She raised a brow at him. “Otherwise engaged?” She gave him a wicked smile. “Perhaps with an actress?”
“You may not say such things to me, Lady Beatrice,” he exclaimed sotto voce.
“Why not?” she asked, shrugging. “We are to be family. Why should we pretend that dukes do not have friendships with actresses?”
He choked. “You are verging on a scandal.”
“Oh dear.” She nipped at her lower lip. Was he truly shocked? He hadn’t seemed as if he’d be. “I must not do that, for I would not wish you to tell your brother that a marriage to my cousin is out of the question.”
He shook his head. “Such a thing is not possible, Lady Beatrice. My brother has agreed to marry her publicly, and to call it off could cause legal difficulties.”
“Oh,” she said. “Of course.” She beamed at him. “How marvelous. I can say anything that I wish to you and not have to worry.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he warned softly, then eyed the stage. “And are you named after the character we shall see onstage this night?”
“You have the right of it, Your Grace.”
“Aha.” He bowed. “My Lady Disdain,” he said grandly. “How fascinating.”
She laughed, not at all insulted, for he had aptly quoted Benedick. “If I could prove but as witty and wise as Beatrice, I should be pleased.”
“Benedick asks her lover to kill his best friend,” he pointed out.
Her mouth dropped open, and then she snorted. “For good reason.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “I always liked Benedick. Very wise fellow. Until he fell in love, that is.”
“You are terrible,” she replied. “But I cannot disagree with you. I shall not marry as Beatrice did in the end. Just as you shall not. We shall both choose freedom.”
He bowed. “A life well lived.”
“I think so.” She loved that he did not try to convince her that all ladies should marry and crave babies.
Children were all well and good. And perhaps she’d like being a mother, but the price seemed terribly steep. No. She’d stay as she was.
“Perhaps we have more in common than we thought,” he said softly.
“The horror,” she teased before she inclined her head. “Who’d have thought it?”
“I should have guessed. You are as feisty as her. I’m a ruff, doublet, and hose away from being the Bard himself.”
Then she looked at him and swung her gaze to his box, which was now occupied by his brothers, Kit and Benjamin.
She gasped. “Your names.”
His lips twitched. “Yes?”
“You’re all named after Elizabethan playwrights.”
“Aha. Clever, Lady Beatrice.” His gaze sparked with admiration.
“William Shakespeare, Christopher Marlowe,” she listed. “And Ben Jonson.”
He lifted his strong, gloved hands and applauded. “Well spotted. Which playwright is your favorite?”
“You, of course.” She cleared her throat as his brows rose ever so slightly. “I mean William Shakespeare.”
“Mine too,” he rumbled, his voice so low, so delicious, that it did the strangest things to her limbs. Warming them in a way the heat of the theater never could.