Читать книгу Project Duchess - Sabrina Jeffries - Страница 14

Chapter Five

Dinner at Armitage Hall was more informal than it had been under Uncle Armie. Not that Beatrice had dined here that often when he was in charge. Even when she and her brother had been invited, Joshua had refused to attend, and she hadn’t been about to have any tête-à-têtes with Uncle Armie.

But dining with Aunt Lydia’s family reminded her of the time years ago when her grandparents had both been alive and she’d lived at the hall, after Papa’s death. At ten, she’d been too young to live alone, especially with Joshua in the Royal Marines abroad. So she had lived here with her grandparents.

For a child, the dining room had been a magical place of glittering chandeliers, gleaming silver, and snowy tablecloths. Every time Grandmama had brought her down from the nursery to practice her dinner etiquette, she’d felt like a princess sitting at this table.

Unfortunately, teaching her the rudiments of polite dining had been about all Grandmama had managed before Grandpapa had died and Grandmama had fallen ill. But at least Beatrice knew precisely what fork to use for the cucumber salad and how to dip one’s spoon in the turtle soup properly. Thank heaven. Because given how Greycourt kept staring at her, he was just waiting for her to fail at it, the arrogant devil.

Tipping up her chin, she met his gaze and dipped her spoon with perfect form. As if he’d guessed precisely what she was up to, a knowing smile crept over his face.

Blast. That was an unexpected effect of challenging him. Best not to look at him at all, because every time she did, she got this odd sinking in her belly. It was the way she felt when bolting down a hill with the dogs—terrified and exhilarated at the same time.

She didn’t need to feel that with him, of all people. With any luck, he would leave the day after the funeral, and she’d never have to see him again.

So she turned her attention to the humorous story the Duke of Thornstock was telling. It seemed a bit salacious for mixed company, but since Aunt Lydia didn’t seem to mind, it was fine with Beatrice.

Although not quite as tall as Greycourt, Thornstock was the more conventionally handsome. His features were more symmetrical, his smile more polished, and his nose more perfect. His straight locks were reddish-brown rather than the inky hue of Greycourt’s wavy hair, and his eyes were a pure, crystalline blue.

Worse yet, he turned on the charm all too easily. After Uncle Armie, men like that always put her on her guard.

“So, Miss Wolfe,” Thornstock said amiably, “I assume we’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow.”

“Of course not. It isn’t allowed.”

Both Thornstock and Lady Gwyn were surprised. “What do you mean?” Lady Gwyn asked. “This is your uncle’s funeral!”

Aunt Lydia put down her spoon to regard her daughter with a steady gaze. “Women here do not attend funerals or join the procession, my dear.”

“Since when?” Thornstock asked.

Beatrice cleared her throat. “Since forever. It’s always been frowned upon.”

“How absurd! And hardly fair.” Lady Gwyn shifted her gaze to her mother. “But you’re going anyway, aren’t you?”

Aunt Lydia sighed. “I see no point in giving rise to gossip locally. England is now our home, and we have to adapt to its customs.”

“Well, I’m going,” Lady Gwyn announced. “They can’t stop me.”

“Good for you,” Thornstock said. “Sounds like a stupid custom to me.”

“Every English custom sounds stupid to you, Thorn.” Greycourt looked at Gwyn. “Do you promise not to cry at the funeral?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“That’s why women aren’t allowed. Because it’s believed that they show too much emotion in public, when they ought to be stoic.”

“Then Mother definitely mustn’t go,” Sheridan muttered into his soup, having wisely stayed out of the conversation until now.

“Sheridan!” Aunt Lydia said.

“Well, it’s true. You haven’t been stoic a day in your life. Indeed, you have a tendency to be rather . . . dramatic at times.”

His mother glared at him. “I can’t help it. My ancestor was a playwright.”

“And you never let us forget it,” Thornstock said, though with unmistakable fondness. He grinned slyly at Beatrice. “You may have noticed, Miss Wolfe, that all of us are named after dramatists.”

Beatrice hadn’t noticed, actually. She ran through their Christian names in her head: Thornstock’s was Marlowe, Greycourt’s was Fletcher, and then there were Sheridan and Heywood. All playwrights, yes. How odd.

Then something occurred to her. “But not Lady Gwyn, right?”

“I am named after an actress,” Lady Gwyn said in an arch tone. “There aren’t enough female playwrights of renown, and Mother could hardly name me Inchbald or Behn, so she chose to name me after Nell Gwyn. Thankfully, everyone assumes that Gwyn was taken from some Welsh ancestor of ours.”

“Nell Gwyn was one of the most famous actresses of her age,” her mother said with a sniff. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“Poor Nelly was also a ‘famous’ mistress of Charles II, Mother,” Greycourt said dryly. “The Prince of Wales even owns a portrait of her in which she is wholly nude.”

His mother eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know?”

He shrugged. “I’ve seen it.” When she gasped, he added, “At a royal function. And my point is, I don’t blame our Gwyn for wanting to hide who her namesake is.”

Neither did Beatrice. She couldn’t imagine having the origins of such a name become known. And here she’d always thought Papa mad for naming her after Dante’s one true love. At least her namesake had been virtuous. Only imagine what sly jokes Uncle Armie would have made if she’d actually been named after a loose-living actress.

Greycourt turned to his sister. “If Mother isn’t going to the funeral, Gwyn, then you’re certainly not going. She needs someone with her.”

Lady Gwyn frowned at him. “Bea will be here.”

“That’s not the same, and you know it.”

“Don’t insult Bea,” Lady Gwyn protested.

“I’m not insulting anyone,” Greycourt said. “But Miss Wolfe hasn’t spent the years with Mother that you have. Mother would benefit from having you both here.”

“Listen to your brother.” Aunt Lydia reached over to grab her daughter’s hand. “I’d like to have you with me.” She shot Beatrice a fond glance. “And Bea, of course.”

Lady Gwyn huffed out a breath. “If I must. But I still think it’s wrong that I can’t attend Father’s funeral just because I’m a woman. For all intents and purposes, he was my father. So I have the right to grieve as much as Thorn or Grey or even Sheridan does.”

“I agree,” Greycourt said, to Beatrice’s surprise. “There are any number of society’s rules I find wrong. But if you are to have a successful debut, you’ll have to follow some of them. At least until you can catch a husband.” He smiled at Beatrice. “You too, Miss Wolfe.”

While she was wondering at that odd remark, Sheridan said, “This is probably as good a time as any to announce that Grey will be staying a few weeks so he can help Mother prepare Gwyn and Bea for their debuts.”

“The devil he will!” Lady Gwyn cried.

She’d taken the words out of Beatrice’s mouth. The very thought of the lofty Duke of Greycourt advising her on such matters made her heart falter.

“What? Don’t you want me around, Gwyn?” Greycourt asked with an odd note in his voice.

“Why would I?” Lady Gwyn shot back. “You can be very dictatorial. Mother will tell us everything we need to know.”

“My dear,” Aunt Lydia said, “I haven’t been in English society in nearly thirty years. Things change. And I didn’t actually ever have a debut.” Her face clouded over. “Grey’s father and I met through family.”

Bea looked at Greycourt, whose expression turned suddenly grim.

“In any case,” the duchess went on, “men know things that it would behoove a woman to know, too. I refuse to see my daughter and niece head into society without a full awareness of its workings. And it wouldn’t hurt to have a man around who can stand in for dances.”

Beatrice swallowed as an image of her stumbling through a dance with Greycourt leapt into her mind.

“Why can’t Sheridan do it?” Lady Gwyn asked.

With a glance at Greycourt, Sheridan said, “First of all, Sis, I need to focus on learning how to manage the estate. Second, I don’t know enough about debuts to instruct anyone, whereas Grey has been moving in society for years and was even involved in his cousin Vanessa’s coming out. Between him and Mother, you and Bea should have no trouble making a splash in society.”

“I don’t want to make a splash in society,” Beatrice blurted out. When everyone’s gazes shot to her, she blushed. Still, she soldiered on. “I merely want to find a suitable husband.”

So she could secure her future, and in the process, perhaps secure Joshua’s. Clearly, he wasn’t going to make any attempt in that direction.

“I’m afraid those two go hand in hand these days, Miss Wolfe,” Greycourt said softly.

“Even for a woman with no dowry and a father who died in a duel?” she snapped. “I daresay I’d be better off playing by the rules in hopes that some vicar or physician in need of a circumspect wife notices me. At least that sort of husband probably won’t die scandalously and leave me destitute the way Papa did.”

Everyone gaped at her. Then they swiveled to look at Greycourt to see what he would say. Blast it, why did he bring out the worst in her? She’d spent years teaching herself not to speak her mind, yet when she was around him, things just came out.

She dropped her gaze to the table. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to—”

“First rule,” he said, a thread of amusement in his tone, “don’t apologize. For anything. You’re a duke’s granddaughter. You must walk into every room as if that duel was a single faux pas in a line of virtuous deeds. And why was it scandalous, anyway? If it was a matter of honor—”

“I think it was more a matter of dishonor,” she said dryly, “although Grandmama wouldn’t confirm that.” Beatrice had heard it was fought over a mistress, but she wasn’t about to tell the lofty Greycourt that. “No one liked to talk about it.”

“So it happened years ago, right?”

“Sixteen years, actually,” Beatrice said.

“Perfect. No one will remember. Hell, I had no idea of it.”

“Fletcher Pryde!” his mother exclaimed. “You won’t be of any use to Gwyn and Bea if you use profanity in social situations.”

Rather than murmuring his apologies the way Bea would, Greycourt laughed. “Mother, you haven’t been in society much in the past few years, have you? We’re at war. Gentlemen are scarce, and officers aren’t always nice with their language.”

Aunt Lydia turned to Thornstock. “Is that true?”

Thornstock snorted. “I wouldn’t know. To be honest, I avoid good society as if my life depended on it. Which it often does.”

Alarm filled his mother’s face. “What does that mean?”

“You don’t want to know, trust me,” Greycourt said, casting his half brother a quelling glance.

But Beatrice wanted to know. She found everything about Aunt Lydia and her children fascinating. They were all so . . . so blunt and unapologetic. She’d never met anyone like them.

Well, except Joshua. But he didn’t speak his mind in their entertaining fashion. For that matter, neither did she.

“It will all be fine, Mother,” Greycourt went on. “You’ll see. And Sheridan has his hands full right now. As for Thorn—”

“There is no way in bloody hell I’ll be teaching anyone about how society works,” the man cut in. “And yes, Mother, ‘bloody hell’ is definitely unacceptable language for society.”

“Or for anywhere,” Lady Gwyn chided her brother. “Even I know that.”

Thornstock shrugged. “All the more reason for Grey to take charge of this nonsense.”

Aunt Lydia sighed. “I shall leave it to you boys to sort things out as to who does what. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” She looked at Beatrice. “That reminds me, my dear—you have spoken to Joshua about approving our scheme, have you not?”

Caught off guard, Beatrice said, “Of course.”

Liar. She needed to do so, although she dreaded it, not knowing how he might react. Still, she would give him the rough side of her tongue if he refused to allow it. She might struggle not to speak her mind around other people, but she never fought her impulses around Joshua. If ever a man required frank speech, it was her brother.

Aunt Lydia smiled. “Because I wouldn’t wish to do anything without his say-so. We’re still mostly strangers to him, and I don’t want him thinking we’ve overstepped our bounds.”

“I understand,” Beatrice said.

Oh, yes, she understood only too well. Women never got to make these decisions for themselves. They were at the mercy of their brothers, fathers, and husbands.

It wasn’t fair. She and Lady Gwyn were certainly in agreement on that.

Her aunt rose. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must return to the drawing room.”

The men stood, too, and Sheridan rounded the table to his mother’s side. “I’ll go with you.”

But before they could leave, Greycourt spoke to his mother. “Promise me you’ll get a good night’s sleep. Even if you’re not attending the funeral, tomorrow will be taxing, and you need your rest.”

“If you wish it, Grey.” Aunt Lydia gave him a melting smile. “Thank you for coming, my son.”

Some unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes. “Of course. Where else would I be?”

That broadened her smile.

“I’ll join you in a moment,” he added. “As soon as I finish dessert.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she said.

The moment Aunt Lydia and Sheridan left, Greycourt sat down to fix his gaze on Beatrice. “I have a favor to ask of you. I know your brother didn’t attend your other uncle’s funeral. So please make sure he attends my stepfather’s tomorrow.”

The urgency in his voice startled her. As did his use of the word “please.” “O-of course he will attend.”

“Good. Because it’s important that he do so.”

There was something he wasn’t saying. She desperately wished she knew what it was. But the twins were exchanging bewildered glances, and his enigmatic expression gave no indication of what it might be.

“I will do my best to make sure that Joshua shows up here promptly for the funeral procession,” Beatrice said.

“Excellent.” Grey finished his wine. “Thank you.”

Somehow that roused her suspicions even more. “May I ask why it’s so important?”

He rubbed his finger along the rim of his glass. “Mother will be hurt if he doesn’t attend. And I don’t wish to add more sorrow to her present situation.”

Her heart twisted in her chest. “Of course not,” she said hastily. “Neither do I.”

Lord, she hoped that was Grey’s only motivation. The last thing she and Joshua needed was a duke breathing down their necks to learn all their secrets, a duke who clearly was very good at sifting out truth from lies.

She could only hope she was reading too much into his reactions. Otherwise, she and her brother were, at best, about to end up cast into the street, with no one around to help them.

And she’d do anything to prevent that.