impossible to maintain his usual equanimity.

  He was trying to decide if he should inform his mother about his father’s threat. The quandary nagged at him in the middle of the night until he gave up the idea of sleeping. What if the duke had already died, and the bloody letter appeared in the morning paper?

  The worst of it was that Joan had . . . left. She was in the castle, but it was as if she had walked out of the room, as if the intimacies they’d shared had never existed.

  Oh, she smiled at him, laughed at the right moments, carried on conversations over breakfast . . .

  But it wasn’t Joan.

  His Joan.

  He had always known that she was a brilliant actress. But he didn’t understand just how much self-control she had until she started playing the part of a perfect young lady: docile, cheerful, kind.

  After a morning of relentless cheer, he caught his mother gazing at Joan with a pleat between her brows.

  People tended to ignore his mother because she was shy, eccentric, and always wore pink. Yet she was one of the most perceptive people he’d ever known.

  She’d known for the last two years that something was wrong with him, for example, though he’d managed not to confess.

  “Otis traveled to Wilmslow with the Wooty family, in their wagon,” Joan said as luncheon drew to a close. “I’ve never been invited inside one of the wagons.” Her voice had a distinctly wistful tone.

  Sir Reginald nodded. “My son is now a member of that family. I apologized to Miss Wooty for not coming to the theater to see her Ophelia tonight. Seeing Hamlet two nights in a row is too much Bard for me.”

  As Thaddeus watched, Joan gave him a charming smile. “I understand,” she confided. “The play is long and rather tedious.”

  “Playing the title role didn’t infect you with love of the play?” Sir Reginald asked.

  Joan shook her head. “No. Instead of being infected with a love of performance, I believe my reaction to performing the part was the opposite.”

  “Done with breeches parts?” Sir Reginald asked.

  “I’m not as mad for performance as I thought I was. I pictured myself as an actress. What I was not picturing was myself playing Hamlet, or Ophelia, or another role, if that makes sense.”

  “It does,” Thaddeus’s mother put in. “I know exactly what you mean. I frequently remind myself that I’m a duchess when in public. It’s a role I assume when needed.”

  Thaddeus would never have made a distinction between himself and the dukedom—until his father began to insist that his younger son ought to be the duke.

  “In fact, I think I shall put theatricals to the side for the time being,” Joan said. “After my sister’s baby is born, my stepmother and I have promised to attend a country house party given by Lady Ailesbury.”

  Sir Reginald smiled at her roguishly. “The bachelors will be very happy to see you.”

  Thaddeus’s heart sank.

  “I gather that Otis will travel from Wilmslow to London with the Wootys,” Joan said. “Will you join them, Sir Reginald?”

  “I scarcely arrived, so I plan to stay at the castle for another fortnight,” Sir Reginald said, his eyes sliding to Thaddeus’s mother’s face.

  The meal concluded, and the ladies rose to their feet. “Lady Joan, what time would you like to travel to Wilmslow?” Thaddeus asked, coming around the table to meet her. “As I understand it, the building is on the opposite side of the town.”

  She looked up at him with utmost friendliness—and not an ounce of intimacy. “That would be very kind of you, Lord Greywick. Are you certain that you can bear to see the performance twice?”

  “I could accompany you, my dear,” the Duchess of Eversley said. “To tell the truth, I always fall asleep in Shakespeare plays, so I don’t mind seeing Hamlet twice.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Thaddeus saw Sir Reginald’s face fall.

  Interesting.

  For the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps his mother wouldn’t wish to remain a duchess after her husband died. Perhaps she would remarry.

  “If you are tired in the evening, Mother, you would do better to have a quiet supper with Sir Reginald by the fireside,” he suggested.

  “Your mother will do precisely as she wishes!” Joan flashed. “You would do better indeed!”

  He watched with amusement as Joan remembered the reason she didn’t want his mother in the theater. As dismay flashed through her eyes, he turned to his mother. “I apologize for my presumption,” he said, bowing.

  “Don’t be silly, dear,” his mother replied. “I would enjoy staying in the inn. Perhaps my old friend will match me in a game of chess.”

  “You always wallop me,” Sir Reginald said, his face wreathed with smiles.

  “True,” the duchess said. “But I enjoy doing it.”

  “Why don’t we travel to Wilmslow immediately? We could visit St. Bartholomew’s, which is justly famous, as parts of it date back to the 1240s,” Sir Reginald suggested.

  To the best of Thaddeus’s knowledge, his mother had never shown the slightest interest in antiquities, religious or otherwise, but now she agreed with enthusiasm.

  “We can travel in my carriage,” Sir Reginald said, offering his arm.

  There was a pause—and she agreed.

  As far as Thaddeus was concerned, that settled it. The only question was whether his mother would observe a mourning period after her husband’s death. Why should she?

  The older couple strolled from the room. Joan followed, her skirts the width of the door frame, so Thaddeus walked in the rear.

  Seen from behind, Joan was so entirely a woman that it was impossible to believe that anyone would think her a man. And yet—they would. He would bet the estate that he didn’t yet have that no one in the audience would imagine that a woman was playing Hamlet.

  A few hours later, when his carriage door closed behind Joan, she threw off her cloak and hissed, “Undress me!”

  Thaddeus found himself laughing. “I can think of no command that I’d prefer, but is this the time? The place?”

  “Bloody hell, Thaddeus,” she snapped, looking over her shoulder at him. “I have barely an hour to get out of this dress and into my breeches. I can’t arrive as Lady Joan and reappear as Hamlet. My maid did everything she could; I am dressed in a simple gown. But I need your help.”

  “Of course.”

  Never mind the fact that for one crystalline moment he was filled with joy, as if everything that was wrong in his world had suddenly sorted itself out.

  The idea was so surprising that he began unlacing her gown without a word.

  Meanwhile, Joan was flinging hairpins to the floor until she threw her wig on the opposite seat and pulled a smaller man’s wig from a travel case. Her dress fell forward, baring her slender shoulders, now clad only in a shift so transparent that he could see the delicate knobs of her backbone. She snatched her breeches from the bag and hopped to a standing position in order to pull them on.

  Thaddeus froze, watching as no gentleman would while she hauled them up her legs. For one glorious moment, as she pulled the chemise off, he saw her bare back. Then she pulled on a shirt and began stuffing it into the top of the breeches. “You’re going to have to manage my neck cloth,” she said, not turning around.

  “I’d be happy to,” Thaddeus said, reaching out to steady her as they went around a corner. His hands curved around her waist, and happiness flooded him again. As a child, he’d learned that ignoring an irritating emotion—such as missing his father—would diminish the feeling.

  He had an odd sense that it wouldn’t be true this time around.

  Another problem to solve.

  Joan threw herself onto the opposite seat and began hauling stockings up her legs. “Can you pull
out my knee ribbons?” she asked, nodding at the bag. “I have my garters.” Thaddeus wrenched his eyes away from the lacy garters that Hamlet would apparently wear under his breeches.

  He poked around in the bag and found two hair ribbons.

  “Here,” Joan ordered, straightening one leg while she pulled on the other stocking. “Double knot it, please. These ribbons have to survive the sword fight.”

  Thaddeus grinned. “I never anticipated the need to learn a valet’s tasks.”

  “You should have,” she retorted, adjusting her breeches over a garter. “What good is a man who can’t tie his own neck cloth?”

  “I do tie my own,” Thaddeus said. He leaned over and pulled the ribbons tight, knotting them more than twice. No one was going to see his lady’s leg—

  His lady’s leg.

  The lady in question was pulling on her coat. “Shoes!” she said urgently.

  Thaddeus turned to the bag and pulled out shoes. “Diamond buckles,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t wear these last night.”

  “I need to look like a prince,” Joan said. She slapped her hat on top of her wig. “Last night, the costume was irrelevant, but tonight I have to actually look royal. Otis is going to meet me and escort me to his dressing room so I can fix anything that is out of order.”

  “Give me your Hamlet look,” he said.

  Instantly her face dropped into lines that signaled a bone-deep feeling of superiority. “My rapier!” she cried. “I almost forgot it.”

  Thaddeus pulled it from the bag and helped her buckle it on. Suddenly he remembered something from the night before. “Hamlet appears to have a propensity to drum his fingers on the hilt of his sword when worried.”

  She flashed him a smile. “As do you. This is your look as well.” The bored, condescending look of an aristocrat settled onto her face.

  Thaddeus blinked, appalled. “I?” The word came out in a rasp.

  The carriage was slowing to a halt. Joan leaned forward and patted his arm. “I told you that I was mimicking the habits of a duke, remember? You don’t look like that when we’re in private.”

  “I didn’t think I looked like that ever.” He thought of the expression as ducal composure, but apparently more emotion leaked than he had imagined.