Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries

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СКАЧАТЬ “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 position to my cousin.”

      To Beatrice’s vast satisfaction, that made Greycourt pale. “Cousin? Child of your uncle Armie?”

      “No, his younger brother Lambert. He died years ago.”

      “I 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, СКАЧАТЬ