“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.”