Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries
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see.” Greycourt looked at Beatrice. “Forgive me for my earlier rudeness, Miss Wolfe. I had no idea that Sheridan and Heywood have a cousin.”
“Two, actually,” Sheridan put in. “Bea’s brother is named Joshua.” Then he blinked. “Wait, you were rude to Bea?”
“It was nothing,” she put in with a forced smile. “His lordship objected to the funeral biscuits, that’s all.”
Greycourt’s eyes gleamed at her. Apparently, it hadn’t escaped him that she hadn’t actually accepted his apology.
“Ah,” Sheridan said, “they’re frightful, aren’t they? But the undertaker assured us that they’re a requirement for any funeral in Sanforth.”
“Did he?” Greycourt said, sparing a meaningful glance for her that roused her temper again.
“Trust me,” Beatrice said frostily, “if there were no funeral biscuits and port before the procession, the entire county would gossip about the family.”
“Yes, all our staff said the same,” Sheridan said. “Cook was mortified at the very possibility of our neglecting to offer them. But I still think they’re dreadful. Sorry, Bea.”
“They are dreadful,” she conceded, torn between pleasing her cousin and sticking her tongue out at Greycourt. Which would be childish, but enormously satisfying. “We had so many left after Papa’s funeral that we and the staff were eating them for months. To this day, I can’t abide the taste.”
The glint of pity in Greycourt’s eyes made her regret having said so much. A decent man might be lurking somewhere deep in there—very deep—but she still didn’t like his pitying her.
“Speaking of staff,” Sheridan said, glancing about the foyer, “where have the footmen gone off to? Poor Grey is still standing here with hat in hand.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, annoyed with herself for neglecting to call one. No wonder Greycourt thought her a country bumpkin. “I’ll take his coat and hat.”
Sheridan caught her arm before she could reach for them. “No need. I’ll do it.” He shot Greycourt a side glance. “Bea has been working dawn to dusk to help us prepare for the funeral. I’m afraid we’re rather short-staffed, and she knows more about what’s needed than anyone.”
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Wolfe.” Greycourt even sounded as if he meant it.
Perhaps she’d been too hasty to judge him. When he wasn’t making assumptions, he wasn’t all that bad.
A footman rushed into the entry hall. “Forgive me, Your Grace, we were in the back and didn’t hear the carriage.” He hurried over to take Greycourt’s coat and hat. Bobbing his head at Sheridan, he added, “It won’t happen again, Your Grace.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sheridan said genially. “I know everyone has their hands full.”
As the footman headed off, Greycourt murmured, “Careful, Sheridan. You’re the master here now. You don’t want your servants walking all over you. It’s important to establish boundaries from the beginning.”
And just like that, Beatrice was reminded of why he’d rubbed her wrong. Yes, he was somewhat attractive, with his straight white teeth, chiseled features, rumpled black hair, and gorgeous eyes, but he was also a superior arse who thought he owned the world. She was never going to like him.
Never.
Chapter Three
Sheridan said something about going to see their mother, and Grey was willing to follow, especially when Miss Wolfe went along.
Most in society would disapprove of her looks, since she’d clearly never met a ray of sunshine she didn’t like, as evidenced by her golden skin and the sprinkle of freckles across her peachy cheeks. The gossips would criticize her bold walk and murmur over her full, sensual lips and coffee-hued eyes, not to mention the thin wisps of straight, nut-brown hair that kept escaping her fat chignon. Straight hair and dark eyes weren’t fashionable just now.
But he had never let fashion dictate to him. The idea of trying to unwind that hair to see how far it fell sparked an unwise heat in his blood. Despite himself, her energy did the same, making him wonder how she might use that energy in bed. And when she moved ahead as they headed for the stairs, he didn’t mind getting another look at her ample bottom, which would fill a man’s hands nicely.
Her turned-up nose just made him want to laugh. She obviously disapproved of him. That wasn’t surprising, given his reputation, which wasn’t entirely unfounded. He had sown his wild oats in his early days of freedom from his aunt and uncle’s control.
But that hadn’t lasted nearly as long as the reputation he’d gained from it, which was evidenced by Miss Wolfe’s reaction. Still, it was usually the matchmaking mamas who despaired of him and not their daughters.
That made him wonder—where was the chit’s mother? And why was he not familiar with this branch of the Wolfe family? He supposed that wasn’t surprising, given how little he’d seen his family in the past twenty-odd years. Before that, he’d been paying less attention to his stepfather Maurice’s relations than to tramping the streets of Berlin with his twin half siblings, Gwyn and the Duke of Thornstock, whom they’d all called Thorn since his birth.
Which reminded him . . . “Where’s Gwyn? Has Thorn arrived yet?”
“Last night,” Sheridan said. “Fortunately, Thorn was at his London town house when the accident happened, so he was able to get here quickly.”
“Accident?” Grey frowned. “Mother only said that Maurice passed away. I assumed it was of some illness.”
To his surprise, Sheridan shot Miss Wolfe a veiled glance. “Actually, he drowned, which necessitated the expense of sending to London for an embalmer. But we’ll talk more about it later.”
Sheridan headed up the stairs behind Miss Wolfe.
After Sheridan’s earlier complaint about lack of staff, the remark about the embalmer gave Grey pause. Aware of Miss Wolfe climbing the stairs ahead of them, he lowered his voice. “Are you having a shortage of funds at present?”
“At present?” With a bitter laugh, his brother opened a door and waited for Grey and Miss Wolfe to precede him into the drawing room. “That’s something else we’ll need to discuss later, too.” This time he nodded meaningfully toward the other end of the room.
Grey followed his gaze to find their mother dressed in widow’s weeds, with Gwyn sitting beside her in a similar gown of jet bombazine. The two were engrossed in tying black ribbons around sprigs of rosemary. Indeed, the room reeked of rosemary and lavender, both of which were in clear abundance in the vases.
Then Sheridan moved forward, and Grey spotted the coffin. His hands began to tremble, and he shoved them into his coat pockets. Maurice. He couldn’t bring himself to approach the body. Not yet.
Instead he turned his attention to his mother and half sister, who were so caught up in their task that they hadn’t yet seen him. Mother’s eyes looked sunken in her face, her cheeks had a dull cast, and her usual bright smile was absent. He well remembered how Maurice had been able to make her smile even when she was annoyed with him.
Maurice couldn’t make her smile today. Grey’s throat constricted. Never again.
And yet, when Miss Wolfe went to join the women and asked if they needed help, Mother did smile, though it was a pale imitation of her usual one. “We’re almost done,” she said, “but thank you. I don’t know what we would have done without you, my dear.”
That’s when she saw Grey. With a choked cry, she jumped up and ran to embrace him. Her familiar smell of starch and lemons made his throat tighten with an emotion he dared not examine too closely. Because behind it lay the pain of his childhood loss, threatening to swamp