Chapter Three
Iris squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands against her ears. A strange numbness stole over her, as if she’d been standing in icy water for hours, and her blood had frozen in her veins.
She stood there helplessly as their words got uglier and uglier, until at last Lady Beaumont said something that made the blood surge again in a dizzying, painful rush, and she fled, the gleeful hiss of laughter ringing in her ears.
She wasn’t even your first choice, Huntington.
Iris ran until a pain in her side forced her to a wheezing halt, her only thought to get away before she heard another word. When she came back to herself at last, she was slumped on a stone bench in a remote corner of the park, surrounded on all sides by silence, under a copse of trees whose spreading branches obliterated the sun.
Her arm stung, and she looked down to find the sleeve of her gown was torn, and a long, bloody scratch stretched from her wrist to her elbow.
She didn’t remember how it happened.
She pressed her forehead to her knees and sat there for a long time, listening to the sound of her own gasping breaths.
When she managed to raise her head and look about her, her first thought was she’d been gone for far too long, and must return to the terrace at once. But when she did, she’d be obliged to flirt and smile, and pretend everything she knew and trusted hadn’t just collapsed into a pile of rubble at her feet.
Lord Huntington would be waiting for her there, his handsome mouth full of lies.
She shrank against the bench as panic rolled over her again. Soon—she would go back, very soon, yes, and when she did she’d take his arm, and send admiring glances his way, and flirt with him, and behave as if she were besotted and believed herself London’s most fortunate lady to be honored with his attentions, because it was what everyone expected of her.
But not yet. Not while she could still hear Lady Beaumont’s high, cruel laugh in her head. Not while every hurtful word was still reverberating in her chest.
So angelic, rather like a child…
Of all the awful things Lady Beaumont had said, there was no reason these should be the words that kept echoing in Iris’s head.
No reason but one.
They were true.
She was like a child, with her naïve attempts to inspire a kiss. She even looked like a child, with her fair hair and wide blue eyes, in her sweet pink frock with the itchy lace sleeves.
No wonder Lord Huntington was bored with her.
Whereas Lady Beaumont…well, whatever else the woman might be, she was no child. She wasn’t naïve, docile, or predictable. She was beautiful, tempting, wicked—she was everything proper young ladies like Iris were cautioned not to be, with her wild dark hair, her glittering jewels and her revealing red gown.
Red.
Iris had never worn a red gown. Every item of clothing she owned was either pale pink, pale yellow, or pale blue. She’d wanted royal blue, and Pomona green, bright primrose, and Parma violet, but her grandmother insisted a proper young lady didn’t wear dramatic colors, and that a lady with Iris’s coloring could never have too many pink gowns.
Iris hadn’t argued. She’d worn the gowns her grandmother chose for her without a word of complaint, and she couldn’t deny each was more beautiful than the last, trimmed with yards of costly Belgian lace and endless lengths of satin ribbon.
All that sweet pink silk and satin, wasted.
This, then, was what came of doing what you were told. To be ridiculed by her betrothed’s mistress, laughed at by her, to be called dull and insipid without her betrothed speaking a word in her defense. This was to be her reward for becoming everything a proper young lady should be.
Iris drew, painted, and played the pianoforte. Her quadrille was without compare, and she was an accomplished equestrienne. She was well read, well-spoken, well-dressed, and possessed of a smile that made gentlemen rush across crowded ballrooms to reach her side. She spoke French, German, and Italian with perfect fluency, her fair coloring was fashionable this season, and the filmy French gowns that were all the rage made the most of her gentle curves.
Useless, all of it.
Her engaging smile, her proper gowns, her many accomplishments—none of it made the least bit of difference, because compared to a woman like Lady Beaumont, Iris faded into insignificance.
She looked down at her hands, ashamed of this somehow, though she couldn’t explain why. She hadn’t done anything wrong. On the contrary, she’d been careful to follow every rule, and she was on the verge of making a brilliant match, just as her grandmother wanted.
On the surface, she and Lord Huntington made perfect sense. Or they had, until today, when he’d rushed her out of the garden so he could steal away to meet his mistress. Iris might be the very image of maidenly perfection, but looking back at their courtship now, she couldn’t think of one instance where Lord Huntington had shown any real interest in her.
The truth was, she might be everything he should want, but it didn’t change the fact that he didn’t. He wanted Lady Beaumont. If not her specifically, then another woman like her.
Rose Beaumont.
Rose was a fitting name for her. She looked like a lush, extravagant flower, with her mass of silky hair and that creamy skin she took care to display at every available opportunity. Iris had seen her at the theater just the other night, wearing a dramatic primrose-colored gown, with two delicate wisps of black lace for sleeves. Her shoulders and neck had been bare, revealing a daring expanse of décolletage, and she’d been wearing enormous teardrop-shaped rubies clustered among circlets of diamonds, flashing at her throat and in her ears.
The jewels were a gift from Lord Huntington, apparently. A generous one.
Iris had always been rather fascinated by women like Lady Beaumont, though only from a distance, as there could be no question of any kind of acquaintance between them. Iris was the granddaughter of an earl, and thanks to her grandmother, a young lady of fortune. Lady Beaumont was part of the demimondaine, the kind of scandalous widow proper ladies went out of their way to ignore. Lady Fairchild would fall into a nervous fit if she knew the woman was skulking about behind her hedges.
Yet here she was, cool as you please, staking a claim on Lord Huntington, as if she had every right to him, and perhaps she did, because despite his bored drawl, he’d been utterly distracted by her.
But then Lady Beaumont had plenty of practice distracting gentlemen, and there was no question she knew how to look after her own interests. Lord Canard had been her first protector, an elderly, wealthy gentleman who quite lost his head over the seductive young widow. The gossips claimed the old fool went mad when Lady Beaumont dropped him for the younger, wealthier Lord Dorsey, but then poor Lord Dorsey had been set aside in favor of Lord Huntington, who was younger and wealthier still, and blessed with a face and figure so perfect even a hardened businesswoman like Lady Beaumont wasn’t prepared to relinquish him without a struggle.
Iris looked down at the skirt of her pale pink gown, and a raw laugh tore from her throat. It wouldn’t be much of a struggle, would it? Had it only been an hour ago she’d thought she wasn’t a proper young lady because she wanted to tempt Lord Huntington into a kiss?
It seemed ludicrous now. Laughable.
“Lord Huntington doesn’t care for me.”
It was a whisper only, but Iris said the words aloud, because if she heard them, perhaps it would help her decide whether or not she could tolerate the truth behind them. If it was only her pride that was damaged, and not her heart, then it made no difference in the least whether Lord Huntington cared for her or not. She would become a marchioness, and according to the rules of London society, that was more than adequate compensation for his lack of affection.
“He has a mistress.”
Or he’d had a mistress. He’d sent Lady Beaumont away with hundreds of pounds in rubies to compensate her for the loss of his company, but even if he hadn’t broken with her, Lord Huntington’s having a mistress wasn’t sufficient reason to jilt him. Many gentlemen had mistresses, especially gentlemen of rank and wealth. A wife might not like it, but she was expected to look the other way.
No matter how awful that mistress was.
“He wanted Lady Honora.”
Iris couldn’t deny this stung. No lady wanted to be a gentleman’s second choice, but in the end, even that made little difference. He must have deemed her an appropriate choice for his marchioness, or he never would have offered for her at all.
After he wagered away the chance to offer for the lady he really wanted.
Iris’s hands clenched until she’d crushed the folds of her pink gown between her fingers. Dear God, she despised this gown. She wished she could squeeze it hard enough to make it bleed.
Not that it would do the least bit of good. The damage was done. Now it was just a question of how to manage it.
Iris took a deep breath and forced her hands to relax. Very well, so he’d wanted Lady Honora. It hardly mattered. He was betrothed to Iris now, and every other young lady in London had spent this entire season wishing she was Iris Somerset. She was one of the lucky ones, and it was nothing but selfishness to sit here and whimper over it. Lord Huntington was a wealthy marquess, who, despite the mistress, had a character beyond reproach.
The mistress, the blindfolds, and something to do with silk scarves, that is.
Blindfolds. Dear God. An image of Lord Huntington with a cravat stretched taut between his hands rose unbidden in her mind, and an unwelcome shiver of…something shot down her spine.
Not desire, of course. Fear? Shock, perhaps? Or was it disgust? No, not quite that, either, though Iris would have been far more comfortable if it had been.
But this was all nonsense. Huntington’s disgraceful wager, his lack of affection for her, his mysterious dark desires…what did any of it matter? Her grandmother wanted the match, and that was reason enough for Iris to want it, as well.
She rose from the bench, threw her shoulders back, and raised her chin. There. It was settled. She was betrothed to Lord Huntington, and despite the deep ache in her chest—an ache that would surely fade—she hadn’t overheard anything to make her change her mind about marrying him. She shouldn’t have been eavesdropping at all. She should have remained on the terrace with Honora and Violet and quietly drank her tea like a proper lady, instead of running about the garden like a wild animal.
Really, this entire episode was her own fault—
“Don’t tell me you got lost in the gardens, Miss Somerset.”
Iris whirled around, her heart rushing into her throat at the thought of having to face Lord Huntington so soon, but it was only Honora’s cousin, Lord Wrexley, his lips curved in the charming, careless smile she knew so well.
Relief rushed through her, so profound an answering smile rose at once to her own lips, despite the crushing weight of misery on her chest. “I’ve been in the garden on dozens of occasions. I’d have to be an utter half-wit to get lost in it.”
“Are you calling me a half-wit? Every time I come out here I lose my way. I’ve taken to dragging Honora with me whenever we plan to go further than the rose garden, just to be certain I make it back safely.”
Iris’s smile widened. Dear Lord Wrexley. His amusing nonsense never failed to cheer her. “You ventured well beyond the rose gardens today. Quite a risk, my lord.”
“Yes, well, I came in search of you, and you’re worth the risk.” He swept her a gallant bow, then straightened, and gave her another artless grin. “It’s a lucky thing I found you. I may never have made it back otherwise.”
“I suppose my sister is wondering where I am.” Iris sighed, but there was no point in putting it off. She’d have to face Lord Huntington at some point, and it may as well be now.
Iris reached to take the arm Lord Wrexley offered her, but before she could, his hands landed on her shoulders and he turned her to face him, his smile fading as he searched her face. “You look distraught. Has something happened?”
Iris hesitated. She’d spent as much time with Lord Wrexley as she had with Lady Honora, and he’d become a friend, but even so, she couldn’t discuss Lord Huntington with him. “No, nothing. Just the headache, likely from too much sun this afternoon.”
“But you’re bleeding.” He hooked a fingertip under the sleeve of her gown and tugged it away from her arm. “Right here.”
Iris held her arm out to get a closer look at the cut. “Oh, it’s nothing. I must have scratched it on a tree branch.”
He moved closer, his brows drawn together with concern as he traced a gentle finger over the cut. “If you’re unhappy about something, you can tell me, you know. Perhaps I can help.”
“You can’t.” His offer made tears press behind Iris’s eyes, but she blinked them back. “It’s kind of you to be concerned, but—”
“Miss Somerset!” The deep voice came from behind her, and a large hand caught her elbow and pulled her away from Lord Wrexley. “What are you doing way out here, so far from the house?”
Lord Huntington stood there, his lips white, a look on his face Iris had never seen before. Shocked at his low, furious growl, she stuttered into a reply. “I—I was about to return to the terrace…”
She trailed off into silence, because Lord Huntington wasn’t listening. He wasn’t even looking at her anymore. He was staring at Lord Wrexley.
“She got lost, Huntington. No harm done.”
“Not from lack of trying, I’m sure.” Lord Huntington’s voice was soft, but threaded with cold menace that made no sense to Iris and left a nervous knot in her belly.
Lord Wrexley didn’t seem to notice it, however. He turned to her with an easy smile. “I believe Lord Huntington wishes to escort you back to the house, Miss Somerset, so I’ll leave you to him, but do let me know if you change your mind about that talk.”
He bowed, then sauntered down the pathway, whistling.
Lord Huntington watched him go, his face as hard as carved stone. Iris couldn’t imagine what had made him so furious, unless he was put out he’d had to abandon his mistress to come and search for her. Quite put out, if his grip on her elbow was any indication.
Perhaps she should be grateful he didn’t have a silk scarf to hand.
A rebellious little laugh tickled her throat at the thought, but Iris choked it back down. Oh, dear. She couldn’t say that. Though it was tempting enough to go ahead, just to see the expression on his face—
“Well, Miss Somerset? Have you had a nice frolic in the gardens this afternoon?”
Frolic? For pity’s sake, he did think she was a child, or perhaps a small woodland creature. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a frolic, my lord. I believe it was more like a wander. One does tend to wander when they’re lost, you see.”
His hazel eyes widened with surprise at her clipped tone, then darkened to a mossy green. Goodness, what an unusual color. Perhaps she should have attempted to annoy him before now, because that was a lovely shade of green. Why should Lady Beaumont be the only one who ever got to admire it?
His scowl deepened. “What have you been doing out here all this time?”
All at once Iris recalled why she was out here in the first place, and her nervousness evaporated on a wave of righteous fury. “I believe Lord Wrexley told you already, Lord Huntington. I got lost.”
Lord Huntington recognized this for the blatant lie it was, and he wasn’t at all satisfied with it. “You got lost.”
“Yes.” Iris didn’t offer another word of explanation, because she was afraid if she opened her mouth again, every word she wished she could say to him would spout from her lips like water from a fountain.
Words like wager, and blindfold, and mistress.
“If you were concerned about your direction, perhaps you should have brought your sister with you. She made it back to the terrace easily enough.”
It took everything Iris had not to snatch her arm from his grasp. “I told you I got lost, my lord. I believe the word lost implies it was done by accident. The word accident implies I wasn’t aware it would happen before I left the terrace.”
Iris blinked, surprised to hear such an ill-mannered speech burst from her lips, and yet she couldn’t regret it, either. Ah, well. Docility was tricky that way, wasn’t it? One never knew when it might disintegrate into open rebellion.
He raised an eyebrow at her, a curious look on his face, something between surprise and impatience, as if she were a normally obedient child who’d stamped her foot and refused to go to bed when ordered. “You’ve been gone for nearly an hour.”
Only an hour? Was that all? It didn’t seem to Iris an inordinate amount of time to take to recover from her betrothed’s cruel betrayal. Considering what she’d overheard, he should be pleased she hadn’t asked Lord Wrexley to take her back to her grandmother’s house in Bedford Square.
“Was Lord Wrexley with you the entire time?”
Iris frowned at his harsh tone. “No. I met him not five minutes before you found us. I suppose my sister sent him out after me.”
He searched her eyes, then let out a long, slow breath, but his face remained hard. “It’s not proper for you to be wandering the gardens with him.”
Proper? Iris stared at him, dumbfounded. It wasn’t proper for her to be in a garden because Lord Wrexley, who was her friend, and who’d never been anything other than a perfect gentleman to her, might be here, too?
And this from Lord Huntington? He’d blindfolded Lady Beaumont and bound her with silk scarves, for pity’s sake!
Iris bit back a wild little laugh. It wasn’t at all amusing, of course, but his insistence on the strictest propriety struck her as hysterically funny, given his mistress had been on her knees before him less than one hour ago, her long fingers expertly lowering his falls, as if she’d done it a hundred times before.
Iris’s face heated at the thought. It might have been best, after all, if that gap in the branches hadn’t been quite so wide.
But it was too late now, and now she’d seen…well, that, she was hard pressed to stand obediently while Lord Huntington lectured her on improper behavior. But she thought of her grandmother and her sisters, gritted her teeth, and forced her lips into a stiff smile. “I beg your pardon if I’ve worried you.”
“Come. Your sister is anxious for your return.”
He held something out to her, and Iris realized with a start it was her shawl. Despite the drama with Lady Beaumont, he’d fetched it for her, after all.
“Thank you, my lord.” Iris took it and draped it around her shoulders, then tucked it into the crook of her elbow to keep it from dragging on the ground, but before she could stir a step, his hand snaked out and jerked the wrap away again.
Iris’s eyebrows shot up. “My lord, what are you—”
“What happened to your arm?” He tugged her closer, so close the arm he held brushed against his chest. “Your sleeve is torn.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I—”
“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’re bleeding.”
His voice emerged in a low growl, and Iris froze, too surprised to say a word. What was he so agitated about? She raised her gaze to his face, but as soon as she saw his eyes, she wished she hadn’t. They’d gone so dark with fury they’d turned a rather terrifying black.
He was…dear God, he was frantic. Whatever was the matter with him? It wasn’t an amputation, for goodness’ sake. It was a scratch, nothing more.
“Tell me what happened.”
The injury was so inconsequential Iris didn’t even recall how it had happened, but his voice was strained, and every muscle in his body coiled with tension, and she saw at once this was no time to trifle with him. “I—I was hurrying, and—”
“Why were you hurrying? Were you running away from someone?”
Yes. You.
But she couldn’t say that. Even if she’d wanted to she couldn’t, because his gaze was fixed on her face with such furious intensity she couldn’t say a word, and had to look away from him.
What was happening?
“Miss Somerset? Did Lord Wrexley touch you?”
“No! Of course not.”
He grasped her chin between his long, firm fingers and tipped her head up so he could look into her face. “Then why is your sleeve torn? It looks as if someone grabbed you.”
His eyes were still flashing with fury, and she had to drag in a breath to calm her thrashing heart. “No, my lord. No one grabbed me. I was hurrying, and not paying attention to where I was going. I caught my sleeve on a sharp branch, and when I tore it loose, I scratched my arm.”
He searched her face, then let out a long, slow breath. After a moment he gathered her wrap and tucked it around her elbow, careful not to brush against the scratch on her arm as he did, but even as he took care to touch her gently, his next words sliced into her like a whip.
“Your carelessness in guarding your safety perplexes me, and that’s to say nothing of your reputation. I trust you’ll be more vigilant in the future.”
For a moment Iris was sure she’d misunderstood him, but as his words sank in she could only stare at him, shocked into speechlessness. Not two hours ago he’d left her on the terrace so he could rush off to meet his mistress in the garden, and yet he dared to stand here and calmly accuse her of improprieties?
“I can see I’ve distressed you. May I call on you tomorrow, to offer my apologies? You’re to become my marchioness in a few weeks, and I don’t like for us to be at odds.”
Iris tried to say something, to offer a polite smile, but all she could manage was a stiff nod. How ironic he should speak of her as his marchioness now, when all her anticipation over their betrothal had hardened into cold dread.
“May I escort you back to the house? Your sister has been waiting for you on the terrace for quite some time, and I’m sure she’s concerned.”
He held out his arm, like a proper gentleman.
She took it, like a proper lady. The belle of her season.
You’ll lose interest in her within a fortnight, Huntington.
Phineas Knight, the Marquess of Huntington. An honorable gentleman. Admirable. Praiseworthy. Utter perfection. Wasn’t that how she’d thought of him?
What would she think, Huntington, if she knew what you hid under those gentlemanly manners of yours?
A dull little laugh escaped her.
Only a child would think that now.