Not her. She was used to dealing with the arrogance of lords.
He shifted his frosty gaze to her. “Well?” he demanded. “What are those?”
“They’re funeral biscuits,” she said stiffly, put off by his manner. “It’s the custom hereabouts to provide them to mourners along with a glass of port.”
“Is it, indeed?” he said, removing his costly beaver hat. “Or is it just something the local undertaker uses to plump up his bill for people like my mother? I’ve never heard of such a custom.”
“Oh, well then, ifyou’venever heard of the custom, it must not exist,” she said, unable to govern her temper. “Anything that doesn’t happen in London is insignificant to your sort, isn’t it?”
The remark seemed to take him aback, as well it ought, given that she should never have said such a thing to a man who was grieving. Why oh why had she spoken her mind? She usually tried to restrain that impulse, but it was hard when the duke was being such an arse.
Don’t use the word “arse,” even in your head.Thanks to her brother, that was her other problem: a tendency to curse like a sailor. At least she hadn’t cursed aloud.
To her surprise, amusement glinted in his eyes. Which she realized, now that they were fixed on her, weren’t green, but a cerulean blue, as if nature had twirled the blue of his mother’s eyes with the green of his half brother’s to produce an unearthly hue all its own.
It unsettled her. As did the disarming smile Greycourt flashed at her, which softened the sharp angles of his face. “I take it you are not the daughter of the local undertaker that I mistook you for.”
This time shedidresist the urge to rail at him. For pity’s sake, an undertaker’s daughter? A pox on him! “No, I am not,” she said icily.
His smile widened, though it didn’t yet reach his eyes. “You’re not going to tell me who you are, are you?”
“Clearly you prefer to make your own assumptions.” Oh, Lord, there she went again, saying whatever came into her head.
Greycourt chuckled. “So it’s to be a guessing game, is it?” His gaze drifted down her in a glance that assessed her attire without making her feel as if he were gawking at her feminine attributes, such as they were. “Well, you’re clearly not a servant. No servant would dress so well.”
“You’re too kind, sir,” she said in a voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her tone got a laugh out of him. “Come now, tell me who you are, for I swear I’m at a loss. And I begin to think I’d like to know the answer.”
Uh-oh.
At that moment, she was saved by the approach of none other than Sheridan. “Grey!” he cried. “Youdidcome! Mother will be so pleased.”
Greycourt clapped his half brother on the shoulder with obvious affection. “How is she?”
Sheridan sighed. “She’ll be better now that you’re here.”
Was that guilt that crossed Greycourt’s face? If so, it softened her toward him. A little, anyway.
“I would have arrived sooner,” he said, “but I was traveling and the letter didn’t reach me until yesterday.”
Sheridan turned to include Beatrice in the conversation. “You see, Bea? I told you he might have trouble receiving word.”
“You did, indeed.” That wasn’t all Sheridan had told her, but she didn’t figure it wise to point it out, even if Greycourthadrubbed her wrong.
“I take it you two have met?” Sheridan asked.
“Not formally, no,” Greycourt said, shooting her a wry look that flummoxed her.
“Well, then,” Sheridan said, “Bea, as you may have deduced, this is my brother Grey.”
“Half brother,” Greycourt corrected him.
Sheridan scowled. “You just had to make the distinction, didn’t you?”
“If I didn’t, the lady would be confused. Since you’re the heir to the Armitage dukedom, she’d be forced to wonder if I am merely much younger than I look or if I’m illegitimate. I am neither, so I thought it best to clarify.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” Beatrice said with false sweetness. “Not all of us make assumptions without being aware of the facts.”
