Joan turned to find Thaddeus with his head resting against his fists, braced on the shed wall. She walked over and put a hand on his raised biceps. “I’m sorry,” she said simply.
Thaddeus made a rough sound in the back of his throat. “I haven’t lost control, in case you are frightened.”
“You could never frighten me,” Joan said. She turned just enough so she could wiggle between his body and the rough wood of the shed. Then she looped her arms around his neck. “My father always says that there are people whom the law supports, and those whom the law slights, such as a destitute child thrown into a prison for stealing a loaf of bread. Those who have, and those who have not.”
Thaddeus shifted his head to look down at her.
Joan knew enough about him now to interpret his look as willingness to listen, if not precisely encouragement to keep talking.
“Your father is the sort whom the law inevitably favors, and yet it’s never enough for him. You see what he’s doing, don’t you? He was born a duke, the highest nobility in the land below royalty, and that’s not good enough.”
“My mother—”
“It has nothing to do with your mother or you not being good enough, for all Eversley squealed about that. He has, and yet he wants more. He wants to be king, to set the law himself. I don’t believe he cares so much for his other family. He just wants to make law himself.”
Thaddeus stared down at her, his eyes shadowed.
“Ermine,” she reminded him, going up on her toes to kiss his chin, because it wasn’t like her future husband to be slow on the uptake, but after all, it was a painful subject. “When’s the last time you saw someone with an ermine throw—in the end of August, moreover? Ermine is the fur of kings. In Shakespeare’s time only royalty was allowed to wear ermine.”
Thaddeus’s brows drew together. “Interesting.”
Joan’s hands slid down his shoulders. He was built like a Roman gladiator. This was a serious moment, and yet she felt a pulse of liquid heat that went straight down to her knees with a significant pause on the way.
Thaddeus had no idea that his mouth was sensual, or that the muscled ridges of his body were utterly delectable. She was ogling him shamelessly, even as frustration and banked rage shone from his eyes.
Unable to help herself, to be honest.
She swallowed hard and pulled her mind back to the subject at hand. “To sum it up, your father is morally corrupt and worthless.”
To her relief, he gave a reluctant bark of laughter. “Worthless. I like it.”
“If you’d like an elaborated version: He is a rotter who wishes to be king. I also think he’s annoyed by the fact he’s turned out to be a member of the human race and thereby vulnerable to death.”
“He’s always been half cracked,” Thaddeus said slowly. “He’s grown significantly worse.”
“The nonsense about sending a notice to the papers is just a pathetic way to ensure that he isn’t silenced by death,” Joan said, easing back against the shed wall because his hard body was very distracting.
She glanced down. Her low bodice wasn’t doing much to disguise the fact her nipples felt as desperate for attention as the rest of her.
“I see,” Thaddeus said. He didn’t sound angry any longer, but his voice rasped all the same.
Joan’s eyes flew to his face and saw not anger, but raw, hungry need. “Oh,” she said with a gasp. “I see.”
“We have settled the question of my title,” Thaddeus stated. “My father has no proof; the newspapers will not publish his nonsense. I will be the duke.”
“I do think that we should wrangle that letter away from him, if only so no servant gets hold of it,” Joan said, bringing her hands around to fiddle with one of the buttons on his waistcoat. She felt shy, an emotion uncommon for her. “I have an idea how to do so, not the angel, a different idea.”
“I promise you that Eversley is no danger to us,” Thaddeus said.
She nodded.
His hands came down from the wall, and he took a step back. Her hands slid from his waistcoat. “You make sense of my life, Joan,” Thaddeus said. His face was impassive, but that didn’t matter. He said enough with his eyes.
“Are you going to make sense of my life as well?” Joan asked, suddenly enjoying herself enormously.
“I don’t see people clearly, as you do. I spent a great part of my childhood trying to excel in order to please a man who didn’t care. But if you point out a problem, I will take care of it. I will be there for you, Joan. I will never leave you. You and your family will be the family of my heart.”
Joan managed a wobbly smile. “That’s lovely,” she whispered.
He thrust a hand in his pocket and then sank to his knees.
“You can’t do that,” Joan gasped. “We’re in Percy’s sty. A pigsty! Your breeches!”
Thaddeus grinned at her, and Joan saw longing and joy in his eyes. Her heart thumped in response.
“I love you,” Thaddeus said, taking her hand in his. “Last night my mother gave me a ring that belonged to my grandmother, one that was untainted by my father. My grandmother and grandfather lived long, cheerful lives, though saddened to witness their daughter’s unhappy marriage.”
Joan sank down on her knees before him, her gown puddling over fresh straw. “Are you certain? I’m not legitimate, and all England knows it. I’m always causing scandals. If you had given me a chance, I would have kissed you before an entire ballroom.”
He looked back at her, his eyes sure and calm. “I trust you. You will never have to kiss a man to get my attention again.”
There was a moment of silence. Joan bit her lip. “How did you guess? Because I didn’t like you then; I truly didn’t.”
“I didn’t like you either. But I always knew where you were in a room. I loathe gossip, and yet somehow I always knew who was courting you, and who you were flirting with.”
“I didn’t like it when you courted my sisters,” Joan whispered.
The straw rustled behind them, as Percy settled himself back against his bedmate with a contented grunt.
“May I give you this ring?” Thaddeus asked. He looked at Joan the way her father looked at her stepmother, the way Devin looked at Viola, the way she never thought anyone . . .
Joan felt a tear slide down her cheek. “Are you truly certain?” she asked in an aching whisper. “I won’t run away to the stage, or ever play Hamlet again. But—”
“If you run away to the stage, I will run after you.” His voice was deep and certain. “If you want to perform Hamlet, I’ll be your Ophelia, albeit in breeches. I won’t like it, but I’ll do it.”
In his large hand, an emerald winked in the lamplight, its glossy shine surrounded by diamonds. “How lovely,” Joan said. She looked up. “Yes, I will marry you.” The words hung in the air.
He slid the smooth gold over her finger. The emerald looked as if it had always encircled her finger. As if she could wear it for the rest of her life.
“It fits perfectly,” she said, hearing wonder in her own voice.
“A sign,” Thaddeus said. His voice had dropped from a rasp to a rumble. “Joan.”