Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries

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      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 him.

      “I’m so glad you came,” she whispered. “I was afraid that—”

      “Ah, but I’m here now. You needn’t have worried.” He brushed a kiss to her red curls before releasing her.

      Her graying red curls. That reminder of his mother’s age hit him hard. Granted, she was only in her early fifties, but how long before they would be here to watch her put into the grave? The thought made his heart falter in his chest. He’d had her for so little of his life already.

      Then he noticed the tears running down her wan cheeks, and the sight was a punch to his gut. He’d seen his mother cry many times—she was an emotional woman who felt no compunction to hide her feelings, especially if some play or novel moved her. She also laughed, swore, and gushed over her children. It was her way.

      But these tears didn’t stem from her being swept away by a poem. Which was precisely why they twisted his insides. He pressed his handkerchief into her hand. “Mother, I’m so sorry about Maurice.”

      She bobbed her head, obviously too overcome to answer as she blotted her cheeks with his handkerchief.

      “If there’s anything I can do—”

      “You could call him ‘Father’ for a change.” She fixed him with her misty blue eyes. “It always grieved him that you stopped doing so once you came to England.”

      Once I was banished to England, you mean. No, this wasn’t the time for such reminders. And what did it hurt to give her what she asked? It was such a small thing.

      Yet it felt huge. “Of course. Whatever you wish.”

      A sigh escaped her. “Forgive me for being short with you. I am just . . .”

      “Grief-stricken. I know.” He seized her hand. “You’re entitled to be as short as you please.”

      She raised an eyebrow at him. “I shall throw those words up at you in a week, when you’re chafing to be away from me because of my peevishness.”

      He forced a smile, inwardly groaning at her expectation that he would stay a week. “I’ve seen you be many things, Mother, but peevish isn’t one of them.” He spotted his half sister approaching now that she’d finished СКАЧАТЬ