“I can’t promise that.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them, making her slip her hand from his and her brow cloud over. Hastily he recouped. “Mother is going to want to know everything we said to each other, and I’ll have to tell her something.”
Her face cleared. “Oh. I’m sure that’s true.” She touched one gloved finger to her chin and shot him a mischievous glance. “Very well. You may tell her that my come-out lessons are progressing wonderfully.”
He laughed. “Come-out lessons?”
“That’s how I’ve been thinking of them.” She lifted one eyebrow. “It’s better than thinking of myself as your mother’s latest project.”
He winced. “You caught that.”
“It’s all right,” she said lightly. “Sheridan called me her ‘project’ first.”
“I would apologize, but it would go against our new rules.”
She smirked at him. “Indeed, it would . . . Grey.”
Now that was more like it. When she was like this, teasing him, with her eyes dancing, he could easily imagine her in an evening gown, flirting with some fellow at a ball. Preferably him.
Damn it to hell. Not him.
She turned to look down the hill, and her smirk vanished. “Oh no, the dogs are into the gorse again. I should have been paying better attention. If I don’t keep my eye on them, they get bored. A pox on them!”
The lady cursed, too? Sheridan hadn’t been lying when he’d called her a hoyden. Though when she picked up her skirts and bolted down the hill, it was a woman’s stockinged calves Grey saw flashing white above her half-boots.
And quite a trim pair of calves they were, too, momentarily distracting him from the interesting sight of her trying to coax the dogs out of the gorse bushes. Perhaps he should help.
He strode down the hill. “I’ll get them out.”
“Don’t you dare go in there!” Planting her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “They’ll come out eventually. But the last time they got into the gorse, Mr. MacTilly went in after them and got stuck fast. If you do the same, at the very least you’ll destroy your fancy clothes.”
“Which is precisely why I’m not going in after them.” He pulled a funeral biscuit out of his greatcoat pocket, opened the wrapping, and broke a piece off. Tossing it to the closest dog, he watched as the hound scarfed it up and then barked at him for more.
When he held another piece up, the dog came running out after it. That was all it took for the others to come trotting out, too, and he rewarded them by giving each a piece.
Squatting down, he petted the one whose name he remembered. “There’s a good lad, Hercules.” He looked up at Miss Wolfe, who was gaping at him. “What?”
“How did you . . . Why on earth would you have funeral biscuits in your pocket?”
Because I never want to be trapped without something to eat ever again.
No, that would require revealing too much. So instead he shrugged. “I’d been told you were at the kennels. Since that meant I was about to be around dogs, I figured it was best if I brought treats.”
In other words, he’d come prepared to win her over by winning over her dogs. Was it working?
Perhaps. Because a helpless laugh escaped her. “You’re as much a rascal as they.”
“Probably.” He grinned at her. “What are the names of the other two?”
With a shake of her head, she came up to seize one by the collar. “This is Hero. And the one with the spots is Hector.”
“Whoever named them certainly has a fondness for Greek mythology.”
“It wasn’t me,” she said. “I prefer a good novel, myself.”
“I prefer the Times.” He scratched Hector behind the ears. “What about you, lad? Do you enjoy being saddled with a fancy name like Hector?”
Hector’s answer was to lick his face. Though Grey chuckled, Miss Wolfe frowned.
“Stop that, Hector!” she ordered, and the dog instantly obeyed, though he then licked Grey’s gloved hand. She sighed. “We’ll have to put you lot back on the leashes, if only to keep you from slobbering all over His Grace.”
“Don’t do it on my account,” Grey said as he stood and dusted off his trousers. “A little dog slobber never hurt anyone.”
“Uh-huh,” she said skeptically. “All the same, I don’t want to risk them bolting into the gorse again, either. You’ll run out of those biscuits eventually.”
“True.”
She put their leashes on, though Grey noticed that she knelt to do it this time, more’s the pity. Then she tugged at the dogs’ leashes. “Come on, lads, let’s go to the woods.”
But they were hoping for more treats and stood about Grey, sniffing at his greatcoat. Apparently, his presence had thrown their good behavior into disarray.
She scowled at them. “Come along now. You know you like tramping through the woods, you scoundrels.”
“I’m flattered that you noticed, Beatrice,” Grey joked.
Clearly fighting a smile, she said, “Watch it, sir, or I’ll make you take them walking.”
“As long as you lead the way, I wouldn’t mind that a bit,” he countered, and held out his hand for the leashes. “We scoundrels will follow you anywhere.”
She swallowed, her throat undulating in a fashion that made him want to put his lips just there, in the hollow. Now where had that thought come from?
Then she seemed to catch herself, for she went rigid as she held out the leashes. “All right. Then you can walk them. If you think you can keep up.”
When he took the leashes from her, her fingers brushed his accidentally, and an alarming current snapped between them.
But if she felt the same, she showed no sign of it. As she pivoted on her heel and marched off along the edge of the gorse toward what looked like a forest of elms, he hurried after her with the dogs.
“You see, lads,” he drawled, “the way to turn a lady up sweet is to acquiesce to whatever she wants. That’s how you get exactly what you want.”
Her sniff made it clear she’d heard him. So did the very feminine toss of her head and the subtle swing of her hips as if she were aware of him watching her from behind.
Satisfaction coursed through him. Clearly, a day with Beatrice was going to be far more interesting than spending his time cooped up in the study with Sheridan and going over estate documents, as they’d done last evening after the funeral.
And who knew? It might even give him a chance to look at the infamous bridge where Maurice had died, so he could report to Sheridan on that as well. All he had to do was coax her into showing him the dower house.
He began to think that might not be as difficult as he’d feared.
Chapter Seven
Beatrice stalked down the path, all too aware of His Grace coming along behind her. He was probably laughing at his clever bon mots and what he surely saw as his winning ways. Not to mention his ability to get on the good side of her dogs.
The blasted traitorous curs. Of course they would like him. He was as bad as they. “Turn a lady up sweet,” indeed. He thought he could wrap her about his finger just by charming her pointers, did he? It wouldn’t work.
But she grudgingly admitted that few dukes would accept a tongue-lashing from a dog without blinking an eye. Well, other than Sheridan, who was newly minted and unfamiliar with the rules of being a duke.
Why, she doubted even Thornstock would carry treats for the lads in his greatcoat pocket. Or, for that matter, take the time to help his mother with her “latest project,” even if he were inclined to do so, which, Thornstock had made clear last night, he was not.
Grey’s interest in her as a “project” didn’t make any sense, although she finally began to understand why people gossiped about Grey in London. His seductive glances alone could start rumors swirling.
Suddenly, she realized there was silence behind her. She turned to see the duke some distance back, waiting patiently as Hero relieved himself in the leaves.
&nb
sp; Speaking of luring a woman, now she had Greycourt’s bargain to entice her. The very idea of always saying what she thought without apology was invigorating. No rules when she was around him. No chiding looks. It sent a thrill down her spine to think of just . . . being herself with such a man. She wasn’t even herself with his mother or Sheridan.
He caught her looking at him and smiled. Lord, he was handsome in his many-caped greatcoat left casually open to reveal a stark black mourning suit, white shirt, and black cravat. Not to mention his hat trimmed with grosgrain ribbon and his shiny black hessians that showed him to be the height of fashion, especially for Sanforth. Why must he be so very attractive? It simply wasn’t fair.
“Where do these woods lead?” he asked.
“Down to the river that skirts the property.”
“Ah yes.” He shifted his gaze to the dogs. “The river where Maurice drowned.”
There it was again: the odd way he had of addressing his stepfather by his Christian name.
“Why don’t you call Uncle Maurice ‘Father’ like the others do?” she asked.
His jaw tautened. “Because he’s not my father.”
“He’s not the twins’ father, either, but they call him ‘Father.’”
“They weren’t sent away by him at the age of ten.” He ground out a curse. “Forgive me, I didn’t intend to malign the memory of—”
“I thought we weren’t going to apologize for saying what we meant.”
He smiled thinly. “Right. I forgot.”
“And your rule was that we wouldn’t reveal to anyone else what was said in these conversations. So feel free to malign the memory of my uncle if it makes you feel better.” Especially if it helped her to understand the undercurrents that eddied between him and his half siblings.
“That would never make me feel better. I admired my stepfather.” He returned his gaze to the dogs. “But I only knew him as that for a few years. I was five when he married my mother, and ten when I left home.”
“I thought boys didn’t go to Eton until thirteen.”
“I . . . er . . . didn’t go to Eton right away. I went to live with my aunt and uncle.”
“And why is that?”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him. But his hand gripping the leash said otherwise.
“So it’s to be a guessing game, is it?” she teased, remembering their first meeting.
His baleful gaze shot to her. “It’s a boring tale.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that? You did say you wanted us to get to know each other.”
Calculation flashed in his eyes. “Fine. I’ll tell you. If you show me the bridge where my stepfather died.”
She ventured a soft smile. “I understand. Gravesites themselves mean nothing to me, either. I wanted to be at the last place my father was on earth. I couldn’t, of course, since no one would tell me where the duel occurred, but I used to imagine that if I could go there, I might find his spirit lurking about, waiting to impart some last profound message.” She looked down at her hands. “It’s silly, I know.”
“Not the least silly.” He came toward her, the dogs finally having finished their business. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
She fell into step beside him. “You’re a lover of Shakespeare?”
“More of a connoisseur. I like the major works and, within those, the best lines.” He smiled faintly at her. “Not that I had a choice. The whole playwright thing, remember? Mother does love her plays. We often acted out scenes in my youth.” His gaze turned searching. “And speaking of mothers, you never mention yours. Dare I ask why?”
“My mother died bearing me, I’m afraid.”
Pity flashed in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I never knew her, so I never realized what I was missing. And I had my grandmother to look after me until Joshua returned from the war.”
“Then you started looking after him.”
“Yes, I . . .” It suddenly dawned on her what Grey was doing. She stared him down. “You’re very adept, sir, at shifting the conversation away from yourself. We were supposed to be talking about you and why you returned to England at ten.”
He shot her a rueful glance. “You noticed that maneuver, did you?”
“My brother used to be a master at it. Now he doesn’t even bother to use a strategy—he just grunts and growls and expects me to leave him be. You’re more polite at it while essentially doing the same thing. So let’s return to the subject of how you ended up back in England so young.”
Reining Hector in before the pointer could dart after a hare, Grey released a long breath. “My father died when I was a babe. He left behind a will that named his only brother, Eustace, as my guardian. Fortunately for me, my uncle preferred to leave me with my mother. For a while, anyway.”
“Oh? What changed all that?”
His mood darkened so dramatically that even the dogs noticed and came up to nuzzle his hand. He rubbed their heads idly to reassure them before going on.
“After my cousin Vanessa was born, my aunt was told she could have no more children. Which meant that my uncle had no heir to his estate or even to mine, if something happened to me. So he exercised his guardianship rights, went to Berlin to fetch me, and brought me back to England to be taught by him to run the dukedom.”
The hard tone of his voice whenever he mentioned his uncle told her there was more to the story. She tested out that theory. “How selfless of your uncle to take that on when he wouldn’t benefit from it.”
“Selfless,” he said in an acid tone. “Right.”
“Did you not think him selfless?”
He shot her a cold glance. “I answered your question, Beatrice. That should suffice.”
Hardly. But she let it go, and instead focused on another aspect of his tale. “Did you ever go back to Berlin to visit your family?”
“No. Either I was too young or the Revolution prevented me from traveling through France to get there or I was in school or . . . There was always some reason I couldn’t go, some reason they couldn’t come here.”
Oh, the poor boy. “So essentially you were orphaned at ten, as surely as if they’d died.”
His gaze sharpened on her. “You’re the first person to see it like that. Everyone else outside my family considers me lucky to have been allowed to return to almighty England before Napoleon came to power.”
Her heart ached for him. She couldn’t imagine being uprooted from her home and forced to live with people she barely knew. “When you came here, did you have memories of your uncle and aunt to reassure you? Or of being in England before?”
“Not really.” He mused a moment. “I barely remember my mother’s second husband, who was Thorn’s father. I do recall making a fuss about my naptime the day of Mother’s wedding to Maurice. And I remember my grandmother a bit, since she took charge of me at the wedding reception. I have a few vague memories of playing in the garden at Thornstock Castle. I fell and split my chin open on a paving stone.” He lifted his chin to show her. “There’s a scar that’s too faint to see. But you can feel it. Here, I’ll show you.”
He halted so he could tuck the leashes under his arm and take her hand to draw off her glove. Then he pressed her fingers to his chin in an act so intimate that she caught her breath.
But it wasn’t a trick or a sneaky way to catch a look down her gown or press against her chest. Grey was a gentleman. Nothing like her sly uncle.
She could tell because he kept his eyes, now green in the muted forest light, on her. “I do . . . feel a bit of a scar.” She also felt the faint roughness of his shaved whiskers and the tautening of his jaw at her touch.
Oh, Lord. This was unwise.
Hastily she dropped her hand, retrieved her glove, and donned it once more. Then she walked on, her pulse doing a mad dance.
When he followed her and began to speak again, his voice sounded ragged. “Anyway,
I guess my nursemaid was woolgathering that day.”
“She must have been, to allow the little duke to hurt himself.”
He continued beside her a few moments in a silence only punctured by the crackle of leaves beneath their feet and the snuffling of the dogs as they examined every inch of the trail.
“It’s odd, but I don’t remember the nursemaid at all.” Then he lightened his tone. “Though I do remember our nanny in Berlin. She was a stout German widow who enjoyed sweets . . . and loved sharing them with us. We adored her.”
She matched his light tone. “Who wouldn’t adore a steady supply of sweets?”
He snorted. “When Mother found out, she was apoplectic and made Father admonish Nanny to not give us so many.”
She pounced on that. “So you do call Uncle Maurice ‘Father’ sometimes.”
“I suppose I do,” he said ruefully. “I always did when I was a boy. I just . . . After they sent me away, I . . .”
“Resented them for doing so. I can only imagine. Berlin was your home.”
A soft smile crossed his lips. “Exactly.”
“And I take it you didn’t like your aunt and uncle here very much?”
The smile faded. “No.”
When he offered nothing else, she took pity on him and picked up the thread of conversation. “I understand. As I’m sure you deduced from the other night, I was the same age as you when my father died. It’s a difficult age to lose a parent. Or both parents, in your case.”
Still, he said nothing. Apparently, his tales of being a child in Berlin were over.
“But I did have my grandparents,” she went on, “whom I adored every bit as much as you did your nanny. Although sadly they weren’t as generous with the sweets.”
That seemed to crack his reserve. “A grievous fault in any guardian of children, to be sure.” He slanted a glance at her. “What about your brother? How did he feel about your grandparents?”
She shrugged. “He liked them well enough, I suppose. But he never really lived with them. Joshua is five years older than I, so Grandfather bought him a commission in the Royal Marines after he turned sixteen, then packed him off to the Continent.”
Project Duchess Page 7
