Grey ought to walk the banks of the river to see if and where the broken rails had washed up.
“Your Grace?” called a voice above him.
Holy hell, she was back. “Down here!” he cried, but doubted she could hear him above the roar of the water. He hurried up the muddy bank.
After he reached the top, he heard her grumble to the dogs, “Leave it to a blasted duke to do as he pleases without telling anyone.” As he approached her from behind, she glanced in the opposite direction. “I only hope he didn’t try going up to my house. I might have missed him on the way back. Then what would I do with this?”
Pulling his cravat out of her pocket, she stared down at it. “I can’t go into the hall and give it to him, or people will get ideas about us. His Blasted Grace would be appalled. But if he wanted to be discreet, he ought to have stayed where I left him so I—”
“Beatrice,” he said, though he was loath to stop the entertaining flow of her words.
She jumped, then whirled to see him standing there. “Your Grace! I-I mean, Grey. That is . . . Where the devil did you come from?”
He nodded toward the broken railing. “I went down to the river.”
“Oh. Right. Because that’s where Uncle Maurice—” She halted, a pretty blush spreading over her cheeks. “You . . . um . . . didn’t hear what I was saying, did you?”
Much as he would like to tell her the truth, he figured there was no point in embarrassing her further. “I thought I heard you call me, but it was hard to tell down there by the water. It’s very loud.”
Her face cleared. “Of course. Yes. It generally is. Very loud, I mean.” She halted, as if aware she was babbling. “So, did you wish to stay longer? Or are you ready to leave?”
“We can go. I know this is probably a long walk, even for your pointers.”
“Not really. We do a lot of roaming. Nothing much else to do around here. And I like to walk.”
“So do I.” He gestured to the edge of the bridge. “Shall we?”
With a bob of her head, she came toward him, then seemed to realize she still held his cravat in her fist. “Oh! This is yours.”
She thrust it at him, and he took it, careful not to touch her hand.
They walked awhile in a silence that grew heavier by the moment. Then she cleared her throat. “Were you close to your stepfather? I know you didn’t get to see him, but surely you wrote letters home.”
Damn. He’d prefer silence to her probing. “I did. But letters aren’t the same, as I’m sure you know.”
“I do. I liked your stepfather. He always treated me kindly, and he never behaved as if he were better than I.”
“Maurice was the sort of man who treated people as equals when other members of society might not.”
“Precisely. Sheridan is like him.”
“And I am not.”
She dropped her gaze to the path. “You are . . . not like anyone I know.”
“I suppose you consider me more like your uncle Armie.” He glanced over in time to see her blanch.
“Why on earth would you think such a thing?” she asked, sounding alarmed.
“I don’t know. I gather that your uncle Armitage lorded it over you and your brother.”
“Oh. Right.” A long breath slipped from her. “Yes, he was a bit . . .”
“Full of himself?”
“You could say that.”
She’d grown stiff and reserved. Mentioning her uncle seemed to have set her off.
How curious. Sheridan had been sure his uncle had been murdered as well. And something was making her reluctant to speak of the man.
“Fortunately,” Grey said, “living over here at the dower house, you probably didn’t see him that much.”
“We saw him more than enough.”
“So you didn’t like him.”
“As you say, he lorded it over us.”
Grey was certain there was more to it. “I understand your uncle died here on the estate.”
If he hadn’t been watching for her reaction, he wouldn’t have seen the expression of utter panic on her face.
“Yes.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It was tragic.”
Her reluctance to speak of it sent ice through his veins. What if Sheridan had been wrong about his father’s death, but right about his uncle Armie’s? Did that mean she knew something about it? He couldn’t see her riding out at night to murder her uncle, but her brother? Perhaps.
She halted. “Forgive me, sir, I forgot something I must do at my house before I return. But you needn’t wait. I’m sure you can find your way back to Armitage Hall on your own.”
“I’m happy to come along, Beatrice. I could hold the dogs for you.”
“No reason for that, truly. I have no idea how long it might take, and I’m sure your mother is pining for you already.”
Her tone brooked no argument. His interlude with Miss Wolfe was clearly over.
“Very well. I’ll see you tonight then. At dinner.”
She bobbed her head and hurried off with the dogs.
He waited until she was out of sight before walking into the woods and looking for a place off the path where he could watch for her. He didn’t have to stand there long before she passed him.
Just as he’d suspected. Her needing to go home had been a ruse to avoid his questions. Holy hell. What if Sheridan had been right about some of his suspicions?
If so, then Beatrice knew something. Now Grey would have to figure out exactly what she was covering up.
Chapter Nine
Beatrice had avoided dinner last night, but she couldn’t avoid going to Armitage Hall today for her come-out lessons. Which meant she would see Grey.
She stifled a sigh. A part of her—a very small part—wouldn’t mind taking him as a lover. If ever there was a fellow she would want to initiate her into the pleasures of the bedchamber, it was him. Because every time Grey had touched or kissed her, it had been a mutual enjoyment, utterly different from the years she’d spent fending off her uncle’s slaps on the behind or hugs that smashed her breasts against him or slobbery busses to her lips in the guise of greetings.
Grey’s kiss yesterday had made her think it was possible to enjoy a man’s kisses. Unfortunately, she knew what happened to women who took lovers, and she refused to let that happen to her. Even for the thrill of having Grey in her bed.
Her cheeks heated. In her bed? What nonsense! How could she even entertain such a notion? She knew from the gossip rags what sort of women Grey preferred, and she wasn’t that sort—beautiful and immoral and willing to risk everything to be the mistress of a duke.
As she approached Armitage Hall, she steeled herself. She must keep her distance from him. Even if she were curious about his past. Because something had happened to make the duke reluctant to speak of it or let anyone close. Not that it mattered—not to her. None of her business.
She would let him keep his secrets. That way perhaps he would let her keep hers, and stop asking about Uncle Armie. Clearly, he was suspicious about how her uncle had died. And she couldn’t let that continue, couldn’t let him guess what she feared—that Uncle Armie’s death had been no accident.
Fluffing up the gauze fichu that hid the way her repurposed gown showed too much of her bosom, she walked into Armitage Hall. She halted when she spotted Lady Gwyn talking to the butler and gesturing wildly about some matter that had her agitated.
A sigh escaped Beatrice at the sight of Lady Gwyn’s custom-tailored crape mourning gown with its glorious black trim and collar of scalloped lace. How was Beatrice to become part of that world? Granted, by the time she was ready for her come-out, she would be out of mourning, but even if she had a dress as pretty as Lady Gwyn’s, she could never wear it with the woman’s elegant air. She would feel like a hound wearing a petticoat—utterly out of place.
Uncle Armie’s nasty words leapt to mind: Be happy I want you at all, girl. Most men wouldn’t give the time of day to such a mannish creature.
You’re no beauty.
A pox on her uncle. She had new relations who were kind to her, and she would cling to that.
Lady Gwyn accepted her as an equal as always, for when she saw Beatrice, she brightened. “There you are. Mother has been asking for you. She’s eager to begin our training for our London debuts.”
Beatrice handed her bonnet and gloves to the butler, then managed a smile as she fell into her usual role. “It’s very kind of my aunt.”
“Enough of that.” Lady Gwyn planted her hands on her hips. “We’re not doing this because of some notion about duty. We adore you. And this is the least we can do to make up for your uncle Armie’s neglect.”
The words were so sweet that a lump formed in Beatrice’s throat. “That is lovely of you to say, Lady Gwyn.”
“Call me Gwyn, I beg you. We are both pupils in this odd new world.” Lady Gwyn—Gwyn—smiled. “And I could use an ally in keeping Mother from going too far.” Gwyn approached to loop her arm through Beatrice’s before breathing a long sigh. “She has a tendency to overshoot her mark, if you know what I mean. And I confess I’m so weary of fighting it I’m liable to go along.”
Beatrice chuckled. “I can understand that. Aunt Lydia can be very persuasive.”
“Indeed she can.” Gwyn looked glum. “Between my mother and my brothers, I don’t know how you and I shall survive.”
With a laugh, Beatrice said, “We’ll be fine,” though the idea of Grey being part of her come-out lessons still sent her senses flailing. How could she be around him without remembering their searing kiss? Not to mention the alarming questions he’d asked about Uncle Armie.
“In any case,” Gwyn went on, “we’re supposed to work on dancing today.”
Oh, Lord. Dancing with Grey. How would she get through that? “Surely you know how to dance already.”
“Not English country dances. In Berlin, we danced other steps. And the waltz, which is only two people. I can manage that. Anything else . . .”
“I’ve never even heard of the waltz. But give me a good Scotch reel or Irish jig, and I can perform as well as any dancing master.”
“Then I’ll teach you the waltz and you’ll teach me the reel, and we’ll impress everyone at the balls.”
Beatrice laughed, unable to resist Gwyn’s amiable approach. She’d nearly even convinced herself that Gwyn’s presence could make dancing with Grey tolerable when they entered the ballroom to find him absent. Thornstock was the one speaking to his mother about the dancing.
Disappointment sliced through her before she caught herself. She refused to feel such a foolish emotion over the thought of losing the chance to dance with Grey. No doubt Grey had asked to be relieved of his duties with her after what had happened yesterday. One more sign he hadn’t felt half of what she had when they’d kissed.
“Ah,” Thornstock said. “The ladies have arrived, Mother. So let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Just then, Sheridan entered the ballroom, obviously cutting through from the garden to the hall at the end opposite them that led to Uncle Armie’s stu—
Not Uncle Armie’s, but Sheridan’s study, now. It gave her a little burst of satisfaction to think of her cousin there instead of her wretched uncle.
“Thank God you’re here,” Thornstock told Sheridan. “We need all the help we can get with the dancing lessons.”
“I can’t,” Sheridan said, with a trace of irritation. “I’ve got more than enough to handle right now.” Then he looked beyond Beatrice to a spot behind her. “Ask Grey—he’ll tell you. Why don’t you get him to do it?”
Beatrice turned to find him lounging against the wall in the large, rounded alcove behind her, which was custom-built to hold a small orchestra, but at present only held the pianoforte.
Grey fixed his eyes on her. “I’m happy to partner Miss Wolfe if she needs it.”
Was he willing to dance with her because of their kiss yesterday? Or was he merely hoping to interrogate her about Uncle Armie’s death? Either possibility was worrisome.
Though Grey was dressed in another black mourning suit, he’d changed out his hessians today for shoes more fitting to a ballroom. But even without the fancy boots, he was as incredibly attractive—and terrifying—as she remembered.
And when he pushed away from the wall and straightened to his full height, she was hard-pressed not to swoon, though whether in awe or alarm, she wasn’t sure. Only the fact that she’d never swooned a day in her life kept her from it.
Meanwhile Thornstock kept trying to fob his female relations off on Sheridan. “Grey is already helping. But if you stay, they won’t need me. I was hoping to go for a ride on one of your hunters.”
“Sorry, you’ll have to delay that.” Sheridan continued on through the room. “I have important matters to attend to.”
“So do I! Like riding!” Thornstock cried after him.
But it was too late. Sheridan vanished from view through the other door.
Gwyn gave her twin a look of mock sympathy. “Aw, poor Thorn, having to dance with respectable ladies for a change. Such a trial for you, I’m sure.”
“Don’t start with me,” Thornstock grumbled. “Or I’ll take you over my knee.”
“I should like to see you try!” Gwyn planted her hands on her hips. “Because I can still box your ears. Just give me a chance to—”
“Hush, you two.” Aunt Lydia headed for the pianoforte in the alcove with determined steps. Her usual creamy skin was the color of ash, and she looked as if she might crumble any moment. “I would think that after so many years apart, you’d have learned to appreciate each other.”
Grey went to stand next to his mother. “Surely you’re joking. Gwyn always needs someone to sharpen her tongue on, and Thorn is her favorite choice of strop.”
Gwyn raised an eyebrow at him. “Watch it or I’ll box your ears, too.”
As Beatrice smothered a laugh, Aunt Lydia cried, “Enough, all of you!” Rounding the end of the pianoforte, she plopped down on the bench and started flipping through sheet music with a scowl. “I swear, sometimes I wonder why I ever married and had children in the first place.”
That pronouncement gave them all pause.
Thornstock was the first to rally. “I understand why you wouldn’t want to be stuck with Grey, your ill-favored firstborn. But surely the devastatingly handsome fellow you bore next makes up for your having him.”
Grey snorted. “She didn’t bear you next, you lummox. Gwyn is fifteen minutes older. You were just an afterthought.”
“Quite so,” Gwyn put in with a sniff. “And the only reason Thorn doesn’t want to help with the dancing is he has two left feet.”
“I beg your pardon.” Thorn stared her down. “I’ll have you know I can caper as well as any man on the floor.”
Gwyn looked down at her fingernails as if studying their shape. “There’s no question you can caper, dear Brother. The issue is, can you dance? Frankly, I don’t think you have it in you. Not that I’ve ever seen, anyway.”
Thornstock stalked up to his twin. “Mother, play something. Let’s see if I have it in me, damn it.”
Beatrice fought back a smile. Amazing how Gwyn could outmaneuver Thornstock without his even realizing it.
Gwyn lifted an eyebrow as she faced Thornstock. “Mama, why don’t you play a minuet?”
Aunt Lydia looked at her twins warily. “Do you really think we should start with something so intricate?”
“All the better to prove my abilities,” Thornstock said.
“I’m not thinking of your abilities, Son. Or even Gwyn’s. She knows the minuet.” Aunt Lydia looked over at Beatrice. “Do you know the steps for that one, Bea?”
Beatrice tensed at the very thought of having to stumble through a new dance. “I’m afraid not, Aunt.”
“We’ll sit it out, Mother.” Grey left the alcove and headed for Beatrice. “She and I will watch, and then she’ll get a feel for it so she’ll be ready when we teach it to her late
r.”
“Very well then.” Aunt Lydia thumbed through pages of music, searching for a tune suitable for dancing a minuet to. “But I shall choose something more appropriate for the occasion. Something stately and mournful. Your father is fresh in the grave, you know.”
That sobered Gwyn. “Mama, perhaps we should wait—”
“No, indeed,” her mother said fiercely, brushing tears from her cheeks. “I want to play. Dance, you two.” As she launched into a dignified piece, the twins began the minuet.
Beatrice looked over to where her aunt was playing determinedly, her eyes still bright with tears. “Is this wise?” Beatrice murmured to Grey, who was now standing next to her.
“Mother handles things better if she feels needed and useful,” he said softly.
Hoping to regain yesterday’s comfortable rapport, she asked Grey, “Is it part of the dance for them to hold their arms out like that? They look like marionettes whose strings are stuck.”
“Sadly, it’s considered graceful,” he replied.
“Anyone who thinks a marionette is graceful has never seen a Punch and Judy show.” She focused on other aspects of the dance. “It’s like a slower jig, isn’t it?”
“Not quite. It’s a different step entirely.” Grey gestured to a settee against the wall opposite where the twins were dancing. “Let’s sit down, Miss Wolfe.” His tone brooked no argument. “You can see their feet better this way.”
It reminded her of yesterday, when he’d commanded her—and thus, the dogs. She glanced at him to see if he remembered, but he gave no indication he did. Instead, his expression showed only a polite disinterest.
She followed him to the settee, then perched on the edge. Grey took a seat beside her, his hand casually drumming the beat on his thigh inches from her own.
Pay attention! she told herself. They all expect you to remember how to do this.
So she focused on observing their feet. Her aunt was right—the steps were intricate. “I’ll never master that,” she murmured, half to herself.
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