For a moment, neither of them moved. Then His Grace chuckled and loosened his fingers. Iris’s wrists slipped free, but the skin felt hot. She immediately brought her hands around to her front, rubbing one thumb over the faint red marks his grip had left. She was still highly aware of his nearness.
“You are an interesting woman.” He shook his head and disappeared back into her chamber.
Shutting the door in her face one more time.
“Bugger,” she cussed him under her breath.
Iris straightened and gathered what remained of her dignity around her like a cloak.
One day, I will do more than throw a shoe.
She did not look back or retrieve her slipper. With each unbalanced step, the press of the scarred duke’s taut body against hers seemed to intensify in memory, rather than fade. Iris knew that she would have another restless night thinking about him and the fact that he had called her pretty.
CHAPTER 5
“Iris!” Margaret cried and flung herself at Iris. “You took an age! Papa was about to send a search party.”
Iris let herself be folded into her sister’s arms. Margaret always smelled of rosemary, like Mama did.
“I am only late because my coachman insists on being cautious,” Iris said, managing a small smile. “One cannot gallop through every puddle.”
“One can if one is not encumbered by dignity.” Margaret pulled back to study her face. Her merriment slipped into a little frown. “You look tired. More tired than usual.”
“I am merely… preoccupied.”
Margaret’s eyes flicked over her. “Is it more letters from creditors?”
Before Iris could respond, Lord Lempster appeared in the doorway, leaning more heavily than before on his cane. He still carried his look of slightly distracted charm, and grief had etched a deeper gentleness into his features.
“There is my girl,” he said, his voice already rough with emotion. “Come in, come in. Or you will freeze on the step.”
Warmth met her in the hall, along with the faint scent of pipe smoke and beeswax, and the squeak of boards she could have navigated blindfolded. They led her to the small sitting room where the armchairs sagged, and the fire was always coaxed beyond propriety.
Once she was settled, with a cup of tea in her hands she could hardly taste, Papa sank opposite, and Margaret perched on the arm of his chair, restless as a bird.
“So,” he said, looking at Iris over the rim of his teacup. “What news from Hentley House? Mr. Earnest plagues you again, I suppose.”
She had known they would ask. The familiar mixture of worry and helplessness in his gaze pricked at her more sharply than anger would have.
“It is nothing I cannot manage,” she said lightly. “The dowry covers the remaining debts, and they are almost paid off.”
“You have said that for three years,” Margaret muttered.
“Because it has been true for three years,” Iris replied. “Almost.”
Papa’s lips twitched. “We could make it completely true if you would only allow Camelia and her husband to assist.”
“Papa.” Iris set her cup down carefully. “Camelia has given more than enough.”
“That girl did not sacrifice herself,” Margaret objected. “She snagged a duke who adores her. If that is martyrdom, sign me up at once.”
Their father gave a pained laugh. “Even so. His Grace has deep pockets, and he is willing to help. It is no shame to accept help.”
Iris’s stomach twisted. She pictured Camelia agreeing to marry for money rather than inclination, because the family was drowning.
If the Duke of Brentmere had not fallen in love with her, would she have been happy with her decision?
Iris should have been the one to marry first. Instead, she had been given to an aging viscount with ruinous habits.
