think he would never prey on her in such a way, anyway—it chafed him. Because it meant she could rid herself of her desire for him more easily than he seemed able to rid himself of his for her.
Her continued silence irritated him, prompting him to say what he shouldn’t to get a rise out of her. “I suspect that Mother’s real reason for absenting herself today is to play matchmaker by allowing Gwyn to have your brother all to herself. And me to have you all to myself.”
At last he got a reaction. The stare she gave him would have frozen steam. “You should have told her that wouldn’t work. As you’ve made quite clear, you’re not looking for a wife. Or at least not one like me.”
That was not what he’d intended her to think, and she knew it. “Damn it, Beatrice—”
Gwyn chose that moment to hurry down the stairs. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” She walked up to kiss Beatrice on both cheeks. “Do forgive me for being late. My maid was having such a time fixing my hair. Every little lock of it went whatever direction it wished, no matter how hard she worked. And she’s usually a magician. But then, it takes a magician to control my unruly curls.”
“At least you have curls.” Beatrice smiled. “My hair lies flat and straight no matter what I do.”
Gwyn shook her head as the footman helped her on with her black pelisse. “Your hair is lovely as always.” Then she glanced about. “Where is your brother?”
“He’s outside with the dogs. We decided—”
“Now see here, Miss Wolfe,” Grey broke in, his temper finally boiling over, “why didn’t you give Gwyn the lecture about asking where your brother is?”
Beatrice lifted one eyebrow. “Because she greeted me properly before she asked the question.”
His sister chuckled. “Let me guess: You arrived and Grey started barking commands disguised as questions. Is that about right?”
“You know your brother so well,” Beatrice said, smirking at Grey.
Gwyn sniffed. “I hope you gave him what for.”
“Of course.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Grey muttered, annoyed with their game. “I’m standing right here, you know.”
Gwyn sauntered up to him. “Aw, poor Grey, forced to be with women who don’t drop into frantic curtseys every time he enters a room.”
“Careful, you impudent rebel,” he warned, “or I’ll scandalize society by asking you to dance at a ball.”
“Pish-posh, I don’t care,” Gwyn said. “I’ll dance with my brother if I please. A little scandal never hurt anyone.”
Beatrice’s face fell. “I do hope you’re right. Because with me they’ll have more than a little scandal to gnaw on.”
“Of course I’m right, Bea.” Gwyn linked her arm through Beatrice’s to lead her toward the door. “We’ll take on society as the vestal virgins of the ton. The gossips might whisper about us behind their hands, but not for long. We have three dukes on our side—no one will dare spread scandal about us or give us the cut direct.”
“Gwyn has a point, Miss Wolfe. You’ll be surrounded by dukes.”
“Two of whom are infamous themselves, Bea,” Gwyn said archly, “so no one will be talking about you, I promise. They’ll be too busy gossiping about Thorn and Grey even while throwing their daughters into my brothers’ paths at every turn.”
“Won’t they be doing the same for Sheridan?” Grey asked.
Gwyn laughed. “Of course. But any gossip about him will be about his saintly character.”
“Right,” Grey said with a bit of sarcasm. Saint Sheridan. His younger brother would hate that moniker, although it suited him.
“Now,” Gwyn said, patting Beatrice’s hand as they walked to the door arm in arm, “what’s this about dogs?”
Grey followed the ladies, but heard not a word of their chatter. He doubted that the gossips would focus on Sheridan’s saintly character if the man uncovered a plot by his relations to murder his father and uncle. That would rouse a different sort of rumors.
And Beatrice would pay the price.
The thought disturbed Grey. He hadn’t considered what would happen to her if her brother was accused of murder. Even if she hadn’t been involved in the plot, she would never again be able to raise her head in polite society. The gossips would dredge up the old scandal about her father’s death by duel, then say that his son had followed in his violent footsteps. They’d add nasty remarks about the major’s lameness, too. When they were done with him, they’d turn to tarring and feathering her for being related to the heinous fellow.