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.”
“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!”