Home > Wilde Child (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #6)(4)

Wilde Child (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #6)(4)
Author: Eloisa James

She blinked at him, and her brows drew together. “Poppycock.” She leaned forward, just enough so that he smelled the elderflower that she used in her hair. He’d come to expect it, a creamy, sweet honey smell that was indefinably hers.

She poked him in the chest, hard enough that he jolted. “Not everyone lives up to your impossible standards, Greywick. No one is good enough for you. Two of my sisters weren’t good enough!”

“That’s not true. They chose—”

“Why?” Her voice quieted, and their eyes met. “Why would they fall in love with other men when you were right there, dancing with them, playing the future duke, and generally acting like a trained buffoon dressed in a fine wool coat?”

There was a moment of silence. “I suppose you’ll say that I’m not likable,” he said. “Your sisters had a lucky escape, in that case.”

Remorse flashed through her eyes, but before she could respond, he raised his hand. “Your opinion is valid, if not welcome. Yet I do not adhere to society’s standards merely for propriety’s sake. Other people are injured when selfish, careless people do exactly as they like, and devil take the hindmost!”

His last words rang in the corridor, and Joan actually fell back a step.

The air between them felt charged, like the moment after lightning struck the earth.

There are times when a lady must curtsy, and others when she should take to her heels. This occasion fell somewhere in between.

No curtsy and no running either.

Just a dignified retreat, shoulders straight, head high.

 

 

Chapter Three


Lindow Castle was well positioned on the main roads through Cheshire; as a consequence, family, friends, and mere acquaintances tended to alight at the castle steps at all times of the day or night, expecting a meal and a warm bed before they set off again in the morning for Staffordshire or, in the other direction, Scotland.

“We’re no more than a posting inn,” the duke had been known to growl, even as their butler, Prism, sprang into motion, making certain that every unexpected guest had a warming pan and fresh sheets.

Unlike her stepsister, Viola, Joan enjoyed the company of guests. But she also loved family nights, when the family dined alone. Or the rare times when only a few close friends were in residence. Such meals were held in the breakfast room, and the Wildes would pour in the door without ceremony, thronging in groups of six at round tables.

At the moment, she felt keenly aware that she didn’t care to sit next to, or close by, Greywick. She felt bruised enough. Selfish and careless kept racing through her head. They brought out the worst in each other. She had been unkind, saying that he had no friends. Of course he had friends. Her own brothers were among his friends!

But somehow that made his disdain for her worse. She was accustomed to scandal; her very birth was scandalous. It was absurd that this particular man’s scorn would hurt.

She stayed on the other side of the drawing room before the meal, and walked into supper on Otis’s arm. On family nights, the Wildes paid no attention to the social dictates ordering that the duke and duchess couldn’t sit together, or that sexes must be separated. Long ago, His Grace had decreed that he would sit beside his wife. Viola was large with child, and she dropped down next to her mother with a thud. Her husband, Devin, seated himself beside her. Aunt Knowe always sat with them if given the chance, and tonight her close friend, the Duchess of Eversley, joined her.

Otis, back in a coat and breeches, led Joan to a nearby table, just as she realized that the only empty seats in the room were—

Sure enough, the brooding viscount was walking toward her.

“Has anyone noticed that modern seating has resulted in two islands?” Otis asked cheerfully. “One for the adults, and another for us. A full table of six over there, and here, only we three.”

“I consider myself an adult,” Greywick said, seating himself without meeting Joan’s eyes.

“You are certainly mature,” Joan agreed, scolding herself mentally the moment the words escaped her mouth. She refused to lower herself to another round of insults with him. “Viola and Devin are seated at the ‘adult’ table, so your idea doesn’t hold water, Otis.”

“The unmarried people are clustered here,” Otis responded. “You can’t say that marriage doesn’t mature a person, because from everything I’ve seen, it’s an extremely tiring state of affairs. The only part of being a vicar that I liked was performing marriages. The couples were so cheerful, whereas those who brought their baby for baptism looked as if they hadn’t slept in months.”

Viola caught Joan’s eye from the other table and asked with a raised eyebrow whether she and Devin should join them. Joan gave a little shake of her head.

Greywick was irksome, but she was an adult, unmarried or no. They could sup together without more sharp words. She shook out the heavy linen napkin and spread it over the apricot silk of her evening gown.

“Do you miss the church, Mr. Murgatroyd?” the viscount asked Otis. As a dutiful second son, Otis had studied theology at Cambridge and joined a parish, but had left the priesthood promptly thereafter.

“Certainly not,” Otis said. As he explained his reasons for leaving the clergy after a mere two weeks, Joan let her attention wander.

Something about the experience of wearing breeches was making her feel daring. What if she didn’t marry a gentleman, as her family expected? What if her future was completely different from those of her siblings? What if she left the castle, the way her mother had?

Otis had overthrown his family’s expectations. He’d been told he would join the priesthood since childhood, and yet after he tried the experience, he rejected it.

She looked about, trying to imagine a different life. Prism always did his best to replicate the splendor of the castle dining room, even in the breakfast room. Silver cutlery covered the tables like the scattered treasure of a king, and the gold-rimmed plates he’d ordered for use tonight merely increased the illusion. Footmen were dotted against the walls, ready to spring into action at the slightest twitch of a finger.

Her own mother, the second duchess, had turned her back on the castle, fleeing with her lover. As far as Joan knew, Yvette never regretted it. For herself, Joan was certain that she didn’t need or even want the trappings of wealth. She didn’t need the footmen, or a butler.

Prism reigned supreme, orchestrating every meal with the passion of a theater manager. But other people, ordinary people, cooked their own supper and dined alone with those they loved. The traveling theater troupe that visited Lindow Castle every year lived in gaily painted wagons and sometimes ate over an open fire.

“Joan?” Otis asked, pulling her into the conversation.

Greywick was looking at her searchingly. “What are you thinking of, Lady Joan?”

“Escape,” she said truthfully. “It’s your fault, Otis, with your talk of fleeing the parsonage. I was wondering what it would be like to flee Lindow.”

“Marriage will give you that freedom,” Otis said, patting her arm. “I realize that your married siblings return home as regularly as carrier pigeons, but most people consider marriage to be an excuse to avoid their childhood home except at Christmas, if that.”

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