Oh, she knew the mechanics. But that was nothing.
Chapter Thirteen
They gathered for dinner in the inn dining room, and even Grégoire Bisset-Caron joined them, complaining of a cold but never sniffling.
The duchess carried the conversation through the first course, as she had apparently decided to woo Betsy by describing Thaddeus’s innate aptitude for being a duke, on display from the age of two months.
Betsy listened carefully to the story of Thaddeus’s generosity toward an orphaned hedgehog, but she allowed her mind to wander when his mother described his courage after being stricken with ringworm.
“His beautiful curls fell off in patches all over his scalp,” the duchess lamented.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thaddeus groaned under his breath.
Betsy liked him for that, because he was irritated but didn’t cut his mother off.
The ringworm finally vanquished, the marquess entered the lists, and the table was treated to the harrowing tale of Jeremy’s childhood bout of mumps.
“You’ve missed the point,” Jeremy observed, when the story of bulbous glands wound down. “You forgot to say how wildly courageous I was in the face of near death.”
“Death?” His father snorted. “You were a frightfully naughty child, but your disobedience wasn’t fatal or near to it.”
“I notice you are not mentioning my cousin’s service in the colonies,” Grégoire said.
Jeremy smiled faintly. “Mumps is easier to excuse.”
“Nonsense,” the marquess said, frowning mightily at his son. “Your military service earned you a rare mention in the dispatches, even if you chose to ignore it.”
The duchess nimbly jumped in at this point and launched into a tale about Thaddeus’s remarkable talent at the billiard table.
“As has my son,” the marquess said mulishly.
Each story the duchess told was capped with a parallel. Thaddeus was brave; so was Jeremy.
Both men greeted these stories with silence, but Betsy noticed that Grégoire was becoming more peevish with every passing minute.
“I find tales of childish heroics frightfully tedious,” he said after a third glass of wine.
“Do you indeed?” the duchess asked, dangerous quiet in her voice.
But Grégoire had apparently reached the point of inebriation at which one no longer pays attention to disapproval, even when wielded by those at the very top of polite society. “Who cares if a boy was brave when he fell into a horse pond?” he demanded, waving his wineglass. “The real test of a man is how he behaves as a man.”
“I take it you are accusing me of lack of courage,” Jeremy said with complete indifference. “I will readily admit to being terrified on the battlefield.”
“That says a great deal about you, doesn’t it?” Grégoire replied with a smirk. “In school, I was forced to memorize a speech given by your namesake, Lady Boadicea. Jeremy could have used it to rally his men rather than leaving them to die.” He leapt to his feet and struck a pose. “Have no fear whatever of the Romans; for they are superior to us neither in numbers nor in bravery.”
Aunt Knowe turned to the marquess. “Have you ever suspected that there may be madness in your family?”
“We’re all mad as March hares,” Grégoire said, seating himself. “Only a fool would marry into our family, more’s the pity.”
“I beg to differ,” the marquess said frigidly.
Grégoire shrugged. “I wish it wasn’t the case, but I’m afraid that Jeremy doesn’t make a good case for our bloodline.”
“It’s all true,” Jeremy said, sighing. His eyes, gleaming with amusement, met Betsy’s. “If only I could have sparkled on the battlefield. Perhaps I should woo a wife in a vaudeville troupe in order to give my children the ability to scintillate at the dinner table.”
“My family does not approve of dramatics,” the duchess said. She had obviously written off Grégoire, who just as obviously didn’t care.
Betsy was struck by curiosity. What possible goal could Grégoire have for discouraging her from marrying his cousin—not that Jeremy showed any sign of proposing to her?
Could he truly believe that Jeremy would die without leaving a son, allowing him to inherit?
That was absurd.
But Grégoire launched into a supposedly amusing reference to a print sold in London that showed Jeremy hiding behind a tree. Aunt Knowe was regarding him with narrowed eyes and the marquess was apoplectic.
“You are an ill-bred young man,” Her Grace decreed, before launching into an account of the time when Thaddeus almost brought down a Scottish stag with an arrow.
Betsy watched as Thaddeus winced at the depiction of the stag leaping over his eight-year-old body and disappearing into the Highlands, an arrow waving from its haunch.
It wasn’t until the dessert course that Betsy’s mind presented her with a dilemma. What if she married Thaddeus, and then Jeremy accepted an invitation to their country house?
Had her mother felt the insistent desire that crawled through Betsy’s veins and urged her to glance at Jeremy under her lashes? Think about licking his bottom lip? Think about what his arms felt like around her? Think about what his hands would feel—
One of the more irritating aspects of attending a girls’ school was that Clementine’s voice was vividly memorable. If Clementine knew of the seething lust Betsy felt for a sarcastic, annoying man, who was adamantly not an appropriate suitor, she would scoff.
Betsy sighed. Miss Clementine Clarke had married a wealthy man who might, someday, be the Lord Mayor of London. They were unlikely to meet again. So why, why couldn’t she simply forget Clementine’s insults? She saw Octavia frequently during the Season, so why couldn’t she remember Octavia’s laughter rather than Clementine’s slights?
Jeremy’s white neck cloth brought out the shadows under his eyes and made him look like a devil, but not the sort who began as an angel and fell. He was the Demon King from a Ben Jonson play, frolicking about while plotting how to condemn the entire cast to the fiery depths.
“Drinks by the fire in the parlor,” Aunt Knowe announced. “I recommend stiff brandies all around as the bedchambers promise to be chilly tonight.”
“I have requested another eiderdown,” Grégoire said. “The one I have is entirely insufficient. I demanded that the innkeeper change the sheets as well. I suggest everyone do the same; it can be fatal to sleep in damp sheets.”
It seemed that Aunt Knowe had not instructed the Lindow maids to change Grégoire’s bedding. Betsy was certain that the marquess’s and Jeremy’s bed linens had been switched for those embroidered with the Lindow crest.
After the meal, Grégoire headed to bed to nurse his cold, and the rest of them set out for the room Aunt Knowe had designated as the parlor. Betsy found herself walking beside Jeremy, who prowled down the corridor, brows knitted, not bothering to speak after giving her a burning glance.
Once they were all in the parlor, the duchess demanded a game of piquet, and cast a betrayed frown in Betsy’s direction when she confessed to disliking the game. The marquess banded with Thaddeus, and Lady Knowe claimed the duchess.