Undercover Duke

believing that of him. It didn’t seem in his character, although Lord knows she could be wrong, given how he’d shocked her with his passionate kiss.
And he’d just made it fairly clear he wasn’t interested in marrying for any reason, money or affection, which meant he probably wasn’t interested in courting her in truth.
“Suit yourself,” she said with a sniff, tired of trying to unravel his secrets. “But don’t blame me if you end up alone and miserable at the end of your days.”
“With a family like mine always hovering about?” he said dryly. “That’s unlikely. Even if I outlive my brother and half siblings, they’re busily trying to fill up their nurseries even as we speak. I’m sure there will be little Greys and Gwyns and Thorns and Heywoods running about wreaking havoc for generations to come.”
She halted to fix him with an earnest look. “Having nieces and nephews isn’t the same as having your own children.”
“How would you know? You have none.”
“True. But I hope to one day.”
“Little Junckers, I suppose?”
“Who else?” she said lightly.
The edge in his voice mitigated some of her distress at hearing him so set against marriage. Somehow she would bring him around. Whatever reasons he had for being determined not to marry could be dismissed if she could make him care for her enough. Because when he went to marry her, she didn’t want him to be forced into it. Her parents had possessed such a marriage, and it hadn’t gone well.
So that would not do at all.

Chapter Four
When Sheridan arrived at the supper, the Thorncliff ballroom was already abuzz with spirited discussions, coming mostly from members of his family. He could only imagine what the place would be like once all the guests arrived.
Thorn’s new wife, Olivia, approached him with a worried expression. “It’s my first affair as Thorn’s hostess. Please tell me I’m not out of my depth.”
“If you are, I’m sure Thorn or Mother would have told you already,” he said as he pressed her hand.
“Your mother is too kind to ever say a bad word about me. And Thorn’s not here yet. He’s still at the Parthenon, trading stories about theater life with Mr. Juncker. Oh, and taking apart tonight’s performance.”
“Yes, my brother is nothing if not critical of theatrical productions.”
“You can hardly blame him for caring what is done to his plays,” she said absently as she scanned the ballroom entrance for approaching guests.
“His plays?”
Olivia’s gaze shot to him. “Oh! Oh, no. I-I meant Mr. Juncker’s plays . . . Of course I meant that. Mr. Juncker’s plays.”
“Olivia?” he said in that tone one used in trying to elicit the truth.
“What?” She smiled brightly.
He wasn’t fooled. Thorn might be able to talk his way out of hell itself, but his wife was very bad at dissembling, something Sheridan had learned almost upon meeting her. “Tell the truth now. Is it possible . . . Are you trying to say that Thorn wrote the Felix plays?”
She crumpled before his very eyes. “I thought you knew. I-I just assumed, since you’re his brother and you were talking about it as if—” She seized his hand. “You can’t tell my husband I told you. You mustn’t. No one knows.”
“No one? Seriously?”
“Not a soul!” She paused. “Well, Gwyn knows and Mr. Juncker, of course. Oh, and my mother—I told her when I first found out.”
“Yet not a soul knows,” he said, trying not to laugh.
“Don’t tease me.” She tapped her chin. “Actually, Mama doesn’t know. I told her that Mr. Juncker had written about . . . um . . . stories Thorn had told him. So there are really only three people who know, counting me.”
“And Thorn. And me.”
“Well, of course Thorn knows. As for you, that was accidental. But no one else in your family, not even your mother, is aware of it. The theater owner himself still believes they’re Mr. Juncker’s plays.”
Sheridan was having a hard time not grinning. Juncker wasn’t so brilliant after all. Ha! So much for Vanessa’s infatuation. She was mooning over the wrong man. He couldn’t wait to tell her that her precious Juncker was a fraud.
Well, not entirely a fraud. When Grey had first mentioned Vanessa’s interest in Juncker, Grey had said the man was a poet. What if her primary reason for liking Juncker was his poetry? If so, then telling her the truth about the playwriting might not alter her interest in the man one whit. Unless . . .
“What about Juncker’s poems?” he asked. “Did my brother write those, too?”
“Good Lord, no.” Olivia eyed him askance. “Thorn isn’t the least bit keen on poetry. Don’t you know that?”
He sighed. “I suppose I should. We had the same tutors in Prussia. But I didn’t much pay attention to what Thorn was reading.”
Because Father had given Sheridan other things to read—books about diplomacy and strategy and the art of conversation. Sadly, Father hadn’t thought to give Sheridan any tomes on accounting, which was mostly what Sheridan seemed to be doing these days. And not as well as he’d like, either. He hated arithmetic. The numbers never seemed to come out right for him, a fact that Father had never let him forget once they’d returned to England and Sheridan had become the heir presumptive.
Father. God, why must his grief over the man he’d spent his whole life trying to understand hit him at such odd moments? It reminded him he had more important things to do than worry about the ducal estate. All of them did. “I don’t suppose you’ve had the chance to question your mother about the house parties she attended.”
“No.” With a wry expression, she added, “Thorn had said he must do it, but Mama has taken quite a liking to him, and he’s reluctant to do anything that might change that.” Olivia moved closer and lowered her voice. “Speaking of Thorn, please promise me you won’t tell anyone else about his playwriting. And especially not any of