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.
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.”