Home > Wilde Child (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #6)(3)

Wilde Child (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #6)(3)
Author: Eloisa James

From . . .

From where he was. Not that he cared.

“Do you know how often I’ve heard that precise sentence?” She shrugged. “Pretty much every week for the last two years. Lo and behold, I am still invited everywhere. In case you’re wondering why, Greywick, that would be because I’m an heiress, and a duke’s daughter, at least by name. Power and money trump illegitimacy.”

“You’re reckless and uncaring,” he said flatly.

“That too,” she agreed. “Now will you move your hulking body out of the corridor? I could pull my rapier and take a first stab—ha! Get that?—at manly foreplay.”

“‘Foreplay’?” He heard the incredulity in his own voice.

“My goodness. I suppose I shocked the most pedantic man in London . . . again. Why do men wear blades in this day and age? Why, so they can excite themselves by pretending that they have a claim to manhood, skewering their opponents rather than—”

“You will be ruined,” he said again, cutting her off. “Banished from polite society.”

“Woe is me,” Joan said. “Imagine: If I weren’t forced to encounter a future duke at insipid balls and ill-tasting dinners, I might not have to endure being disparaged by him for an entire Season. When I’m not being ignored.” Her voice was icy.

Thaddeus could feel a nerve twitching in his jaw. “I—you like dancing.”

She folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the wall. “Only with some. Do keep talking, Your Lordship. This is an invaluable moment to gather inspiration. Memorize every nuance of an entitled royal bastard.”

“I’m not—” He clamped his mouth shut.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said lightly. “I’m the bastard, not you. And you’re not royal, but believe me, you’re more royal than George himself, so I’ll take it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Prince Hamlet?” she said, raising her eyebrow. “My performance thereof. Surely you know?”

Thaddeus frowned. When he and his mother had arrived the night before to stay for a fortnight, the butler had mentioned a performance by the traveling company of Theatre Royal at Drury Lane. “I thought a theater company was visiting the castle.”

“I am playing the Prince of Denmark,” Joan said. “My father wouldn’t allow me to play a love scene with an actor in the company, so Otis will play Ophelia. Not that Hamlet shouting at Ophelia to get to a nunnery can really be termed a love scene.”

“Otis Murgatroyd is playing Ophelia—in a dress?” Thaddeus asked incredulously. “Is the production akin to a pantomime, then?”

“Not a pantomime: a serious production of Hamlet,” Joan said, her eyes glinting with mischief. “I will play the prince, in these very breeches.”

“No.”

“That was a good look,” she said appreciatively. “I don’t suppose I can manage the ticking jaw, but . . .” She scowled and lowered her eyelids to half-mast. “Do I have the air of an infuriated nobleman? Hamlet is frightfully irritable at times.”

“You are performing the lead male role in a Shakespeare play in front of an audience, along with professional actors,” Thaddeus said, trying to take it in. “You can’t, Joan. You cannot.”

He saw the moment when she got truly angry. Joan loved to play roles: He’d seen her switch with dizzying speed from frivolous maiden to practiced seductress. No expression she could put on affected her eye color, but now her eyes darkened to a steely blue, and her body stiffened. “I don’t think of my family and a few intimates as an audience.”

“Don’t be a fool,” he growled. “The news will spread. What will happen to your youngest sister if you are ruined?”

She cast him a pitying look. “Artie is a Wilde, Greywick. The genuine article, not like me. No one in your precious circle will care if I don’t appear in society again. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ they—you—will tell each other.”

Thaddeus stared at her in disbelief. “No one has ever called you ‘rubbish’ in my presence,” he said, hearing the menace in his voice. “They never will.”

“Only because you reserve the pleasure for yourself,” she retorted. “For your information, I’ve been called everything from ‘hurly-burly hussy’ to ‘strumpet,’ though ‘baseborn’ and ‘love child’ are perennial favorites.”

“People have said these things to your face?”

“From the moment I arrived at school with my sisters,” Joan confirmed.

Something in Thaddeus’s chest eased at the expression in her eyes. She hadn’t cared.

“I don’t give a damn about the opinions of self-righteous prudes,” she confirmed.

Clearly he was counted among the prudes.

“They’re the only ones who will fuss if society finds out that I played a breeches role in my own home,” she continued.

“You’re wrong,” he stated.

“You’re blowing everything out of proportion,” Joan said impatiently. “My sister Betsy dressed like a man, went to a public auction, and shortly thereafter married a marquess. That would be your friend Jeremy, though it’s hard for me to believe that you have friends.”

Thaddeus flinched.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was really unkind. I’m sure you’re nicer to people whom you consider to be worthy of your time, like Jeremy and Betsy. I mean, I know you are.”

“I don’t consider you unworthy of my time,” Thaddeus said, feeling the tick in his jaw start up again. “I—don’t.”

She shrugged again. “You were in Wilmslow when Betsy went to that auction. It was only, what, four years ago?”

“I did not accompany your sister to the auction house,” Thaddeus stated. He felt like an explosive device about to blow.

Had he hurt her feelings in the past? It was impossible to read Joan’s expressions. She was like a chameleon, emotions chasing each other across her face. She had certainly never given the appearance of caring what he thought of her, or said to her.

“Because you didn’t approve, I expect,” Joan exclaimed. “Do move out of the way, won’t you? I can’t bear any more of this conversation, no matter how useful for my performance.”

Thaddeus remained in place as if planted, outraged words crowding into his head. True, he hadn’t gone on that particular excursion. He opened his mouth to explain—but he never defended his decisions.

A gentleman proved his worth by adhering to the rules that governed civilization and his own code of conduct. Only honor gave a man the right to term himself a gentleman. He didn’t explain.

“You aren’t taking into consideration the effect of your actions on others,” he said instead.

“There won’t be any,” Joan replied flatly. “My family adores me, and they will still love me. They won’t be stunned if I’m thrown out of society; they’ve been expecting it for years. I wouldn’t be surprised if my brothers had placed bets on the eventuality.”

“You don’t understand,” he said through clenched teeth. “Other people are injured by those who flout the rules. Your recklessness will be damaging.”

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