“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 Castle. 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.”