Project Duchess. Sabrina Jeffries

He grinned slyly at Beatrice. “You may have noticed, Miss Wolfe, that all of us are named after dramatists.”

      Beatrice hadn’t noticed, actually. She ran through their Christian names in her head: Thornstock’s was Marlowe, Greycourt’s was Fletcher, and then there were Sheridan and Heywood. All playwrights, yes. How odd.

      Then something occurred to her. “But not Lady Gwyn, right?”

      “I am named after an actress,” Lady Gwyn said in an arch tone. “There aren’t enough female playwrights of renown, and Mother could hardly name me Inchbald or Behn, so she chose to name me after Nell Gwyn. Thankfully, everyone assumes that Gwyn was taken from some Welsh ancestor of ours.”

      “Nell Gwyn was one of the most famous actresses of her age,” her mother said with a sniff. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

      “Poor Nelly was also a ‘famous’ mistress of Charles II, Mother,” Greycourt said dryly. “The Prince of Wales even owns a portrait of her in which she is wholly nude.”

      His mother eyed him suspiciously. “How do you know?”

      He shrugged. “I’ve seen it.” When she gasped, he added, “At a royal function. And my point is, I don’t blame our Gwyn for wanting to hide who her namesake is.”

      Neither did Beatrice. She couldn’t imagine having the origins of such a name become known. And here she’d always thought Papa mad for naming her after Dante’s one true love. At least her namesake had been virtuous. Only imagine what sly jokes Uncle Armie would have made if she’d actually been named after a loose-living actress.

      Greycourt turned to his sister. “If Mother isn’t going to the funeral, Gwyn, then you’re certainly not going. She needs someone with her.”

      Lady Gwyn frowned at him. “Bea will be here.”

      “That’s not the same, and you know it.”

      “Don’t insult Bea,” Lady Gwyn protested.

      “I’m not insulting anyone,” Greycourt said. “But Miss Wolfe hasn’t spent the years with Mother that you have. Mother would benefit from having you both here.”

      “Listen to your brother.” Aunt Lydia reached over to grab her daughter’s hand. “I’d like to have you with me.” She shot Beatrice a fond glance. “And Bea, of course.”

      Lady Gwyn huffed out a breath. “If I must. But I still think it’s wrong that I can’t attend Father’s funeral just because I’m a woman. For all intents and purposes, he was my father. So I have the right to grieve as much as Thorn or Grey or even Sheridan does.”

      “I agree,” Greycourt said, to Beatrice’s surprise. “There are any number of society’s rules I find wrong. But if you are to have a successful debut, you’ll have to follow some of them. At least until you can catch a husband.” He smiled at Beatrice. “You too, Miss Wolfe.”

      While she was wondering at that odd remark, Sheridan said, “This is probably as good a time as any to announce that Grey will be staying a few weeks so he can help Mother prepare Gwyn and Bea for their debuts.”

      “The devil he will!” Lady Gwyn cried.

      She’d taken the words out of Beatrice’s mouth. The very thought of the lofty Duke of Greycourt advising her on such matters made her heart falter.

      “What? Don’t you want me around, Gwyn?” Greycourt asked with an odd note in his voice.

      “Why would I?” Lady Gwyn shot back. “You can be very dictatorial. Mother will tell us everything we need to know.”

      “My dear,” Aunt Lydia said, “I haven’t been in English society in nearly thirty years. Things change. And I didn’t actually ever have a debut.” Her face clouded over. “Grey’s father and I met through family.”

      Bea looked at Greycourt, whose expression turned suddenly grim.

      “In any case,” the duchess went on, “men know things that it would behoove a woman to know, too. I refuse to see my daughter and niece head into society without a full awareness of its workings. And it wouldn’t hurt to have a man around who can stand in for dances.”

      Beatrice swallowed as an image of her stumbling through a dance with Greycourt leapt into her mind.

      “Why can’t Sheridan do it?” Lady Gwyn asked.

      With a glance at Greycourt, Sheridan said, “First of all, Sis, I need to focus on learning how to manage the estate. Second, I don’t know enough about debuts to instruct anyone, whereas Grey has been moving in society for years and was even involved in his cousin Vanessa’s coming out. Between him and Mother, you and Bea should have no trouble making a splash in society.”

      “I don’t want to make a splash in society,” Beatrice blurted out. When everyone’s gazes shot to her, she blushed. Still, she soldiered on. “I merely want to find a suitable husband.”

      So she could secure her future, and in the process, perhaps secure Joshua’s. Clearly, he wasn’t going to make any attempt in that direction.

      “I’m afraid those two go hand in hand these days, Miss Wolfe,” Greycourt said softly.

      “Even for a woman with no dowry and a father who died in a duel?” she snapped. “I daresay I’d be better off playing by the rules in hopes that some vicar or physician in need of a circumspect wife notices me. At least that sort of husband probably won’t die scandalously and leave me destitute the way Papa did.”

      Everyone gaped at her. Then they swiveled to look at Greycourt to see what he would say. Blast it, why did he bring out the worst in her? She’d spent years teaching herself not to speak her mind, yet when she was around him, things just came out.

      She dropped her gaze to the table. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to—”

      “First rule,” he said, a thread of amusement in his tone, “don’t apologize. For anything. You’re a duke’s granddaughter. You must walk into every room as if that duel was a single faux pas in a line of virtuous deeds. And why was it scandalous, anyway? If it was a matter of honor—”

      “I think it was more a matter of dishonor,” she said dryly, “although Grandmama wouldn’t confirm that.” Beatrice had heard it was fought over a mistress, but she wasn’t about to tell the lofty Greycourt that. “No one liked to talk about it.”

      “So it happened years ago, right?”

      “Sixteen years, actually,” Beatrice said.

      “Perfect. No one will remember. Hell, I had no idea of it.”

      “Fletcher Pryde!” his mother exclaimed. “You won’t be of any use to Gwyn and Bea if you use profanity in social situations.”

      Rather than murmuring his apologies the way Bea would, Greycourt laughed. “Mother, you haven’t been in society much in the past few years, have you? We’re at war. Gentlemen are scarce, and officers aren’t always nice with their language.”

      Aunt Lydia turned to Thornstock. “Is that true?”

      Thornstock snorted. “I wouldn’t know. To be honest, I avoid good society as if my life depended on it. Which it often does.”

      Alarm filled his mother’s face. “What does that mean?”

      “You don’t want to know, trust me,” Greycourt said, casting his half brother a quelling glance.

      But Beatrice wanted to know. She found everything about Aunt Lydia and her children fascinating. They were all so . . . so blunt and unapologetic. She’d never met anyone like them.

      Well, except Joshua. But he didn’t speak his mind in their entertaining fashion. For that matter, neither did she.

      “It will all be fine, Mother,” Greycourt went on. “You’ll see.