“Good morning, Lady Knowe,” he said, walking over and bowing. “I bring a message from my mother. She would like to walk to the village in an hour or two.”
“I’ll have to change to a walking costume,” Aunt Knowe said, bounding to her feet. “Greywick dear, come take my place, won’t you? You needn’t act; just read aloud every line that isn’t Hamlet’s or Ophelia’s.”
The viscount’s face was a wooden mask, but he took the book from Aunt Knowe, bowing to Joan and Otis. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Lord Greywick,” Joan chirped, trying to pretend that they were merely acquaintances. “You needn’t greet Viola; as you can see, she’s napping.”
“Morning,” Otis said, glancing up from Hamlet.
“You have to read all the boring bits,” Aunt Knowe told Greywick. “We were about to start the scene in which Hamlet and Ophelia bicker as she gives him back all his love letters. Just in case you haven’t read the play lately,” she added.
“I have not,” Greywick said, managing to make it clear that he liked it that way.
“Better you than me,” she replied with a cheerful grin. “I’ll accompany your mother to the village. I’ll take Viola away with me; she’ll nap better in her own bed.”
With that, Aunt Knowe hoisted a dazed Viola to her feet and escorted her out of the room.
“Right, let’s start,” Joan said. “Page thirty-eight, everyone.”
The third time through the scene, Greywick lowered his book and gave Otis a direct look. “Mr. Murgatroyd, you seem to be uttering your lines with more optimism than accuracy.”
Joan was sorry to say it, but her best friend was showing no sign of mastering his lines.
“You can’t call me Mr. Murgatroyd,” Otis said. “Not now that we’ve both been roped into this charade. Call me Otis.”
“Very well,” the viscount said.
“As far as my lines go, I only need to get a few words right,” Otis said comfortably. “We’ve all met girls like Ophelia: brokenhearted, drifting around writing bad poetry. Her father should have locked her in her bedchamber and kept her away from the river, and she would have woken up one morning and wondered what she ever saw in the prince.”
“You are rather unkind to Ophelia,” Greywick observed.
Presumably he couldn’t help being a pompous stick. It was such a waste, given how handsome he was.
For example, his arms were corded with thick muscle that Joan could see through the fine broadcloth of his coat. If it wasn’t for the way he looked at her, as if she were shameful—
But he did.
And had for years, what’s more. The very first time they met, his eyes touched on her hair, and though he didn’t move a muscle in his face, she had known instantly that he didn’t approve of her parentage.
Or rather, her lack of parentage, since her parents had left her behind in the duke’s nursery. She could always tell the people who thought she had inherited bad blood along with her hair, and mostly their opinion didn’t bother her at all.
But Greywick?
He’d always been the exception. Something about the censorious light in his eyes just made her . . .
Furious. That was the emotion, definitely. Something about his disdain made Joan feel hot all over.
“Actually, I’m being generous to Ophelia,” Otis protested. “Did you get the bit where she complains about what happened after she crawled into his bedroom window?”
“She’s just singing a ballad,” Joan objected. “Albeit a bawdy one.”
“There’s a history of such, I’ll give you that,” Otis said. “I like this one better than Ophelia’s: Do not trust him, gentle maiden,” he belted out, slightly out of tune. “Though his heart be pure as gold, He’ll leave you one fine morning, With a cargo in your hold.”
“Inappropriate in this company,” Greywick stated.
“For God’s sake,” Otis said, rolling his eyes. “Anyone can tell that Ophelia wrote the ballad she sings. She’s a silly girl with the brains of a caterpillar, and personally I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she climbed in my window, likely in her nightie.”
“If that is the case, Hamlet lost his honor when he didn’t usher the lady promptly out the door,” the viscount replied, at his most uncompromising.
“Oh, Greywick,” Joan sighed, conscious that bickering with him was fast becoming one of her favorite pastimes. “You can’t judge Hamlet by your own bloodless approach to life.”
Something flared deep in his eyes, so she added, “Hamlet is a hero, a man who fights off pirates and is brilliant at swordplay. I expect he was overcome by desire when a beautiful woman appeared in his bedchamber.”
“Since I’m playing Ophelia, let’s drop ‘beautiful’ and think ‘willing,’ instead,” Otis said, smirking. “I show up in his bedchamber and throw myself at him. He takes one look at my slender waist and loses his head. Unfortunately, I lose something rather more important.”
“There is no excuse for taking a lady’s virtue,” Greywick said, with an expression that would have made a bishop proud. “Whether Hamlet’s heart be ‘pure as gold,’ as in Otis’s rhyme, or not, he ceased to be a hero when Ophelia left his room no longer a maiden.”
“It wasn’t precisely honorable on Hamlet’s part,” Joan admitted.
Otis broke out laughing. “Just look at us, engaging in deep Shakespearean commentary. If I’d had you in class, Greywick, I might have passed literature at Eton.”
“You may address me as Thaddeus.”
“Address me?” Otis repeated. He turned to Joan. “He should be playing Hamlet. You could play Ophelia, and I could play the ghost.”
“I do not act,” Greywick said curtly. He looked at Joan. “I would also like you to call me Thaddeus.”
“Better,” Otis allowed. “You sounded almost human, if you don’t mind the comment.”
Joan never responded to any man, including those who fell on their knees before her, offering rings and adoration. But this man? Whose eyes skated over her as if she were no more interesting than the silk wallpaper on the library walls?
This man made her body tingle, and her mind begin wondering what it would be like if such a rigid man lost control. What if Greywick—Thaddeus—dropped all the rules that had been drilled into him from birth and just let himself do what he wished?
Of course, he didn’t want to do anything with her.
“Let’s start over with this scene,” Joan said, sighing. “Otis, do try to memorize a few more lines, so at least we understand why Ophelia is sad.”
Before they could start again, Aunt Knowe erupted back into the room. “Enough rehearsing, children!” she cried. “I’ve just learned that Drabblefield Fair opened this morning. Greywick, your mother is eager to attend. Joan and Otis, this is an excellent opportunity to try out your costumes.”
“Father said I wasn’t allowed to leave the gates in breeches,” Joan pointed out.
“My brother left for the tenant farms after breakfast,” Aunt Knowe said, “so I’ll overrule him. You can’t miss the fair.”