“Thank you. You may leave them.”
Mrs. Henkings lingered. “Shall I stay, in case?—”
“No.” Iris softened the word with a small smile. “Truly, I am quite capable of reading a letter by myself.”
Once Mrs. Henkings left, Iris broke the seal of the solicitor’s letter.
Mr. Earnest’s neat handwriting was all apologies and obligations. He would call upon her this afternoon regarding ‘the remaining encumbrances upon the estate’ and an ‘update regarding the late viscount’s cousin.’ Her stomach dipped.
“Another cousin?” she muttered and ignored the dreadful feeling in the pit of her already queasy stomach.
Perhaps he is some distant relation sniffing after the title at last?
Of course, that would happen to her. She had never truly believed she could keep Hentley House forever. Still, the idea of surrendering these rooms, the Persian carpets, the mismatched chairs, and the hard-won quiet life felt like being stripped bare in the middle of a ballroom.
Iris shut her eyes and prayed that the pain would go away and be replaced with pleasure for once.
Pleasure.
A flicker of forbidden imagery of iron rings in the ceiling; silk binding imagined wrists; a tall, dark man watching her with those ocean eyes and that scar like a brand of danger.
“Focus, Iris,” she scolded herself.
Iris crushed the thought of the scarred duke, furious with herself for even thinking about him. There was no room in her life for such… indulgence. Hentley House was her duty, her proof that she was not the useless eldest daughter who let others sacrifice themselves.
The clock on the mantel chimed twelve when footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Mrs. Henkings appeared before her again. Her cheeks were unusually pink.
“My lady,” she said, voice pitched oddly. “A visitor has arrived.”
“I never receive visitors.” Iris rose, smoothing her skirt. “Who is it?”
Mrs. Henkings swallowed. “A duke, my lady.”
Something cold slid along Iris’s spine.
Iris swallowed. “Very well. Guide him into the drawing room.”
She went ahead, giving herself those few seconds to compose herself.
She was pacing when a broad-shouldered, raven-haired man entered her drawing room.
“You have got to be jesting?” Iris blurted out before she could think about it.
At the sound of her voice, the duke’s gaze collided with hers, and Iris’s world began to collapse around her.
“I... I apologize, Your Grace,” Mrs. Henkings stammered.
The duke laughed and held a dismissive palm up. “No need, Mrs. Henkings. I am acquainted with the viscountess.”
“Your Grace,” Iris said more politely, but her tone remained icy. “What are you doing in my home?”
She ignored the appalled look of her housekeeper as his grace lifted a dark brow at her.
“Yourhouse?” he asked in his sin-warmed drawl that had tangled around her the night before. “I believe you are mistaken. This ismyhome. And, it would seem, once again you are trespassing on my property.”
Iris’s jaw dropped. “That is impossible. This is Hentley House. It belongs to the viscountcy.”
“And I,” he said calmly, stepping closer so that his cinnamon scent and clean skin brushed her senses, “am telling you that this ismyhouse, married or not.”
