Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries
Читать онлайн книгу.
course.”
He started to walk inside, then paused. “One more thing. Mother wanted me to tell you that she intends to continue helping you prepare for your debut. It may just move more slowly.”
“Oh!” Beatrice had forgotten about that. “Tell her not to bother with such a thing right now, for pity’s sake. I’ll be fine.”
“Actually, Mother does better when she has a project to throw herself into. And she’s appalled that you never had the chance to be brought out properly in society. She intends to remedy that.”
“It’s very kind of her.” Though it was also daunting. Beatrice felt more comfortable roaming the woods with the hunting dogs than roaming a ballroom. She hated having men assess her out-of-season attire, small breasts, and less-than-perfect features before dismissing her as unworthy of their attention.
“Mother is only doing what’s right.” Sheridan watched her expression with cousinly concern. “We all know how lax Uncle Armie was in his duty toward you.”
“Thank you.” If they thought he was only “lax” then it was a good thing they had no idea what her life had truly been like with him.
She held her breath, praying that Sheridan said nothing more about Uncle Armie. When he continued on into the house, she relaxed. Having them all underfoot in the next few weeks might prove more complicated than she’d thought. She hoped that dealing with Uncle Maurice’s death kept them too busy to pry into her affairs. And Joshua’s. Especially Joshua’s, which even she didn’t have the courage to examine too closely.
Thrusting that thought to the back of her mind, she took one more look at the exterior of the hall, then went inside. She sent a footman off to cover all the mirrors. That should have been done already, but Armitage Hall was woefully understaffed these days, and it was taking a while to get everything attended to in such a massive house.
Next she turned her attention to the boxes of funeral biscuits delivered by the confectioner that morning. They needed to be laid out on a table in the foyer for the mourners to take as they left to join the funeral procession. She unpacked the boxes and began to arrange the biscuits, each of which was wrapped in white paper printed with images of death and sealed with black wax.
The sight of so many little skulls, coffins, hourglasses, and crossbones arrayed on the table made her shudder . . . and remember. Caught up in memories of being ten years old and devastated at her own father’s funeral, she didn’t register the sound of footsteps until they were upon her.
“What in God’s name are those ghastly things?” thrummed a deep male voice.
She turned to find a stranger standing there, still wearing his greatcoat and hat, with his piercing gaze fixed on the table behind her. This must be the Duke of Greycourt, since his mourning clothes were very fine. She also noticed the family resemblance between him and Sheridan in the aquiline slope of his nose, the color of his eyes—like shattered green bottles—and the height of his brow.
Not to mention his height in general. Although Beatrice was considered tall for a woman, Greycourt must have several inches on her at least. His height and attire and severe features were imposing, and undoubtedly intimidating to most women.
Not her. She was used to dealing with the arrogance of lords.
He shifted his frosty gaze to her. “Well?” he demanded. “What are those?”
“They’re funeral biscuits,” she said stiffly, put off by his manner. “It’s the custom hereabouts to provide them to mourners along with a glass of port.”
“Is it, indeed?” he said, removing his costly beaver hat. “Or is it just something the local undertaker uses to plump up his bill for people like my mother? I’ve never heard of such a custom.”
“Oh, well then, if you’ve never heard of the custom, it must not exist,” she said, unable to govern her temper. “Anything that doesn’t happen in London is insignificant to your sort, isn’t it?”
The remark seemed to take him aback, as well it ought, given that she should never have said such a thing to a man who was grieving. Why oh why had she spoken her mind? She usually tried to restrain that impulse, but it was hard when the duke was being such an arse.
Don’t use the word “arse,” even in your head. Thanks to her brother, that was her other problem: a tendency to curse like a sailor. At least she hadn’t cursed aloud.
To her surprise, amusement glinted in his eyes. Which she realized, now that they were fixed on her, weren’t green, but a cerulean blue, as if nature had twirled the blue of his mother’s eyes with the green of his half brother’s to produce an unearthly hue all its own.
It unsettled her. As did the disarming smile Greycourt flashed at her, which softened the sharp angles of his face. “I take it you are not the daughter of the local undertaker that I mistook you for.”
This time she did resist the urge to rail at him. For pity’s sake, an undertaker’s daughter? A pox on him! “No, I am not,” she said icily.
His smile widened, though it didn’t yet reach his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”
“Clearly you prefer to make your own assumptions.” Oh, Lord, there she went again, saying whatever came into her head.
Greycourt chuckled. “So it’s to be a guessing game, is it?” His gaze drifted down her in a glance that assessed her attire without making her feel as if he were gawking at her feminine attributes, such as they were. “Well, you’re clearly not a servant. No servant would dress so well.”
“You’re too kind, sir,” she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her tone got a laugh out of him. “Come now, tell me who you are, for I swear I’m at a loss. And I begin to think I’d like to know the answer.”
Uh-oh.
At that moment, she was saved by the approach of none other than Sheridan. “Grey!” he cried. “You did come! Mother will be so pleased.”
Greycourt clapped his half brother on the shoulder with obvious affection. “How is she?”
Sheridan sighed. “She’ll be better now that you’re here.”
Was that guilt that crossed Greycourt’s face? If so, it softened her toward him. A little, anyway.
“I would have arrived sooner,” he said, “but I was traveling and the letter didn’t reach me until yesterday.”
Sheridan turned to include Beatrice in the conversation. “You see, Bea? I told you he might have trouble receiving word.”
“You did, indeed.” That wasn’t all Sheridan had told her, but she didn’t figure it wise to point it out, even if Greycourt had rubbed her wrong.
“I take it you two have met?” Sheridan asked.
“Not formally, no,” Greycourt said, shooting her a wry look that flummoxed her.
“Well, then,” Sheridan said, “Bea, as you may have deduced, this is my brother Grey.”
“Half brother,” Greycourt corrected him.
Sheridan scowled. “You just had to make the distinction, didn’t you?”
“If I didn’t, the lady would be confused. Since you’re the heir to the Armitage dukedom, she’d be forced to wonder if I am merely much younger than I look or if I’m illegitimate. I am neither, so I thought it best to clarify.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Beatrice said with false sweetness. “Not all of us make assumptions without being aware of the facts.”
“Really?” Greycourt drawled. “How unusual.”
“And if you’d given me time to make the introductions, Brother,” Sheridan said acidly, “I would have clarified your