She had gotten her adventure. She had gotten her dream of getting to go out as a man. And now she wished she was a woman with every bit of her being.
The Duke of Baxter’s merry brow furrowed ever so slightly as he gazed upon her, as if he too was trying to sort something out. Something that did not quite fit.
She swallowed and blurted, “How can anyone like Mark Antony?”
“He is a great speechmaker,” the duke returned and immediately started launching into one of Mark Antony’s most famous speeches.
“He is a liar, Your Grace,” she cut in boldly, as she thought a young man might dare.
“There, I cannot agree with you,” Baxter said suddenly, his gaze traveling over her face as if still trying to understand something that was just out of reach. “Antony is not a liar. What he does is he understands how to take the truth and twist it to his advantage. His viewpoint.”
“Is that not another form of lying?” she asked.
He looked at her for a long while and then slowly lowered his gaze, raking it up and down her body. And for a single shocking moment, she was certain that he knew .
Or he knew something wasn’t quite right.
She had no idea how he could know. No, she was simply imagining things. It was her reaction to him that made her full of nerves.
Her disguise was excellent. No one had once suspected her.
This was not her first outing into town.
She had been going into town for over a week.
But it was as if he could somehow strip every layer away from her, look into her soul, and see that she was no man.
Or at least that she was not a Mr. Marlowe.
No, she was Miss Cymbeline Briarwood. And right now, she desperately wished she could be her true self with the Duke of Baxter.
“Aren’t we all liars to some degree?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that slipped through the room, quiet but commanding. “Don’t we all manipulate the truth to suit our needs, our wants, our desires?”
“Let’s hear it for liars, eh?” she challenged, even as she tingled at his nearness. She folded her hands into fists, so that she might dig her nails into her palms and not become lost to the feelings he was evoking in her.
“We can only see the world from our point of view, and so when we tell the truth, we are only telling our truth,” he said easily, even as his gaze continued to search hers.
“Very artful, sir,” she returned. “You should consider writing plays yourself. But I would wager, given what you’ve said, your favorite characters are Iago and Richard III.”
“Oh, I adore them,” he said without apology. “They are the best characters in the canon. My very favorite, of course, is Edmund in Lear . Shall we hear it for bastards?”
She was surprised and delighted by his choices. Most people always loved the heroes. But there was something particularly fascinating about the villainous characters who made friends with the audience. “You can’t possibly mean it, since you are a duke,” she stated.
“Oh, I can mean anything that I like, dear boy,” he said, waggling his dark brows. “By the way, I think you’re having a bit of an issue with your clothing.”
And with that, the Duke of Baxter turned and strode away.
“What was that?” Calchas asked.
“Baxter being cleverer than he ought,” returned Octavian.
Calchas let his gaze trail to her shirt and let out a bleat of horror. “Your clothes… There is something amiss, and I think you should retire and fix it.”
She looked down and a wave of horror crashed through her. There was something bulging at the side of her shirt. It was her binding! Her dratted binding!
The cloth woven tightly about her chest to press her breasts down was the most difficult aspect of her costume.
But how could he possibly have noticed something like that?
No. He had not noticed she was a woman. Surely!
She was excellent at hiding her true self, and she refused to be riddled with nerves over such a thing. But why, oh why, had her binding slipped free and begun to bulge?
How had he even noticed?
No one else had noticed. Her cousins, who were all incredibly observant individuals, hadn’t noticed. But what if…
She let out a sigh, grinding her teeth together and shifting to the left. Her binding was truly beginning to unravel. At any moment, she’d be freed. And that was not the sort of freedom she wished at present.
Soon she would not be able to hide the fact that she was not at all shaped like a man.
“A moment,” she rasped. “I will find a quiet place.”
“Be damn careful,” Octavian said, a muscle tight in his jaw.
“I told you this was a bad idea,” Calchas groaned quietly. “I’m going to have a conversation with Aunt Winifred and explain to her that you’ve had your adventure and this is done. I can’t take it. War with the French is enough. I don’t need this extra sort of excitement.”
“Oh, Calchas,” she said with a smile, “you secretly love it.”
Calchas downed his brandy, then shot her a death stare. “I love many things. This is not one of them.”
And with that, she gave him a jaunty salute, whilst keeping her other arm pressed against her chest to keep her binding in place.
Discreetly, she slipped out of the room full of men who were thankfully far too preoccupied with each other to notice her. It was something she loved about men. They were so interested in their own lives. It was quite easy to go amidst them in her disguise without being noticed.
Though perhaps Calchas was right. Perhaps her adventure was done.
Because, after all, she saw another adventure on the horizon, one which would be better served by her being herself sans disguise. And the Duke of Baxter would surely be a part of it.