And that would never do.
Beatrice sank against the wall, her heart pounding. She had to go in, but she had to compose herself first. That was no easy task, considering what she’d just overheard Sheridan and Grey discussing.
Not only had they both thought Joshua might have killed Uncle Armie, Sheridan had put Grey up to trying to learn the truth about Joshua’s actions! She fought down a wave of nausea. All this time Grey had probably only cozied up to her to find out about Joshua’s involvement in Uncle Armie’s death. What sort of fellow used a woman like that?
A heartless scoundrel, that’s who. It made his smoldering glances, forbidden kisses, and wanton caresses feel like even more of a betrayal than Uncle Armie’s. Fool that she was, she’d actually believed Grey desired her. She’d probably imagined his arousal, too caught up in the thrill of it.
What had she been thinking? A handsome man of his broad experience with women—a blasted duke as rich as Croesus—didn’t crave being with some . . . some country girl with no social graces and no knowledge of how to tempt a fellow like him. Why, Grey probably did have a cabal of lying devils like himself somewhere in London. No doubt that was where he’d learned how to make a woman’s blood sing.
Well, he’d no longer be affecting this woman’s blood, if she could help it.
Uncle Armie’s vile words wriggled their way into her thoughts once more: Most men wouldn’t give the time of day to such a mannish creature. You’re no beauty.
Tears clogged her throat. She’d assumed that Uncle Armie’s insults had just been his nasty reaction to her refusal to do as he wished. But what if he was right?
The voices inside the ballroom grew louder. She’d best go in, if only to keep Sheridan and Grey from suspecting that she’d overheard them earlier. After making sure her fichu was properly tied, she fixed a smile to her face and breezed in. Fortunately, Gwyn didn’t even break in her conversation.
Unfortunately, Sheridan noticed Beatrice and came right up to her. “Are you all right?” he whispered. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine,” she lied. “A bit tired is all.”
He grimaced. “I’m so sorry. Do you wish to postpone the lessons until tomorrow? I don’t mind accompanying you to the dower house.”
The thought of trying to dissemble while alone with Sheridan made her ill. “I don’t need you to chaperone me. I’ve been roaming this estate by myself for years.”
She regretted the sharp words the moment her cousin frowned. “Of course,” he said stiffly. “Forgive me for presuming.”
Now she felt awful. In truth, Sheridan had said nothing to alarm her. It was Grey who suspected her of knowing more than she was letting on.
She didn’t, but not for want of trying to find out. She’d searched the spot where Uncle Armie had died without finding anything to implicate Joshua. She’d parsed every word her brother said, but couldn’t tell if he knew of Uncle Armie’s obnoxious overtures to her.
She’d even considered asking Joshua point-blank if he’d had anything to do with Uncle Armie’s death. But even if he had been involved, he would never tell her. He wouldn’t want to put that burden on her. So he’d either lie or not answer. And if he hadn’t killed Uncle Armie, then Joshua would be wounded beyond repair to hear that she thought so ill of him.
That kept her quiet. He’d suffered so much already that she hated herself for even considering he might be guilty.
In any case, none of this mess was Sheridan’s fault. “I’m sorry, Sheridan. I’m a bit cross, that’s all.” Fumbling for a plausible reason, she added, “I fear I’ll never be as accomplished a debutante as your mother and sister wish me to be.”
“Nonsense. It merely takes practice. You can’t go out into society for months, anyway. So you have plenty of time.”
“I keep telling her that.” Grey approached to stand on her other side. “But she still worries.”
Beatrice felt trapped between the two brothers, neither of whom she could trust anymore. “I merely don’t want to disappoint my benefactors, Your Grace,” she said in a cool voice, trying to hide how much Grey’s presence agitated her.
Grey flashed her an exasperated look that she ignored.
The next few hours were taken up with learning the cotillion and quadrille . . . and choking down her anger at Grey. Fortunately, the dancing lessons finally ended for the day when dinner was announced. Although Aunt Lydia asked her to join them, Beatrice got out of it by protesting she didn’t want to leave her brother to dine alone. That enabled her to flee before it got dark, so that neither of the men felt obliged to accompany her.
For once, when she got home to find Joshua gone, she was relieved because it meant she didn’t have to keep pretending another minute. Somehow she must get through the next few weeks—or however long Grey was here—without giving anything away. If she could keep from rousing his suspicions, all would be well.
Then she’d just have to pray she never saw his face again.
Chapter Fourteen
To Beatrice’s vast relief, the next two days fell into a comfortable pattern—dancing at the hall during the day and dining at the dower house with her brother at night. Since Sheridan was too busy to help instruct them, they could dance no more cotillions and quadrilles. Instead, Grey took turns partnering her or Gwyn as his mother played a succession of tunes for jigs, reels, and other country dances. Since Beatrice knew those figures, she ended up being the one to teach Gwyn.
It became clear that Grey, while capable of performing any dance, wasn’t fond of the entertainment. It required going into society, and, as he repeatedly stated, he’d rather “live out his days as a hermit than endure an hour with those self-important dullards.” Sometimes he sounded exactly like her brother. How odd was that?
At least she was evading his questions. She made sure they were never alone, even when he tried to maneuver it otherwise. After dealing with Uncle Armie, she was good at that. And when they danced, she kept up a steady stream of queries about London society and the behavior expected of her.
That was how she learned how intensely Grey disliked the ton. His feelings emerged in snide asides about the rules and cutting remarks about the people. Beatrice might not trust him with her own secrets, but he did always seem to speak the truth about society. So by the end of their third day of lessons, she’d begun to wonder if the glittering mass of accomplished lords and ladies she feared meeting in London might not prove to be merely a larger group of the people she’d already been dealing with in Sanforth, with the same petty vanities, prejudices, and propensity to gossip. If so, then she might manage this debut nonsense perfectly well after all.
On Sunday, their fourth day, there were no lessons since they went to services. Afterward, while everyone else was chatting, she let herself feast her eyes on Grey.
Why must he look so delicious today? He always dressed casually at the house, but for church he’d donned a suit of black superfine wool that set off his ebony hair most attractively, and a waistcoat of figured white silk that made her think of the frothing waters of the river running past the dower house. Even the folds of his cravat evoked rolling clouds on a windy day.
Unfortunately, he caught her staring and broke away from the others to come toward her. She should head somewhere else, but her guard was down. Otherwise, why was she standing here like a ninny, watching him approach?
“Why isn’t your brother here?” he asked.
Her heart sank. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? I’m not my brother’s keeper.”
She regretted the blunt words when he searched her face, then drawled, “I would if I could. But he avoids me almost as much as you do.”
“I don’t avoid you. I’ve danced with you nearly every day.”
His gaze heated as it skimmed her. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
She nearly bit off her tongue to keep from throwing his perfidy at him. Instead, she focused on his question, which oddly seemed safer right now. “
Joshua never comes to services. He says he can’t stand to attend anymore. I assume it has to do with the war and the men he saw die when he was fighting for God and country.”
“Perhaps.” He stared her down. “Or perhaps there’s another reason. Church often holds a mirror up to one’s actions.”
Lord save her, Grey was saying what she dared not—that perhaps Joshua felt too guilty to attend. She nearly protested that Joshua hadn’t attended services since long before Uncle Armie died, but she caught herself before she revealed that she knew what Grey was up to.
Even as her chest tightened and her hands shook, she fought to seem nonchalant. “Or perhaps Joshua doesn’t like the music.” Then she forced herself to walk away.
Let Grey have his suspicions. She wouldn’t be the one to betray her brother—especially since she didn’t know his secrets.
The next day, when she arrived at the hall, she was surprised to find that they were to be taking a break from dancing for the day. Instead, they were to receive instruction on etiquette rules for the ballroom, provided jointly by Grey and Aunt Lydia.
It went on for hours. Sheridan, who’d joined them at his mother’s insistence, and Gwyn periodically chimed in to either voice their opinions . . . or mock what Grey and Aunt Lydia said, depending on the rule.
Beatrice couldn’t blame them. There were so many rules, like how and when a lady was to curtsey upon meeting a gentleman, which involved keeping one’s head in line with the upper part of the body and not flexing one’s limbs too much. They actually made her and Gwyn practice it!
She and Gwyn were also instructed in who could dance with whom, though that seemed to depend upon whether the ball was private, public, or impromptu. One rule was sacrosanct, apparently—brothers and sisters weren’t allowed to dance together. Which meant poor Gwyn couldn’t fall back on her brothers as partners at a ball.
“But Mama,” Gwyn said, “what if none of these toplofty gentlemen asks me? How am I to show off my ability on the dance floor if I’m forced to stand on the sidelines because of some silly rule about not dancing with my brothers?”
“You’re sister to three dukes,” Sheridan said dryly. “Trust me, you’ll have partners aplenty.” When Aunt Lydia cleared her throat, he blinked, then shot Beatrice an apologetic glance. “You too, Cousin—partners to spare, no doubt.”
She swallowed her sigh at his feeble attempt to reassure her. “I should hope so,” she said with forced gaiety. “I’ll have all of you to dance with, since none of you is my brother . . . and since my real brother will never darken the door of a London ballroom unless one of you holds a pistol to his head.”
Instantly she regretted her unfortunate reference to violence, but before she could amend her statement, Grey said, “That won’t be necessary. He can trust us to take care of you in any ballroom.”
His speaking look turned her blood molten in her veins.
Curse him for that. His tactics were so unfair.
With a stern glance in his direction, Aunt Lydia stood. “We should also go over how one behaves when accepting a man’s request to dance. For example, the gentleman will offer his right hand, and you will take it with your left.”
“What happens if he’s left-handed?” Beatrice asked. That had happened to her at a harvest dance, leading to a good deal of embarrassing fumbling.
“Then he won’t be allowed to dance,” Grey said in apparent seriousness.
“Grey, don’t tease her like that,” Aunt Lydia chided.
He burst into laughter. “Every gentleman at a marriage mart knows these rules, Miss Wolfe. No matter which hand the man generally uses, he must always offer his right to a lady at a dance. And you must take it in your left.”
“Because it would be quite a mess if you tried to take his right hand with your right,” Sheridan said from the settee.
Just like that she remembered the figure she and Grey had danced, with their left hands joined and their right hands, too, so that they were scandalously close for several steps. Her gaze flew to Grey, and for a second something dark, knowing, and intimate passed between them, sending a delicious shiver down her spine and making his gaze slide to her mouth.
She pulled hers away, before she turned into a blithering idiot under his practiced stare. “How do we behave if we wish to refuse the gentleman’s request to dance?”
“You can’t,” Gwyn grumbled. “They had this rule at the embassy in Berlin, too. Tell her what happens, Mama, if you do refuse the fellow.”
“You have to sit out the rest of the evening’s dances,” Aunt Lydia said. “You can say you don’t intend to dance anymore, but that’s your only recourse.”
Beatrice blinked. “Even if I don’t like him? Even if he, say, insulted my brother or . . . or, I don’t know, tried to kiss me when he shouldn’t have? Even if he’s a scoundrel?”
Grey stared hard at her. “Thorn is a scoundrel. But trust me, if a young woman like you gave him the cut direct on the dance floor, it wouldn’t be his reputation that suffered. He’s a duke. You’re expected to accept his invitation . . . unless he’s breaking other rules of the ballroom, like trying to have you partner him for a third set when you’ve already partnered him for two others.”
Annoyed now, Beatrice huffed out a breath. “And what blasted rule is that?”
As Grey, Sheridan, and Gwyn burst into laughter, Aunt Lydia clearly fought a smile. “You can’t say ‘blasted,’ dear. Not anywhere.”
“However much you might wish to,” Gwyn muttered under her breath.
“What was that?” her mother asked with an eyebrow raised.
Gwyn sighed. Loudly. “Nothing, Mama.”
“That’s what I thought.” Still, Aunt Lydia’s eyes twinkled as she turned to Beatrice. “You can’t dance a third set with the same gentleman because showing such preference for one man gives people the impression that you’re engaged. Then everyone in the ballroom will be gossiping about you.”
Beatrice sifted through the madness of what they’d said. “So, even though generally I’m supposed to accept every man’s invitation to dance, if a gentleman wishes to dance a third set with me, I am to turn him down.”
“He won’t ask because he knows better,” Grey said. “But if he does, then yes, turn him down. Unless you want the rumormongering populace to pronounce you betrothed.”
“The truth is,” Gwyn said, “it’s better if you can avoid being put in that situation in the first place. Nothing is worse than having to dance a full set with some beady-eyed fellow with roaming hands.”
Sheridan scowled. “Who is this ‘beady-eyed fellow with roaming hands’?”
“It’s hypothetical,” Gwyn said. “Don’t be an arse.”
“Gwyn, you know better than to speak that word,” her mother said.
Gwyn thrust out her chin. “Forgive me for my coarse language, Sheridan. I meant to say, ‘don’t be an utter arse.’”
As her brothers howled with laughter, Aunt Lydia lifted her eyes to heaven. “I can see we’re going to need three months to get you two ready for a debut.” She frowned at her sons. “Especially with those two rascals encouraging you.”
“It’s hard not to encourage them when the ladies are making valid points,” Grey said. “Some of these rules are outdated and idiotic.”
“Exactly.” Gwyn turned to Beatrice. “Which is why you have to develop tactics to combat them. Trust me, there’s a way to reject a beady-eyed gentleman with roaming hands before he even gets the chance to ask for your hand in a dance.”
Grey cocked his head. “Don’t be absurd.”
“I’m not,” Gwyn said. “The only way a sensible woman can get through the nonsense of a ball—in any country—is to make certain only to dance with those gentlemen who suit her best.”
“You mean, the rich and handsome ones,” Sheridan teased her.
“I’m more concerned with avoiding the toplofty, arrogant ones like my brothers,” she quipped.
“Hey!” Sheridan protested
. “Since when am I arrogant?” “Can we get on with this?” Grey said impatiently. “I want to hear whatever nonsense Gwyn proposes.”
“You see?” Gwyn said. “Arrogant.”
“Bored, more like.” Grey pulled out his pocket watch. “We don’t have all day, you know.”
Gwyn stuck her tongue out at him. “Feel free to leave anytime. We don’t really need either of you for this part. Why don’t you and Sheridan go . . . brush up on your lordly manners or crush a peasant under your boot or something?”
“Sorry, Sis, I don’t know any peasants.” With a wink at their mother, Grey added, “And we have no intention of missing this.”
Sheridan laid his arms across the back of the settee. “Not when we’re about to hear the age-old secrets of womankind.”
Gwyn glared at him. “Now you’re being an utter bloody arse.”
“Gwyn!” her mother cried, truly shocked this time.
“Sorry, Mama,” Gwyn mumbled. “But honestly, Bea, you need to ignore my brothers.”
“I always ignore insolence,” Beatrice said tartly, garnering a smile from Gwyn. “You were saying?”
“The key is to manage things so the gentleman never guesses that you maneuvered him into not dancing with you. Now, let’s pretend that I am a gentleman approaching you on the dance floor.” Pitching her voice lower, Gwyn walked up to Beatrice and said, “I hope you’re having a lovely evening, madam.”
Before Beatrice could even answer, Grey cut in. “Good God, if that’s how you think men sound, I’m afraid to hear what you think we’d say.” He came over to stand between his sister and Beatrice. “You do it like this.” He bowed politely. “Miss Wolfe, would you do me the honor of standing up with me for this set?”
“No, no, you’re missing the point!” Gwyn cried. “Once you say the words, she can’t refuse you. She has to make it so you don’t get the chance to ask.”
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