with a forced smile. “His lordship objected to the funeral biscuits, that’s all.”
Greycourt’s eyes gleamed at her. Apparently, it hadn’t escaped him that she hadn’t actually accepted his apology.
“Ah,” Sheridan said, “they’re frightful, aren’t they? But the undertaker assured us that they’re a requirement for any funeral in Sanforth.”
“Did he?” Greycourt said, sparing a meaningful glance for her that roused her temper again.
“Trust me,” Beatrice said frostily, “if there were no funeral biscuits and port before the procession, the entire county would gossip about the family.”
“Yes, all our staff said the same,” Sheridan said. “Cook was mortified at the very possibility of our neglecting to offer them. But I still think they’re dreadful. Sorry, Bea.”
“They are dreadful,” she conceded, torn between pleasing her cousin and sticking her tongue out at Greycourt. Which would be childish, but enormously satisfying. “We had so many left after Papa’s funeral that we and the staff were eating them for months. To this day, I can’t abide the taste.”
The glint of pity in Greycourt’s eyes made her regret having said so much. A decent man might be lurking somewhere deep in there—very deep—but she still didn’t like his pitying her.
“Speaking of staff,” Sheridan said, glancing about the foyer, “where have the footmen gone off to? Poor Grey is still standing here with hat in hand.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, annoyed with herself for neglecting to call one. No wonder Greycourt thought her a country bumpkin. “I’ll take his coat and hat.”
Sheridan caught her arm before she could reach for them. “No need. I’ll do it.” He shot Greycourt a side glance. “Bea has been working dawn to dusk to help us prepare for the funeral. I’m afraid we’re rather short-staffed, and she knows more about what’s needed than anyone.”
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Wolfe.” Greycourt even sounded as if he meant it.
Perhaps she’d been too hasty to judge him. When he wasn’t making assumptions, he wasn’t all that bad.
A footman rushed into the entry hall. “Forgive me, Your Grace, we were in the back and didn’t hear the carriage.” He hurried over to take Greycourt’s coat and hat. Bobbing his head at Sheridan, he added, “It won’t happen again, Your Grace.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sheridan said genially. “I know everyone has their hands full.”
As the footman headed off, Greycourt murmured, “Careful, Sheridan. You’re the master here now. You don’t want your servants walking all over you. It’s important to establish boundaries from the beginning.”
And just like that, Beatrice was reminded of why he’d rubbed her wrong. Yes, he was somewhat attractive, with his straight white teeth, chiseled features, rumpled black hair, and gorgeous eyes, but he was also a superior arse who thought he owned the world. She was never going to like him.
Never.
Chapter Three
Sheridan said something about going to see their mother, and Grey was willing to follow, especially when Miss Wolfe went along.
Most in society would disapprove of her looks, since she’d clearly never met a ray of sunshine she didn’t like, as evidenced by her golden skin and the sprinkle of freckles across her peachy cheeks. The gossips would criticize her bold walk and murmur over her full, sensual lips and coffee-hued eyes, not to mention the thin wisps of straight, nut-brown hair that kept escaping her fat chignon. Straight hair and dark eyes weren’t fashionable just now.
But he had never let fashion dictate to him. The idea of trying to unwind that hair to see how far it fell sparked an unwise heat in his blood. Despite himself, her energy did the same, making him wonder how she might use that energy in bed. And when she moved ahead as they headed for the stairs, he didn’t mind getting another look at her ample bottom, which would fill a man’s hands nicely.
Her turned-up nose just made him want to laugh. She obviously disapproved of him. That wasn’t surprising, given his reputation, which wasn’t entirely unfounded. He had sown his wild oats in his early days of freedom from his aunt and uncle’s control.
But that hadn’t lasted nearly as long as the reputation he’d gained from it, which was evidenced by Miss Wolfe’s reaction. Still, it was usually the matchmaking mamas who despaired of him and not their daughters.
That made him wonder—where was the chit’s mother? And why was he not familiar with this branch of the Wolfe family? He supposed that wasn’t surprising, given how little he’d seen his family in the past twenty-odd years. Before that, he’d been paying less