Chapter Ten
Iris went up to her bedchamber, threw herself down on her bed and lay there, staring up at the ceiling without seeing it.
Not once, during their brief betrothal and the long weeks of their courtship, had Lord Huntington ever looked at her like he had this afternoon. He’d never spoken to her in that soft, pleading voice, and he’d certainly never stroked a lock of her hair between his long fingers.
No, he’d waited until she’d jilted him for that.
Iris kicked her legs into the bed beneath her, giving in to the fit of temper squeezing her in its grip. He hadn’t looked at all like the cold, grand Marquess of Huntington when he’d clutched her shoulders and begged her to listen to him, had he? Looking into his burning eyes, she’d felt as if they were at a masque ball, and he’d torn off his masque to reveal he wasn’t at all the person she’d thought he was.
If he’d shown her even a hint of such passion before, they might still be betrothed, and she wouldn’t be in this mess.
But in it she was. She’d jilted a marquess, lied to her grandmother, compromised her sisters, and now here was Lord Huntington, claiming no lady but her would do for his marchioness. He was determined to drive a wedge between her and her one chance at putting things back to rights.
Lord Wrexley.
She gave in to the urge to behave like a child having a tantrum and beat her legs against the bed again. He hadn’t spared her any of his attention when they were betrothed, so how was it he couldn’t bear the idea of living without her now?
How had he put it when he barged into her bedchamber yesterday afternoon?
I reject your dismissal.
Gentlemen weren’t even permitted to reject a rejection, were they? It was against the rules. It wasn’t done, for pity’s sake. And why, in the name of all that was just, did he have to look so absurdly handsome when he was in a temper—
“Miss Somerset?” A soft knock sounded on the door. “It’s Lady Tallant.”
Iris jerked upright on the bed. Lady Tallant? What could she want?
Another faint knock. “May I come in?”
“Yes, of course.” Iris rushed to open the door. “Lady Tallant, this is a surprise.”
“Yes, it’s a day for surprises, isn’t it?”
She strolled into Iris’s bedchamber, closed the door with a firm click behind her, and regarded Iris in silence for a long moment.
Iris shifted from one foot to the other, her stomach fluttering with nerves under her ladyship’s penetrating stare. “How may I help, my lady?”
“It takes quite a lot to catch my attention, Miss Somerset, but I confess you and your game of rotating suitors has piqued my interest. Now, suppose you tell me what was so awful it would make you jilt a gentleman like Lord Huntington?”
Iris’s mouth fell open in horror.
Violet.
Before she could say a word, Lady Tallant held up a hand. “Now, don’t blame your sister. She had no choice but to tell us. You can’t truly believe you could hide this from Lady Hadley and Captain West for the next two weeks.”
“I didn’t intend to hide it. I—that is…” In truth, Iris hadn’t even considered it at all. She’d been so busy running after Lord Wrexley, and running away from Lord Huntington, the jilting itself had faded to the back of her mind. “Oh, no. Of course not. I had every intention of telling them, my lady.”
Lady Tallant raised a skeptical eyebrow at this, but she didn’t pursue it. Instead she took a seat on the chair in front of Iris’s dressing table, and waved a hand at the bed. “Do sit, Miss Somerset. I need to speak with you.”
Iris sat. One didn’t argue with a wicked widow.
“So, you’ve jilted a marquess. My, that’s not a sentence one often has a chance to say. You’re either the bravest young lady I’ve ever known, or the most foolish. Which is it?”
Iris tapped her finger against her lower lip, considering. “My courage has led me into foolishness, Lady Tallant. No, wait. That’s not right. Perhaps it’s the other way around.”
“Yes, it’s often difficult to tell the difference between the two, isn’t it? All right, then. Let’s start with something simple, shall we? Why did you jilt him?”
Iris’s litany of vague excuses rushed to her tongue, but it seemed she’d only been waiting for a chance to unburden herself, because much to her surprise, when she opened her mouth, the truth came pouring out.
“Because he wagered with Lord Harley and Lord Wrexley over which one of them would have Lady Honora and which would have me, and he only offered for me because he lost. Because he has a mistress, or he had one, and she’s awful. Because he wouldn’t kiss me, or let me kiss him, and because of the other bit with the blindfolds and silk scarves, though I can’t explain that because I don’t entirely understand it, and because he’s cold and detached, and he doesn’t care for me at all.”
Dear God, it sounds even worse when I say it aloud.
Iris sagged back against the bed, limp and exhausted.
Lady Annabel abandoned her seat at the dressing table, and sat down next to Iris. “Is that it?”
Iris turned to stare at her. “Isn’t that enough?”
Lady Annabel laughed. “For many young ladies I’d think it was more than enough, but only you can answer that question, Miss Somerset.”
Strangely, that laugh echoing in the quiet room soothed Iris. If Lady Tallant could laugh, then perhaps it wasn’t as dire as she imagined. “Well, I’ve jilted him, so I suppose I’ve already answered it, haven’t I?”
“Yes, one would think you had, and quite definitively, but there is one little matter still unresolved. If you’ve jilted Lord Huntington, what’s he doing here? Why would he accept the invitation to Lady Hadley’s house party?”
Iris gave the bed another half-hearted kick. “Oh, to save me from myself, of course. He’s come to inform me he’s ‘rejected my dismissal,’ which essentially means he’s insisting we go ahead with the marriage, despite the small matter of my having jilted him.”
Lady Tallant’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t realize gentlemen were permitted that option.”
“Oh, well, it seems a marquess is permitted to do whatever he wishes, Lady Tallant. Or perhaps that’s just the exalted Marquess of Huntington.”
Lady Tallant’s lips twitched. “Well, this is a rather fascinating state of affairs, and at a country house party, too. Who would have imagined? But Lord Huntington must be enamored of you, to chase you all the way to Hampshire.”
Iris snorted. “He’s indifferent to me, I assure you. Passion may not move Lord Huntington, but obligation does. He’s here to save me from an unworthy suitor. I’d hardly had a chance to scrape the dust from my boots after we arrived yesterday before Lord Huntington was in my bedchamber, demanding I marry him, and that I stay away from Lord Wrexley.”
Oh, dear God. She’d just told Lady Tallant Lord Huntington was in her bedchamber.
Iris waited in dread for her visitor to leap from her chair and rush to report this scandalous lapse in propriety to Captain West, but aside from a slight hardening of her features when Lord Wrexley’s name was mentioned, her ladyship didn’t react at all. “Lord Huntington doesn’t care for Lord Wrexley?”
“I think it’s safe to say they don’t care for each other, my lady.”
“Let me see if I understand you, Miss Somerset. Lord Huntington came all the way to Hampshire to insist you marry him, because he wants to protect you from a gentleman he thinks is unworthy of you? It doesn’t sound as if he’s as indifferent to you as you imagine.”
Iris blinked. She hadn’t thought of it in quite that way. “Lord Huntington is cold and detached, but he’s a proper gentleman, despite that awful wager. He realizes he left me no choice but to jilt him, and I suppose he feels a responsibility for me, for that reason.”
“He didn’t look cold or detached just now, when he chased you onto the terrace. He looked quite wild, in fact.”
He had.
Iris didn’t know how to account for those odd moments with Lord Huntington. This other gentleman who seemed to have risen from the ashes of the man she’d been betrothed to was so different from the cold marquess who’d always been so blandly unaffected by her, she hardly recognized him. She could almost imagine she’d wounded him with her words today, and then there was that odd comment he’d made, about never having run a race before. It didn’t make sense. Hadn’t every child run a race at some time or another?
I was never a child.
What could he have meant by that?
Something she’d heard Lady Beaumont say came back to her then, something about what Lord Huntington hid under his gentlemanly manners. She’d been referring to the worst of what he hid—the cravats and blindfolds and such—but what if there was something more? What if those stiff, cold manners hid something warmer, some passionate side of himself he kept hidden away?
And if they did, how would a lady go about unleashing it?
“Miss Somerset?” Lady Tallant was studying her with narrowed eyes. “Do you care for Lord Wrexley? Are you in love with him?”
Iris felt a pang of sadness close to her heart. Love, it seemed, had very little to do with marriage. “No, but that hardly matters now. I’ve jilted a marquess. Twice. I have to find another suitor, or my sisters will suffer because of my folly.”
“And you’ve chosen Lord Wrexley.”
Lady Tallant’s voice was inflectionless, but Iris sensed she didn’t care for Lord Wrexley any more than Lord Huntington did. “He’s lively and charming, but I confess it’s more a case of Lord Wrexley choosing me. Given my situation, I’m very lucky someone has. Only…”
She trailed off, and Lady Annabel leaned toward her, her blue eyes intent. “Only?”
Iris grabbed a pillow and pressed it to her chest. “I can’t trust myself to choose an honorable gentleman. I was mistaken about Lord Huntington, both in his character and in his affections for me. How can I be sure I won’t make the same mistake with Lord Wrexley? How can I know if he’s what he appears to be, any more than Lord Huntington was?”
Lady Annabel nodded, but she didn’t speak, and as the silence stretched, Iris began to realize she was angry. With Lord Huntington, and with her grandmother. With all of London, and with herself. “It’s rather unfair, isn’t it? Instead of all that time spent practicing the pianoforte and learning to flirt a fan, why don’t they teach young ladies something useful?”
“What would you suggest?”
“Things like how to tell if a gentleman’s affection is sincere, or if he’s even a gentleman at all. Even if a lady does manage to unearth a decent one among the rakes and fortune-hunters, how can she make him fall in love with her? To be truthful, Lady Tallant, a part of me understands why Lord Huntington would prefer Lady Beaumont to me.”
“Ah, so Lady Beaumont is Lord Huntington’s mistress?”
“Not anymore, but yes, she was, and I’m not a match for her, am I? No respectable young lady is a match for a courtesan, or a gentleman’s mistress. I can’t compete with Lady Beaumont, or anyone like her when it comes to the…well, that business with the silk scarves.”
Iris glanced at Lady Tallant from the corner of her eye, but if her ladyship was shocked about the silk scarves, she hid it well.
“Yes, you said something about that before—silk scarves and blindfolds, I believe? Perhaps you should explain what you mean.”
“Well, it seems Lord Huntington enjoys…” Iris could feel the heat rising in her face, but if a lady couldn’t discuss silk scarves and blindfolds with a wicked widow, who could she discuss it with? “Blindfolds, and, ah…scarves and cravats and the like, for, um…binding.”
“Ah. I see.”
Iris waited, breath held, for Lady Tallant to ask her to explain how she could possibly know such a thing about Lord Huntington, but her ladyship only assessed Iris with a clinical eye. “That’s why you jilted him, then? Because you were disgusted by it?”
Iris hesitated, but again, she had a wicked widow at her disposal. If she didn’t confess the truth to Lady Tallant, she’d never confess it to anyone. “No. I should have been, but I wasn’t. Only…curious.”
There was a long silence, and before it was over Iris had squeezed her eyes shut, overcome with mortification. Oh, why had she been so forthcoming? Now Lady Tallant would feel compelled to tell Charlotte, and, dear God, if it should get back to her grandmother—
“May I call you Iris, Miss Somerset?”
Iris’s eyes flew open. “I—yes, of course you may.”
“And you must call me Annabel. Now, Iris, you’ve asked several astute questions—questions most young ladies never think to ask—and I believe you deserve some answers. I’m willing to provide them, if you like.”
Iris stared dumbly at Lady Tallant for a moment, certain she’d misheard her, but as the words sunk in, she clapped her hands together, overwhelmed with relief. “Why, that would be wonderful! How kind you are, my lady!”
Lady Tallant brushed off the thanks with a wave of her hand. “I’m not kind, Iris, only ready to expire from boredom. I find country house parties tedious, and do this only for my own amusement.”
Iris didn’t care a whit about that. The offer was the important thing, not the motivation behind it. “May we start with garden seductions, my lady? I’m hopeless at them, and I’d rather not repeat the mortifying experience I had with Lord Huntington with Lord Wrexley.”
Lady Tallant held up her hand with a laugh. “Perhaps we’d better work our way up to seductions. There are several books I’d like you to read first. Reading is not, of course, a substitute for experience, but it’s a start.”
“Books?” That sounded dull.
“These are special books—not like anything you’ve ever read before. I think you’ll find them quite enlightening. Here, find me a pen and paper, and I’ll write down the titles.”
Iris fetched the supplies from her writing box, and Lady Tallant scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper, folded it, and handed it to her. “Here. If you can’t find any of these, I have other titles, but I daresay you’ll find one or more of them in the Hadley House library. Once you’ve finished them, come and see me.”
“I will. Thank you, Lady Tal—that is, Lady Annabel.”
An enigmatic smile drifted over Lady Annabel’s lips. “Oh, no, Iris. It’s I who should be thanking you.”
* * * *
Iris spent the remainder of the afternoon in her bedchamber. By the time she joined the rest of the party for dinner, she’d been through all forty-seven pages of Dialogues between a Lady and Her Maid.
Twice.
She was prickling with heat, and worried the scorching blush that bloomed when she read the words “…for in his arms you will find such pleasures…” would never fade from her cheeks.
Those words were on page one. In the first paragraph. In the first sentence. The remaining forty-six pages were devoted to a detailed description of those pleasures.
Iris blotted some of the dampness from her forehead with the sleeve of her pale blue gown. Dear God, she could never wear another innocent pink gown again, now she’d read about Octavia and Philander’s bedchamber antics.
She was too wicked for pink.
“Are you unwell, Miss Somerset?” Lord Wrexley, who was seated across the table from her, raised his wine glass to his lips, frowning as his gaze lingered on her red cheeks. “You look flushed.”
Iris raised her fingertips to her face. “I’m quite well, my lord, only a bit warm.”
“It’s not overly warm in here.” Violet, who was seated to her left, turned from her conversation with Lord Derrick to frown at Iris. “My goodness, Iris. You look like a teakettle about to boil over. Whatever is the matter with you?”
Iris stretched a ferocious smile over her gritted teeth and turned this frightening look upon her sister. “Nothing at all, dear, but you’re so kind to enquire.”
Nothing, that is, except she couldn’t bring herself look at any of the gentlemen in the room, especially Lord Huntington, which wasn’t right at all, since of the four gentlemen at the table, she was the least fond of him. Yet she caught her gaze wandering to him again and again, far more often than any of the others. The one small mercy was he was seated at the other end of the table, next to Lady Honora, and so absorbed with her conversation he hadn’t spared Iris a glance all evening.
Just as well. If he did look at her, he might be able to tell she was thinking about his…breeches. Or not his breeches, precisely, but, well, something in that vicinity.
Iris twisted her napkin between numb fingers. Perhaps she shouldn’t have read that book, but it was too late now. There was no going back to blissful innocence once a lady understood the particulars of the, ah…transaction.
“Shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?” Charlotte rose from the table and led the ladies toward the drawing room, but Iris didn’t miss the fond look she cast her husband first, or his answering smile, and oh, dear God, that was why Charlotte was so taken with her husband! She never spared a glance for any other gentleman, no matter his attractions, and Captain West was equally smitten with his wife.
Don’t think on it—not on any of it, particularly anything to do with Lord Huntington’s breeches, or his long fingers, or the way his hazel eyes darkened when he’d touched her hair today.
“For pity’s sake, Iris, do sit down. You look at if you’re about to fall into a swoon.”
Violet patted the space next to her on the settee, and Iris dropped into it before her wobbly knees could desert her completely.
Lady Honora took a chair opposite the settee and studied Iris, her dark eyes soft with concern. “I blame my cousin for your indisposition, Iris. He was quite wrong to coax you into racing with him. I believe you’ve had too much sun and too much exercise.”
No, only too much reading.
“Oh, nonsense. Miss Somerset is perfectly well.” Lady Annabel settled into a chair at the card table, and motioned for Charlotte to join her. “Isn’t that right, Miss Somerset?”
Lady Annabel raised an eyebrow at her, and Iris straightened in her seat. “Yes, of course, my lady. I’m only a bit fatigued.”
“You need some quiet time to yourself. Perhaps you should retire early with a good book. Have you been to the Hadley House library? It’s an extensive one. I’m sure you’ll find something entertaining to read there.”
The mischievous smile playing at the corner of Lady Annabel’s mouth was too subtle to be noticeable to anyone else in the room, but Iris saw it, and despite her embarrassment, her own lips quirked at the corners. “Yes, I daresay you’re right, my lady.”
Violet, who was too clever for her own good, glanced from Lady Annabel to Iris, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “It’s not fatigue, but agitation. You’re preoccupied by this business with Lord Huntington.”
“Business? What business?” Iris’s voice was much louder than she intended, but if Violet thought she was preoccupied with the business of Lord Huntington’s breeches—
“Why, the jilting, of course! Unless there’s some other business I don’t know about?”
“Oh, right. That.” For pity’s sake, how could she keep forgetting about the jilting?
“Yes, that. What’s going on, Iris? Has something happened with Lord Huntington?”
“Or Lord Wrexley?” Lady Honora asked hopefully.
“I hope not,” Charlotte put in. “Poor Captain West is confused enough as it is. He can’t tell who’s courting whom, and it puts him in a temper.”
“Here are the gentlemen now.” Lady Annabel shot a warning look at the ladies just as Captain West entered the room, with the other gentlemen trailing after him. “You didn’t linger long over your port.”
“No.” Captain West took a seat at the card table next to his wife. “Lord Wrexley insisted we come at once. He was concerned about Miss Somerset.”
“And rightly so.” Lord Wrexley came toward her, his intention to sit with her unmistakable. “You still look flushed, Miss Somerset.”
Before he could take the seat next to her on the settee, Lady Annabel called out to him. “Miss Somerset was just telling us she feels very well. Come, Lord Wrexley. We need a fourth for cards. You won’t be so rude as to disappoint us, will you?”
“Of course not, my lady.” Lord Wrexley’s tone was polite, but he gave Iris one last lingering glance, his mouth turning down in a frown when Lord Huntington took the seat opposite her.
Lady Honora turned to Lord Huntington with a smile. “What time shall we ride tomorrow, my lord?”
Lord Huntington had been studying Iris’s flushed cheeks with a puzzled expression, but now he jerked his gaze to Lady Honora. “Whenever you like, my lady. Do you fancy a long ride? If so, we should leave early to avoid the heat of the day.”
So, Lord Huntington was taking Lady Honora riding tomorrow? Well, how lovely of him. But then he might do as he wished. It was nothing to Iris. Still, he’d been quite devoted to Lady Honora since they arrived at Hadley House. No doubt he’d given up on his mad plan to marry her and had chosen instead to initiate a courtship with Lady Honora before the season started, and she was surrounded by eager suitors.
Not that any other gentleman could compete with Lord Huntington.
Well, she wouldn’t pay him the least bit of attention. She certainly wouldn’t study the way his smooth, tight breeches hugged the long, lean line of his legs, or scrutinize the buttons of his falls, just peeking out from the bottom edge of his waistcoat.
A clever invention, falls. She’d never realized quite how clever until she reached page eight of her book, but just a quick twist of a button, and—
“I’m afraid you do look rather unwell, after all, Miss Somerset. The flush seems to be getting worse.” Lady Annabel raised her gaze from her cards, and nodded at Lord Huntington. “My lord, won’t you escort Miss Somerset upstairs? I don’t like her to go by herself, in case she swoons.”
Lord Wrexley leapt up from his chair. “I’d be happy to escort her—”
“No, no. We’re in the middle of a game.” Lady Annabel motioned for him to sit back down. “Lord Huntington isn’t occupied. He can take her.”
“Yes, of course.” Lord Huntington rose and bowed to Lady Honora. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”
“Do you fancy a game of chess, Lady Honora?” Lord Derrick gestured to the chess board on the other side of the room. “I warn you, though. I’m a hopeless strategist.”
Lady Honora looked surprised he’d asked, but pleased. “Why, I’d be delighted, my lord. Shall we see what happens when two hopeless strategists have a game?”
She crossed the room, and soon their heads were bent together over the chess board.
“Miss Somerset?” Lord Huntington was standing beside the settee, his arm held out to Iris. “May I take you up?”
She stood on unsteady legs. “Thank you.”
Touching Lord Huntington didn’t seem a wise thing to do at the moment—not when she was so preoccupied with his falls—but she didn’t have much choice, and it was only his arm, after all. Surely she could touch him there with no difficulty.
Her fingertips just grazed his coat, but the minute they did a bolt of heat raced over her skin, as if she’d shoved her arm into the fire.
Lord Huntington gave her a quizzical look, and drew her arm more firmly through his. “You’re shivering. I’m afraid you’re ill, Miss Somerset.”
“No, I’m quite all right.” But Iris could hear the note of uncertainty in her own voice, and she knew Lord Huntington heard it too by the way his arm stiffened under her fingers.
Neither of them said another word as he led her up the stairs, but when they reached the landing, she attempted to pull her arm free. “Thank you for your escort, my lord. I can make my way to my bedchamber on my own.”
He didn’t argue, but he didn’t let her go, either—not until they stood in front of her bedchamber door, and even then he lingered, staring down at her with an expression that made Iris’s heart thunder in her chest.
Why did one look from Lord Huntington make her pulse skip, and her breath come short? She didn’t even like him much, and she certainly didn’t trust him, so it wasn’t possible she could…want him, was it?
Hard fingers touched her chin and tipped her face up to his. “Such a pretty flush,” he murmured in a hoarse voice. “But I don’t think you’re ill, after all.” His gaze drifted over her face, and then, without warning, he dragged his fingertips down her cheek, his hazel eyes flaring with heat as her flush deepened in the wake of those seeking fingers.
Or…was it possible he wanted her?
What would he do if she touched him? Philander and Horatio, the heroes of her book, had fallen into fits of wild passion on every page, sighing and gasping over their ladies’ every touch. If she touched her fingers to his lips, would Lord Huntington lose control, as they had done?
You’re rather intense when you’re aroused…I’ve never know a more insatiable man…not many women could satisfy you.
If Iris could trust what she’d overheard Lady Beaumont say, it took very little to unleash the fierce passion Lord Huntington hid under his cool, stiff manners.
The part of Iris that was still wounded over his first rejection shrank back with fear at the idea of touching him, but the other part—the part that whispered this time it would be different—reached up slowly, so slowly, and touched a fingertip to his bottom lip.
He sucked in a harsh breath, and his lips parted on a quiet moan.
The desperate sound made heat surge into Iris’s lower belly, so she did it again—her fingertip brushed gently across his warm lips, her touch so light she might have wondered if he felt it at all if his eyelids hadn’t dropped half-closed over eyes gone black.
He felt it.
He didn’t touch her, but his hot gaze traced every line of her face, lingering on her lips, and Iris could do nothing but stare back at him, mesmerized by the wild desire she saw in his eyes. His entire body had gone rigid as he strained to hold it back, but if he should let it go, unleash it…
Dear God.
Iris was innocent, yes, but even she understood the desire Lord Huntington now held so ruthlessly in check would sweep all before it.
Her heart gave a panicked leap in her chest, and she jerked her hand away from his face.
“No.” He grasped her hand in his and brought her fingers back to his lips. “Touch me again.”
Iris did as he bade her, because as much as she feared that powerful desire, she also wanted to drown in it. He held her hand as she did what he demanded and dragged her fingertip over his lips again. His eyes drifted closed, but he seemed to know what she would do without looking, because just as she drew her hand away, he opened his lips and pressed a tiny, damp kiss on her fingertip.
Neither of them moved, but stood there staring at each other, their panting breaths the only sound in the silent hallway, until at last he released her hand, and stepped away.
“Goodnight, Miss Somerset.”
Iris watched him go, but long minutes after he’d disappeared around the corner, she still stood frozen by her bedchamber door.
She wanted him. There was no mistaking the way her breath caught when he looked at her, or the way her belly filled with liquid heat when he touched her.
She’d jilted him. Her entire future—and her sisters’ futures—rested on her ability to convince another gentleman of her affections.
And still, she wanted Lord Huntington.