Chapter 17

The audience tittered with anticipation as Jasper and Miss Weatherby took the stage.

Jasper supposed that was his fault. He hadn’t been particularly subtle about his dislike for the eldest Weatherby sister.

And now, everyone was expecting a display.

Eleanor Weatherby’s eyes were flinty as they took up their positions. They might not have had any time to rehearse, but Jasper was already certain she was going to make a better Katharina than her sister.

Clearing his throat, he launched into Petruchio’s speech about how he planned to woo Katharina with false compliments. Right on cue, Eleanor entered, stage right.

“Good morrow, Kate,” Jasper said, “for that’s your name, I hear.”

She glared at him as if he were the most repugnant man on the face of the earth. The perfect Katharina. “Well you have heard,” she returned acidly, “but something hard of hearing. They call me Katharine that do talk of me.”

They began to bicker, as was called for by the scene. Eleanor understood every nuance, wringing every drop of poison from each insult. This, in turn, spurred Jasper to new heights. It had honestly been difficult directing Shakespeare’s blistering set-downs at Miss Philippa. It had felt unsporting, like kicking a puppy, and so Jasper had never managed to put his heart into it.

But performing the scene with Eleanor was something else entirely. Here was someone who could give as good as she got, someone utterly uncowed by him. She was his intellectual equal, his ideal collaborator, his…

His partner.

The thought burst in Jasper’s brain like a firecracker, momentarily blinding him. The mere notion was absurd. A Weatherby Wallflower? The rightful partner to a duke?

And yet, once established, the notion was strangely difficult to banish from his head. It lingered on the fringes of his brain, distracting him, and that was the most likely explanation for what he did next.

They had come to one of the most risqué sections of the scene, the one in which Katharina demanded that Petruchio remove himself from her presence.

“Let him that moved you hither remove you hence!” Eleanor snapped. “I knew you at the first you were a moveable.”

Jasper feigned amusement. “Why, what’s a movable?”

Eleanor gave him a withering look. “A joint stool.”

“Thou hast hit it,” Jasper quipped. “Come, sit on me.”

During his rehearsals with Miss Philippa, they had performed the scene the way Jasper usually saw it staged—with Petruchio sinking onto a chair and offering himself to Katharina in a lewd suggestion, which she declined.

But as he uttered those suggestive words, some strange impulse made Jasper grab Eleanor by the hips and pull her into his lap.

He felt her stiffen in shock. Speaking of stiffening, his cock stirred with interest at the feeling of the lush curve of her bottom.

He clenched his jaw. He had to get hold of himself. This was not the moment to go springing a cockstand, with the entire house party looking on. His actions were already shocking enough. Out in the audience, he saw dozens of pairs of wide eyes watching him and Eleanor with a combination of astonishment and interest. Felix’s jaw was actually hanging agape.

From her perch in his lap, Eleanor managed to summon the presence of mind to utter her next line. “Asses are made to bear, and so are you!”

“Women are made to bear, and so are you,” he growled in return, squeezing her hips.

The words felt right. Eleanor was made for him, at least, physically. Here was a woman who would not break beneath him in a bed, who could carry his heirs with the same quiet fortitude with which she carried her many burdens.

Gad, this was absurd! Why was he picturing Eleanor Weatherby carrying his heirs? In addition to being miles below him in station, she was an obdurate shrew!

Which is precisely what you need, Jasper—someone to clout you upside the head, verbally, if not physically, when you start acting like an overbearing arse.

That was not what he needed. He needed a woman of grace and good breeding. One with blue blood and the training to step seamlessly into the role of duchess.

Eleanor could learn all of that nonsense in a week, the annoying little voice in his head responded.

This was ridiculous! He was a duke, and she was a penniless spinster. They had nothing in common.

Oh, come off it. You have everything in common that matters. Look at how she cares for her sisters! You have the same values. She even loves Shakespeare. She’s perfect for you, the Katharina to your Petruchio.

Yes, well, even if all that rot were true, she thought that Jasper hated her.

The vexing voice inside his head did not have a quick retort to that one.

They continued Shakespeare’s unrelenting banter. As much as he loathed Eleanor, Jasper had to admit that it was a joy to perform the scene with someone who understood it so thoroughly. The repartee grew increasingly suggestive until the text called for Katharina to strike Petruchio. Jasper wondered if Eleanor would seize the excuse to slap him across the face. Instead, she settled for giving him a firm shove to the chest as she rose to her feet.

He could not decide whether it was a good thing or a bad thing that he no longer had her in his lap. Perhaps a bit of both. But this position turned out to be no less dangerous to his peace of mind, as it afforded him a better view of her eyes, which sparked with intelligence.

When they came to the end of the scene, Jasper found it surprisingly easy to deliver his last lines:

“I will marry you.

Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn,

For by this light, whereby I see thy beauty—

Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well—

Thou must be married to no man but me.

For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,

And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate

Comfortable as other household Kates.

Here comes your father. Never make denial;

I must and will have Katharine to my wife.”

Silence descended over the ballroom. Then, all at once, their fellow guests burst into applause.

Some strange impulse had him smiling broadly as he offered Eleanor his hand. She looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses but placed her fingers in his. Again, he was struck by how well they fit together. Her hand was strong, rather than limp, and her long fingers didn’t get swallowed by his meaty paw.

Grinning, he tugged her a step closer. She cast him an annoyed glare out of the corner of her eye, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to hold in a laugh. Once she had caught her balance, he swept into a bow and she a curtsey while those assembled cheered their appreciation.

Lady Milthorpe bustled onto the stage. “Goodness, Your Grace, Miss Weatherby! That was as good as anything you’d see on Drury Lane. I can scarcely believe that was the first time you’ve done the scene together!”

“His Grace and I have a good deal of practice at bickering, if nothing else,” Eleanor observed.

“I would go so far as to say that you have a natural compatibility!” Lady Milthorpe exclaimed.

“Ire is one of the highest forms of compatibility,” Jasper said solemnly. He could almost feel the exasperation radiating from Eleanor as she tried to tug her hand from his, but he held her firm.

He spotted a pair of empty seats in the back row. Jasper escorted Eleanor to them, but as he started to hand her into a chair, she withdrew her hand from his.

Keeping her eyes fixed on the floor, she said, “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. But I should go and check on my sister.” She was gone in a flash.

Jasper settled into one of the chairs—the spindly type that always made him feel overlarge and awkward. But it was no use. He could not concentrate on the particularly maudlin rendition of the death of Desdemona taking place on the makeshift stage.

Jasper stood as quietly as he could and slipped from the room. Deciding he needed a few minutes to compose himself, he went in search of an empty room in which to regain his bearings.