They were the only prints Betsy bought as well. Attention to any man other than a family member would be interpreted as erotic interest. Her gowns were a tad more demure than fashion demanded: her hands always gloved, her ankles out of sight, her lips untouched by color. No one could accuse her of flaunting her assets, with her breasts tucked away in a bodice, perhaps with a lace fichu for good measure. Haughty matrons looked in vain for a sign of her mother’s weaknesses: Betsy didn’t have them.
“It’s not that I’m uninterested in marriage, precisely,” Jeremy said.
“I stand corrected,” she said. “I neglected to qualify that you are uninterested in a woman with the temerity to call herself Betsy or to keep a kitten.”
“An excellent show of affront,” Jeremy said appreciatively. “Well-phrased. She will make a perfect duchess, Greywick. Polite to a fault. Untempted by a prime physical specimen like myself.”
Betsy narrowed her eyes. Was he subtly referring to her mother? Yvette had famously praised her Prussian’s muscled thighs.
No.
Lord Jeremy Roden was objectionable, but he wasn’t underhanded. If anything, he was too blunt. His insults were aired for all to hear.
“Luckily, I have consolation in this time of sorrow,” Jeremy said, waving his bottle with a madcap grin.
“You can’t imagine how devastated I am to find that you’re married to a bottle of whisky,” Betsy drawled. “I always planned to marry a man with a droopy appendage.”
Then she turned to Greywick. “Shall we return to the ballroom, my lord?”
“Not yet, because you’re supposed to be getting to know each other,” Jeremy said. “I, lucky sod, know you both so I can play the matchmaker. Attest to the fact that you’d make a marvelous pair. Just marvelous.”
He stopped and took another swig of whisky. The smell spilled into the room, fierce and hot, as unlike her rose petal perfume as possible. It suited him: Whisky was gritty, bold, and real.
“Lady Boadicea,” the viscount said, holding out his arm.
“Oh, for God’s sake, call her Betsy,” Jeremy said, before Betsy could respond. “She likes it, even though it makes her sound like a milkmaid. Which she’s not. Just at the moment, I can’t remember her worthy traits, so I’ll start with you, Greywick. Thaddeus, since we were on a first-name basis as lads.”
Jeremy stabbed a finger in their direction and actually straightened in his chair, as if his opinion made an ounce of difference. Betsy barely managed to control her desire to throw a billiard ball at his insufferable head.
Instead she moved closer to Greywick and put a hand on his arm. “Thaddeus? I like that name.” She didn’t purr, because a Wilde is never obvious. But she did give him a glance from under her lashes that the devil in the corner would never see from her.
“My name is indeed Thaddeus,” the viscount replied. “I would be truly honored if you wished to address me as such.” He was a bit of a stick, but on the positive side he had marvelously thick eyelashes.
There was nothing more unattractive than skimpy, sandy eyelashes. That was the problem she kept finding with the blond men who had courted her. The hair on their heads might be marvelous, but their eyes had a naked look.
Not Thaddeus. His eyelashes were thick and dark as blackberries.
“Where’s your halo?” Betsy asked, her face easing into a real smile. “Don’t tell me you threw it away, the way this reprobate did. My aunt much enjoyed the irony of turning guests into angels.”
One corner of his mouth curled up again. That was a rather fetching trait he had—smiling on one side only.
“I was raised to believe that honors shouldn’t be flaunted until earned.”
“Nice,” came a rumbly voice. “He’ll earn it, Betsola, no worries about that. The man’s got a corner of heaven all staked out for him. Reserved. Inherited, in fact.”
“Betsola?” Betsy repeated. “No, don’t bother to explain. Thaddeus, shall we return to the ballroom? I think my aunt will be wondering where I am.”
“I doubt it,” the dark-eyed devil in the corner said. “I expect Lady Knowe is counting the moments, hoping you’re behaving indelicately, if not worse. She’ll have you married off before Easter. Perhaps before Christmas, if she thinks that Thaddeus here is as forward as her nephews. The next generation of Wildes are all going to be born at six or seven months, if she doesn’t look out.”
“My aunt is not counting moments or months,” Betsy retorted, scowling at him. “You are being quite offensive, Lord Jeremy.” Never mind the fact that she agreed with him about the likely arrival of her nieces and nephews.
“Ouch,” Jeremy said, grinning. “Now, I think it’s worth saying again that Thaddeus was by far the most intelligent of the blighters in our year. Course, we didn’t have Alaric. And I heard that Horatius was—”
“Do not mention Horatius,” Betsy snapped. Her elder brother had died the day after she turned eleven. To this day, she kept the little ceramic bird he’d given her on her bedside table.
Jeremy was sprawled in his chair again, but he lowered his bottle and gave her a quick nod. “I’m sorry, Bess.”
“Bess?” Betsy repeated, desperate to talk of anything else. “I suppose that’s better than Betsola.”
“Given that your father named all his children after warriors,” Jeremy said, “he could have chosen Good Queen Bess instead of Boadicea. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth dressed up in a suit of armor and rode a white horse to Tilbury. I could see you on a white horse. Your lady is a good rider,” he added, waving his bottle at the viscount. “There, you see, I managed to think of a worthy reason to marry her.”
She ought to leave. But honestly? This was the most entertaining conversation she’d engaged in all evening. And it was certainly a good idea to hear more details about the viscount.
What’s more, her toes hurt. She was wearing a pair of Joan’s heeled slippers and they didn’t fit. She took her hand from Lord Greywick’s arm and moved backward so she could hop up and sit on the side of the billiard table, which made her side panniers flip up in a flurry of silk, so she had to slap them down.
“It’s like watching someone wrestle a couple of greased piglets to the ground,” Jeremy drawled. “Thaddeus, I hope you’re observant, because your future bride has very nice ankles.”
Lord Greywick stiffened, but Betsy tapped him on the arm. “Ignore him. He can’t see my ankles; the open door blocks his view.”
“I could if I bothered to lean forward,” Jeremy argued. “At any rate, I was merely doing a matchmaker’s duty. I’m sure Queen Elizabeth had slender ankles.”
“I have to point out that Queen Elizabeth didn’t wear a suit of armor,” the viscount said, moving to lean against the table, hip to hip with Betsy. She didn’t mind. He smelled rather good, like some sort of flower.
Not at all like Jeremy, who always smelled of cheroots and whisky.
“Her Majesty wore a silver corselet,” Thaddeus continued. “Though some say it was steel. She did have a helmet with white plumes.”
“I know I have the body but of a weak and feeble woman; but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too,” Betsy put in, quoting Queen Elizabeth.