Obediently, she tilted her head back, and her mouth fell open. The ceiling was a riot of cherubs, lying on clouds, playing harps, quaffing wine, and—
Aunt Knowe’s familiar bellow of laughter rang out as the rest of the party seated themselves. It sounded reasonably manly.
“Don’t speak loudly,” Jeremy reminded Betsy, just in time.
“The cupids,” Betsy whispered.
“Engaging in intimacies.” His eyes had a devilish, laughing glint. “I’m reassured to discover that heaven won’t be as tedious as one is led to believe. I’ve never been able to sing, let alone strum a harp.”
“Indeed,” Betsy murmured. She couldn’t keep her eyes off the joyous, erotic cupids. Some acts she readily recognized. But others were more mysterious. In fact, the more she looked, the more curious she grew.
Their chairs were positioned close together, Jeremy’s leg and arm pressed against hers. Under normal circumstances, she never felt a gentleman’s leg if it was close to hers; her skirts precluded any such intimacy.
But now . . .
Two pairs of breeches was an entirely different situation. Her heart had quickened, thanks to the riotous cupids, but that was nothing compared to how she felt when she saw their legs pressed together.
“Are your sensibilities offended by the ceiling?” Jeremy asked, a deep ribbon of amusement running through his voice.
“I’m not missish,” Betsy informed him. “I would—” She coughed and deepened her voice. “I would like a closer look at the pair in the left corner to the front.”
Jeremy took a swift glance in that direction and laughed. “You delight me.”
The marquess, Aunt Knowe, and the duchess were seated on his other side. Slowly the seats behind them began to fill. Some men looked to be merchants, and some of them were obviously factotums, ready to bid for their masters. In the row just behind them, one gentleman sat by himself.
She sat quietly as the first few drawings were knocked down, enjoying herself more keenly than she had in months. In the rows behind her, men were shouting, bidding and outbidding, cursing freely.
All the things they never did in a ballroom.
She was half turned so as to see the ranks of men behind her when Jeremy leaned close and whispered, “I have been paying close attention to the ceiling.”
“Oh?”
“The couple you identified is particularly adventuresome. You have good taste.”
Betsy was having the best afternoon of her entire life. Jeremy’s arm was touching hers, and her leg was tingling as if she were immersed in a hot bath.
“I have never doubted my taste,” she told him. “Aunt Knowe assured us many times that she had shaped our tastes after her own, and therefore we need never doubt that our instincts were beyond criticism.”
Jeremy laughed under his breath. “I grow more fond of Lady Knowe by the moment. Shall I inquire what she thinks of that particular set of cupids?”
Betsy narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
“Gentlemen discuss these matters amongst themselves,” he assured her. He made a case of looking up. “I particularly like that cupid on his knees, happily engaged in his work. One wouldn’t want to see reluctance on his face during that particular act.”
“No,” Betsy said faintly.
The auctioneer had already knocked down any number of drawings, but now he cleared his throat with particular emphasis. “Five drawings, by Rubens and Rembrandt, to be sold as a lot.”
Before he began the bidding, Aunt Knowe brandished her catalogue in the air.
“In the front row, at twenty shillings.”
After that the bidding was fast and furious, but Aunt Knowe was not to be beaten, waving her catalogue as if she were a butler summoning a hackney.
“Do you wish to bid?” Jeremy asked.
“Against my aunt?”
“Or for the next lot,” he suggested. “That’s what we came here for, after all.”
“Sold!” the auctioneer bellowed, his smile widening. “Sold to the Marquess of Thurrock’s party for five pounds two shillings.”
“Your turn to bid,” Jeremy said.
“If I see something I love, I shall,” she replied. “I thought I wanted to bid for the sake of it, simply to play a man.”
He raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“Being a man is not the act of buying things. It’s the freedom to sit here under shameless cupids and spread my legs in a most improper fashion. I am slouching in my chair!” She couldn’t stop the grin on her face.
Jeremy frowned. “You never slump?”
“I wear a corset and, often, a high wig,” she told him. “Slumping is inadvisable. Sometimes my back is in agony by the end of a long evening.”
Hopefully, no one saw one gentleman’s large hand slipping under his neighbor’s coat, the better to caress his spine.
“You’ll make me blush!” Betsy whispered.
Jeremy withdrew his hand with a low laugh. “Fair warning: I may make it my life’s ambition to bring that color to your cheeks.”
The auctioneer had burst into another flurry of activity, as drawings by “the youthful prodigy, William Beechey” were being knocked down.
“After Rembrandt,” Aunt Knowe said to the marquess in a penetrating whisper. “Poppycock! I hardly consider that the action of a prodigy!”
“What I most like about these cherubs,” Jeremy murmured, “is the fact that they do not worry about the color of their faces, or even their expressions.”
“I would care,” Betsy said, leaning back in her chair so that it wasn’t as obvious that she was craning her neck. “I will always care.”
“No, you won’t.”
“You have no idea what it’s like to be a woman,” she whispered, glancing behind them to make certain that the gentleman wasn’t paying attention. Luckily, he seemed entirely engrossed in the auction. “No woman could abandon herself to . . . to that degree! Such intemperance isn’t proper.”
“My experience of women suggests otherwise,” Jeremy said, stretching his long legs so he could cross his ankles. “A woman can find herself so engaged in the moment that she entirely forgets about her appearance. Of course, ladies may be more circumspect.”
Betsy was thinking so hard about lust and ladies that she didn’t answer until he nudged her with his elbow.
“Didn’t offend you, did I?”
Betsy started. “No. I’m simply thinking about what it’s like to be a lady.”
“We men don’t know much,” Jeremy said, obviously enjoying himself, “but it seems the very devil to me.”
“Why so?”
“We agree that these cupids are shameless,” Jeremy said.
“Indeed.” Betsy nodded.
“British ladies are taught so much about shame that they are rarely shameless. They’re married off to near-strangers, which doesn’t help, of course.”
“Shame is not merely a lady’s affliction,” Betsy pointed out.
“But ladies wield it against each other like a club.”
“I think one ought to be ashamed to break certain rules.” She was thinking of the prints that people made of the Wildes, and her growing suspicion that Grégoire was supplementing his income by shaming Jeremy in print. Or in prints, to be more exact.