A man stood at the next table. “Or mine.”
“Mine, mine, mine, mine . . .” The sound came staccato, falling on Jeremy’s ears like . . .
Like a benediction.
Which was ridiculous. He twisted his lips into a sneer. Lady Tallow was looking about her, tight red spots high in her cheeks, a touch of uncertainty in her long upper lip. Presumably she could read the mood of a room.
Or the mood of the calls that came now from every corner.
Thaddeus stood calmly, his eyes moving from person to person as they spoke, with the air of a man who would expect no less of his fellow mortals. Jeremy could have told him how often his fellow aristocrats had tried to comfort him by discounting the lost men as mere cannon fodder.
Yet Thaddeus was a leader, and just at this moment, every damned man in the room was following him. If Lady Tallow had cared to count, she would have seen her welcome in polite society shrinking, voice by voice, house by house.
Thaddeus still had a hand on Betsy’s left arm. But behind her back, hidden in her voluminous skirts, her right hand grabbed Jeremy’s.
Warm, strong fingers curled around his.
As “mine” continued to ring out around the room, he leaned against the table in pure exhaustion, letting her hand anchor him to this moment, to this country.
To this life.
Chapter Eleven
Jeremy, Thaddeus, and Betsy left the breakfast room together, but in the corridor, Prism bowed and said, “Her Grace, the Duchess of Eversley, requests that you join her in the library, Lady Betsy.”
Jeremy rumbled with laughter and wished her luck. Then he demanded that Thaddeus play him at billiards.
Betsy tried to not mind that Jeremy was eager to challenge Thaddeus, although he generally refused to bestir himself for her. She walked to the library feeling a prickle of curiosity overtaking her dread. If she married Thaddeus, she would necessarily spend time with his mother.
The Lindow library was a large room with a number of comfortable chairs and shabby sofas scattered about amid glass-fronted bookshelves containing moldering books, and open-shelved ones crowded with volumes one might actually wish to read.
Since Aunt Knowe was the biggest reader in the family, almost every table held a stack of books to do with medicine, biology, or herbology. A bust of Shakespeare, lent a jaunty air by the tricorne hat tipped over one eye, held the place of honor on the mantel.
At first, Betsy thought the room was empty. Then, as she was wandering toward the fireplace, a short woman jumped from a high-backed chair.
“There you are!” the duchess cried, coming over to Betsy and taking both her hands. “I know we’ve met but I didn’t take note of you. You are monstrously tall, and very pretty. And you look so very healthy! That’s important, isn’t it?”
Her Grace had an infectious smile set in a plump face with a dimple in each cheek. She had the air of a lady who has grown old without noticing and doesn’t see the point of bothering about it now. Her eyes twinkled, and she shook Betsy’s hands, both of them, with great energy.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Betsy said. Rather awkwardly, she couldn’t curtsy, as the duchess kept hold of her hands.
“Thaddeus tells me that you have refused him,” Her Grace said, drawing Betsy over to a sofa.
Rather than challenging her, as her maid had expected, the duchess sounded thoroughly pleased about Betsy’s rejection.
“I am not convinced we will suit,” Betsy said, sitting down.
“I suspect you won’t,” Thaddeus’s mother said promptly. “But the question is: Does it matter? It is far more important that you and I are able to hobble along together. You are the first woman who has caught Thaddeus’s eye—at least, in an official capacity.”
“I see,” Betsy said.
“Men are generally not in the house, and my husband certainly is not, but we would be there together,” the duchess clarified. “Thus, when Thaddeus informed me that he intended to ask for your hand, I made up my mind to join him at Lindow. Please don’t think me selfish, dear, but if I find myself in extremis, it won’t be my husband who comes to my aid.”
“Do you often find yourself in extremis?” Betsy inquired.
“Very often, over tea,” the duchess said promptly. “I find tea parties unbearably tedious, and yet they occur with appalling regularity. I could not bear it if Thaddeus marries a woman who adores tea more than ale.”
She looked expectantly at Betsy.
“Ale,” Betsy said, choosing to tell the truth.
“October or March?” the duchess asked.
“October by far,” Betsy replied. “March is weakened by last year’s hops and malt.”
“Excellent. Have you ever suffered from a spasm, or have you ambitions toward such ladylike behavior?”
“No,” Betsy said.
“My last question,” the duchess said, “and the most important: My husband’s name is Marmaduke and he fancies the name should be given to his first grandson.” She paused.
“No child of mine will be named Marmaduke,” Betsy assured her.
The duchess’s face broke into a beaming smile.
“Your Grace, I have no intention of marrying your son,” Betsy said, feeling particularly apologetic now that she seemed to have passed an examination.
“Perhaps he will grow on you,” the duchess said. “I like Thaddeus quite well, of course, but I realize that I am biased. I will try to think up some good tales to convince you of his eligibility.”
She came to her feet and Betsy jumped up as well.
“I mustn’t keep you, Lady Boadicea. From what my dear friend Lady Knowe tells me, any number of gentlemen are elbowing each other aside in their eagerness to win your hand.”
Betsy sank into a curtsy.
“Lady Knowe tells me that you are an excellent billiard player,” the duchess said. Then she smiled. “So is my son. You should challenge him to a game.”
Naturally, Betsy headed directly to the billiard room. “I can’t believe it!” she cried, stopping in the doorway. “You are a misogynist maggot, Jeremy. How dare you play Lord Greywick when you so often refuse to play me?”
“Thaddeus,” the viscount said, raising his head and nodding at her. “Not Lord Greywick, at least in private. I, for one, would never refuse you a game.”
Oh, dear. His eyes were definitely warm. Betsy had been very careful never to allow her suitors to go beyond affection; she didn’t want to break any hearts. One of the startling lessons of her debut had been how many men asked for her hand in marriage although they were no more than slight acquaintances.
“I think I prefer to be Lord Jeremy,” Jeremy drawled, “if the alternative is to be a maggot.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, waving her hand at him. “I’ll play the winner.”
They were both startlingly handsome, Thaddeus particularly. He had a noble look about him, with a straight nose and a strong jaw. Any woman would want to marry him. He even smelled good.
Not Jeremy.
“Why do you always smell like a horse in the morning?” she demanded.
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you like horses?”
She would rather die than admit that she loved the way he smelled, like saddle leather and pomade, with an edge of the wind that blew over the bog. It was arousing.