Page 10 of Duke Most Wicked

Betsy groaned. “Must you? We’ve only heard it ten billion times. When’s my turn? I’d like to get it jolly well over with.”

“You have to wait your turn, Bets,” said Belinda. “I’m three minutes older than you so I’m after Bernadette.”

Bernadette was surreptitiously reading the book she was hiding under a lace handkerchief on her lap and didn’t comment.

Betsy frowned. “You’re always lording that three minutes over me.”

“And you’re always trying to hold me back,” Belinda said.

“I jolly well will hold you back if you’re thinking of doing idiotic things. Like allowing thatbeef-witted baron to kiss you behind a tree in the park.”

Blanche gasped. “What’s this?”

Belinda rounded on her twin. “You promised not to tell anyone, you beastly thing!”

“Belinda. Did you allow someone to kiss you?” Viola asked.

Birdie perched on the edge of her seat. “What was it like?”

“Birdie!” Blanche exclaimed.

“Not really,” Belinda replied. “He wanted to kiss me, but I ducked away, and then Betsy interrupted and made me leave with her. Don’t go telling tales, sister dear,” she said haughtily, “for I could tell some about you climbing down from our bedroom window at night, dressed in trous—”

“Ah, isn’t it Bernadette’s turn to play?” Betsy asked. “We’re all dying to hear her melodic rendition of an Irish air.”

“Ha,” Bernadette said, without raising her head from her novel. “Melodic and I have never met.”

Viola caught Belinda’s gaze. “Going behind trees with gentlemen, whether kissing occurs, or not, is perilous behavior for a young lady making her debut.”

“That’s putting it quite mildly!” said Blanche. “This is potentially disastrous. Did anyone see you?”

Belinda tossed her head. “Not a soul. Except my turncoat sister.”

“And, Betsy,” Viola continued, “if what your sister says is true, I can’t lecture you for wearingtrousers, because my friend the Duchess of Ravenwood frequently wears gentlemen’s attire, but I can, and I will, inquire as to the destination of your nocturnal escapades and forbid you from leaving this house unattended.”

Since the ladies’ governess had left some months ago, Viola had filled the position as best she was able. The duke’s housekeeper, Mrs. McClurg, had interviewed several candidates but pronounced them all unsuitable, sighing over what passed for education these days.

Viola had never even received a formal education. She’d been traveling across Europe with her father and benefited from sporadic lessons and the learning she’d gleaned from a voracious appetite for books.

Betsy sighed. “I only snuck into the back of a public house to watch a bantamweight prize fight. It was ever so thrilling. No one knew it was me. I swear!”

“Oh my dear sweet Lord.” Blanche swayed on the piano bench, her face gone pale. “I wish Great-Aunt Hermione would return from taking the Bath waters for her rheumatism. You never would dare to do such outrageous things under her supervision. You could ruin us all! Think of poor Birdie, she’s only fourteen and may never have a Season if you keep this up.”

“What does a public house look like on the inside, Bets?” Birdie asked, her eyes alight with curiosity.

“Dirty, smelly, and filled with belching, cursing, fart—”

“That’s quite enough, Betsy,” Viola said firmly. “You and I will speak of this further. In private.”

“I simply can’t bear it!” wailed Blanche. “I’m a very calm person but my nerves are at the breaking point. If I don’t find a match this year, then none of you will. Do you understand?”

“I don’t want to find a match,” Bernadette said, raising her head briefly from the book. “At least not yet. I have many more important things to do first.” She turned to Viola. “I wrote a letter to your friends at The Boadicea Club for Ladies on the Strand about my studies of soil composition and insects and Lady Beatrice Wright wrote back a very encouraging missive and told me that if I wanted to consult the library, I’d be welcome to—”

“Lady Beatrice married the carpenter on her brother’s estate.” Blanche shuddered delicately. “You mustn’t prefer books to balls or you’ll marry a tradesperson, Bernadette.”

“It was a love match,” said Viola, defending her best friend, Beatrice. “They’re blissfully happy. And Mr. Wright has built her ever so many bookshelves.”

“I don’t care if she’s happy and has more bookshelves than Hatchards Bookshop. She’s an object of ridicule,” said Blanche. “I couldn’t bear it if I was shunned by polite society. We must all make suitable matches.”

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