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Chapter Two

Lincolnshire, England

The Honorable Miss Beatrice Wolfe stood outside Armitage Hall surveying the entryway with a critical eye. The funeral escutcheon had been hung on the door—not crookedly this time—and the arches and windows were draped in black crape. It looked proper, the way it ought for a duke.

She hadn’t taken such care with her uncle Armie, as she and her brother Joshua had always called the previous Duke of Armitage. Just the thought of Uncle Armie’s last years, of how he’d tried to paw at her or slap her behind every time she’d come to the hall, chilled her.

By contrast, Uncle Maurice, who had inherited the dukedom after Uncle Armie’s death, had treated her with respect and kindness. He and her aunt Lydia had brought light and laughter and good times back to the hall.

Now death hung over the place again. Tears welled in her eyes. Why, they’d only a week ago removed the black crape and funeral escutcheon signifying Uncle Armie’s death! Two dukes dead in a matter of months. It was a blasted shame. It really was.

Her cousin Sheridan appeared in the doorway, looking like a wraith after the past few days. He’d been close to his father, and was taking his death harder than anyone except Aunt Lydia. No doubt it had hit Sheridan’s brother Heywood hard, too, but since Heywood was in the army and probably hadn’t even received word yet of his father’s demise, she wouldn’t know.

Sheridan flashed her a wan smile. “Forgive me, Bea, for troubling you, but Mother asked me to check again to see if Grey has arrived.” He surveyed the drive beyond her. “I can see he has not. If he had, there’d be a monstrous grand traveling coach out here.”

Beatrice laughed. She liked her cousin. At twenty-eight, he was only two years her senior, so she felt comfortable with him. None of the family stood on ceremony, but Sheridan in particular did not, though that would undoubtedly change. “You’ll have a monstrous grand coach yourself now that you’re Duke of Armitage.”

“Probably not, actually.” A bleak sadness crept over his features. “The dukedom is in a bad state, I’m afraid. No money for grand coaches. With any luck, I can improve that, but it will take time. And I wasn’t expecting to inherit so soon.”

“I know. I’m so sorry. How is Aunt Lydia faring?”

He sighed. “Not well. This has taken us all by surprise.” Shifting his gaze to the wood beyond the expansive lawns, he tensed. “Is . . . um . . . your brother planning on attending the funeral?”

She swallowed. Joshua was difficult, to say the least. “I’m sure he will.” That was a lie. She couldn’t be sure of anything with him.

But her words seemed to relieve Sheridan. “Good. We don’t see as much of him as we’d like.”

“I wouldn’t see him if I didn’t live in the same house as he. Joshua isn’t fond of people.” To put it mildly. Not that she blamed him, given his circumstances, but she’d do her damnedest to convince him that attending the funeral was the least he owed to the new residents of Armitage Hall.

Particularly to Sheridan, his new landlord, who could toss them out of their home, the former dower house, whenever he wished. Especially since Sheridan’s mother was now the dowager duchess and might prefer to live in the house that was hers by right.

Beatrice wouldn’t think of that. “Is there anything more I can do to help Aunt Lydia?”

“Conjure my half brother Grey up out of thin air?” He shoved a hand through his ash-brown curls. “Sorry.”

“I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

He uttered a harsh laugh. “I’m not. I can’t even be certain that he received Mother’s letters. Sometimes I think my brother has forgotten he even has a family. He’s too busy being the important Duke of blasted Greycourt.”

She didn’t know what to say. Though she’d never met the “Duke of blasted Greycourt,” she’d read enough in the scandal sheets to know she wouldn’t like him. For one thing, he was said to have had several illicit liaisons with women, each more beautiful than the last, and that alone made her wary. It reminded her only too well of Uncle Armie.

“Is it true what they said in the paper?” she asked. “That your brother runs a secret cabal of licentious bachelors?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. Grey tells us nothing of what he’s doing. For all I know, he could be running charitable boards in his sleep.”

“I doubt that,” she muttered, then realizing she was insulting his brother, added hastily, “but the business about the cabal does sound farfetched. Why keep it secret, for one thing? A duke can do whatever he wants with impunity, so why not have a regular cabal of debauchery? What’s a cabal, anyway? It sounds like a club. Is it a club? I mean—”

It dawned on her that she was babbling as usual. Sheridan was certainly regarding her with amusement.

She should stop. “Anyway, dukes are good at clubs. So it’s probably just a club.” One that kept the riffraff out. Because dukes were good at that, too.

Especially Greycourt, from what she’d heard. He was richer than God, so he could afford whatever club he wanted. Supposedly, he’d gained his wealth by being ruthless in his business dealings, so he could also destroy whomever he wanted. That might be why society hung on his every word. Or perhaps it was because he rarely spoke without saying something of consequence.

Despite her concern for her aunt, she rather hoped he didn’t come. Men like him exasperated her. Not that she met many of them way out here, but the few she’d encountered through Uncle Armie hadn’t left a good impression.

Sheridan released a heavy breath. “Anyway, I fear I’ve dragged you into my annoyance at my brother, which I didn’t intend. You’ve already done so much to help us.” He waved vaguely at the windows. “All this. Handling the funeral arrangements. Keeping up with the household ledgers. What would we do without you?”

The praise warmed her. Perhaps Sheridan wouldn’t be eager to kick her and Joshua out after all. “Thank you. I like being useful.” Especially to her aunt. Aunt Lydia was unlike any woman she’d ever met—full of vim and vigor, with a kind heart and a sharp mind. Rather like Sheridan.

He nodded toward the entryway. “I’d best get back inside. Mother wanted me to choose the burial suit.” His throat moved convulsively. “She says she can’t bear to do it.”

Poor man. “I can understand that. You’re a good son.”

“I try to be.” He glanced down the drive again, and his face hardened. “Speaking of sons, let me know the moment Grey arrives, will you?”

“Of 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 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, “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.