Chapter 8
“Ithought I might find you here.”
Greys turned away from the eyepiece to record his observations to paper, not as annoyed as he usually would be to be interrupted in his observatory. “Clear night,” he answered.
“How was your evening?” Blackheart folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe.
Greys shifted his stare to his impertinent butler. “Troublesome, if you really must know.”
“And by troublesome, are you referring to Lady Isabella or Miss Diana Jones?” The duke sauntered inside, turned a chair backward, and sat down to face Greys with all-too-knowing eyes. At Greys’ incredulous stare, Blackheart shrugged his shoulders. “Servants are the backbone of all good gossip. Surely you haven’t forgotten that?”
But of course. Rather than belabor the point, Greys frowned at his current circumstances. “What the hell was Chaswick thinking?”
“That his sisters deserved more than his father gave them?”
“Yes. Yes. Of course. But bringing them into society doesn’t make sense. They are ladies, but they are not, in fact, genuine ladies.”
Blackheart cocked a brow.
“You know my meaning. Of course, they areladies. But although they carry Chaswick’s blood, half their ancestors are completely unknown.”
“So, what would you suggest?” Blackheart played an excellent devil’s advocate.
“Teaching. Acting as companion or governess for a respectable family.” Greys suggested hopefully.
“Chaswick has landed the elder Miss Jones a teaching position at Miss Primm’s, and Miss Diana will attract an appropriate suitor soon enough.”
Blackheart might be right about the elder Miss Jones, but as far as her younger sister, he didn’t know what he was talking about.
Good God, she’d all but threatened to apply for the ballet. The irony was, Greys could see Diana as a dancer or performer. She possessed a charisma and distinctive grace that was rare.
Chances of her ever garnering any respectability in such a career, however, fell somewhere between slim and none. Her brother was right in wanting her to have a better life than the one she’d been raised to expect. She deserved to be taken care of. If she wished to dance privately for her husband, by chance, then that was something else altogether.
“You are attracted to her,” Blackheart observed.
“An anomaly,” Greys dismissed. But was it? Even if the attraction persisted, there was nothing he could do about it.
“You cannot set her up as your mistress,” his friend remarked, as though Greys lacked any intelligence whatsoever.
“Obviously,” Greys groused. Damned Blackheart for his uncanny ability to read minds.
Greys was going to find himself dueling one of his best friends if Chaswick ever so much as suspected he’d considered such an option.
That being said, Greys couldn’t marry her either.
Marriage was not something one used to solidify romantic inclinations, but instead a tool for strengthening one’s estate and political influence.
“And how are matters progressing with Lady Isabella?”
“Who?”
“Lord Huntly’s daughter? The woman you have determined is, in fact, worthy of becoming the next Marchioness Greystone?”
Greys shot Blackheart another scowl. “I haven’t initiated courting her yet. I intend to see to Diana first.”
“See toDiana?” If the damned duke’s eyebrows shot up any higher, they’d disappear entirely into his hair.
“I’ve agreed to help her settle into theTon,” Greys explained.
