“Nonsense. It merely takes practice. You can’t go out into society for months, anyway. So you have plenty of time.”
“I keep telling her that.” Grey approached to stand on her other side. “But she still worries.”
Beatrice felt trapped between the two brothers, neither of whom she could trust anymore. “I merely don’t want to disappoint my benefactors, Your Grace,” she said in a cool voice, trying to hide how much Grey’s presence agitated her.
Grey flashed her an exasperated look that she ignored.
The next few hours were taken up with learning the cotillion and quadrille . . . and choking down her anger at Grey. Fortunately, the dancing lessons finally ended for the day when dinner was announced. Although Aunt Lydia asked her to join them, Beatrice got out of it by protesting she didn’t want to leave her brother to dine alone. That enabled her to flee before it got dark, so that neither of the men felt obliged to accompany her.
For once, when she got home to find Joshua gone, she was relieved because it meant she didn’t have to keep pretending another minute. Somehow she must get through the next few weeks—or however long Grey was here—without giving anything away. If she could keep from rousing his suspicions, all would be well.
Then she’d just have to pray she never saw his face again.
Chapter Fourteen
To Beatrice’s vast relief, the next two days fell into a comfortable pattern—dancing at the hall during the day and dining at the dower house with her brother at night. Since Sheridan was too busy to help instruct them, they could dance no more cotillions and quadrilles. Instead, Grey took turns partnering her or Gwyn as his mother played a succession of tunes for jigs, reels, and other country dances. Since Beatrice knew those figures, she ended up being the one to teach Gwyn.
It became clear that Grey, while capable of performing any dance, wasn’t fond of the entertainment. It required going into society, and, as he repeatedly stated, he’d rather “live out his days as a hermit than endure an hour with those self-important dullards.” Sometimes he sounded exactly like her brother. How odd was that?
At least she was evading his questions. She made sure they were never alone, even when he tried to maneuver it otherwise. After dealing with Uncle Armie, she was good at that. And when they danced, she kept up a steady stream of queries about London society and the behavior expected of her.
That was how she learned how intensely Grey disliked theton. His feelings emerged in snide asides about the rules and cutting remarks about the people. Beatrice might not trust him with her own secrets, but he did always seem to speak the truth about society. So by the end of their third day of lessons, she’d begun to wonder if the glittering mass of accomplished lords and ladies she feared meeting in London might not prove to be merely a larger group of the people she’d already been dealing with in Sanforth, with the same petty vanities, prejudices, and propensity to gossip. If so, then she might manage this debut nonsense perfectly well after all.
On Sunday, their fourth day, there were no lessons since they went to services. Afterward, while everyone else was chatting, she let herself feast her eyes on Grey.
Why must he look sodelicioustoday? He always dressed casually at the house, but for church he’d donned a suit of black superfine wool that set off his ebony hair most attractively, and a waistcoat of figured white silk that made her think of the frothing waters of the river running past the dower house. Even the folds of his cravat evoked rolling clouds on a windy day.
Unfortunately, he caught her staring and broke away from the others to come toward her. She should head somewhere else, but her guard was down. Otherwise, why was she standing here like a ninny, watching him approach?
“Why isn’t your brother here?” he asked.
Her heart sank. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? I’m not my brother’s keeper.”
She regretted the blunt words when he searched her face, then drawled, “I would if I could. But he avoids me almost as much as you do.”
“I don’t avoid you. I’ve danced with you nearly every day.”
His gaze heated as it skimmed her. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
She nearly bit off her tongue to keep from throwing his perfidy at him. Instead, she focused on his question, which oddly seemed safer right now. “Joshua never comes to services. He says he can’t stand to attend anymore. I assume it has to do with the war and the men he saw die when he was fighting for God and country.”
“Perhaps.” He stared her down. “Or perhaps there’s another reason. Church often holds a mirror up to one’s actions.”
Lord save her, Grey was saying what she dared not—that perhaps Joshua felt too guilty to attend. She nearly protested that Joshua hadn’t attended services since long before Uncle Armie died, but she caught herself before she revealed that she knew what Grey was up to.
Even as her chest tightened and her hands shook, she fought to seem nonchalant. “Or perhaps Joshua doesn’t like the music.” Then she forced herself to walk away.
Let Grey have his suspicions. She wouldn’t be the one to betray her brother—especially since she didn’t know his secrets.
The next day, when she arrived at the hall, she was surprised to find that they were to be taking a break from dancing for the day. Instead, they were to receive instruction on etiquette rules for the ballroom, provided jointly by Grey and Aunt Lydia.
It went on forhours. Sheridan, who’d joined them at his mother’s insistence, and Gwyn periodically chimed in to either voice their opinions . . . or mock what Grey and Aunt Lydia said, depending on the rule.
Beatrice couldn’t blame them. There were somanyrules, like how and when a lady was to curtsey upon meeting a gentleman, which involved keeping one’s head in line with the upper part of the body and not flexing one’s limbs too much. They actually made her and Gwyn practice it!
She and Gwyn were also instructed in who could dance with whom, though that seemed to depend upon whether the ball was private, public, or impromptu. One rule was sacrosanct, apparently—brothers and sisters weren’t allowed to dance together. Which meant poor Gwyn couldn’t fall back on her brothers as partners at a ball.
“But Mama,” Gwyn said, “what if none of these toplofty gentlemen asks me? How am I to show off my ability on the dance floor if I’m forced to stand on the sidelines because of some silly rule about not dancing with my brothers?”
