“It is natural for the ill-bred to assume the worst. Lady Hentley has done nothing to deserve your censure. On the contrary, she has discharged every obligation placed upon her with more honor than most men of my acquaintance.”
The friend behind Lady Petunia’s shoulder made a strangled sound and dropped into a hasty curtsy.
“I see my mother, Petunia,” she stammered. “I must go to her, Your Grace.” She bobbed at him and fled.
Blaise watched her go out of the corner of his eye. Around them, conversation had thinned, stretched, reeled the way it did when people smelled the possibility of a scene. Fans rustled. Eyes slid closer under the pretense of disinterest, and the musicians were beginning a new set.
“You mistake the situation,” he continued softly. “She is not clinging, nor grasping, nor behaving in any way unbefitting a widow. She is, in fact, guilty only of having nowhere else to go. I do pray you will never find yourself in a widow’s position because she did not deserve your cruel words.”
Her mouth parted. “I... I did not know.”
“No,” he said. “You did not trouble yourself to know.”
For a heartbeat, anger flared in her gaze, bright and raw. No one liked to be told they were cruel.
“Why do you care for her?” she said slowly, each word chosen. “For a widow of such… obscure connection.”
He ought to have brushed the question aside.
Instead, he heard himself say, “She is my friend.”
The word left a bitter taste on his tongue.
As if friendship explained the way his pulse quickened whenever she entered a room or the way his chest seemed to tighten every time she laughed. Iris was not a friend; she was something more, but even the scarred duke was not brave enough to name what he felt for her.
CHAPTER 28
“Iris!” Camelia had not yet put on her day dress; her hair poured over her night rail in a disordered spill, and the pale-blue wrapper sat askew over the gentle swell of her belly. “What is... Are you hurt?”
Iris’s valise bumped against her calf with each step. Behind her, on the pavement below, Mrs. Henkings and footmen would be marshaling trunks and bandboxes, arguing with carters, fighting to protect her from overcharging drivers as if she were still Viscountess Hentley.
Camelia seized Iris by the forearms, pulling her from her thoughts. Her urgent eyes swept over her as though looking for blood.
“I am not hurt.” But her voice was not quite steady. She felt the admission tremble through her.
I am not hurt; I am only undone.
Camelia’s gaze dropped to the valise at Iris’s side. “You have your bag. Oh, Iris, what has happened?”
“Nothing has happened; I have never actually felt better,” Iris answered and could not help the faint, wildly inappropriate little laugh that escaped. “Or rather, an entire opera has happened, but it is over now.”
“Iris.” Camelia’s voice sharpened the way hers used to when they were children, and one of them had tried to slide past with a half-truth and scraped knees. “Come in. At once.”
Camelia led her to the small sitting area by the window, where a low, cushioned settee waited beneath gauzy curtains. The air smelled faintly of roses and the chalky scent of the limewash they had chosen together last Season. It was a pretty room, and the walls were hung with Pamela’s sketches: airy country scenes, a river, and a field of wild primroses.
“I will call for tea,” Camelia said, but Iris caught her hand.
“Later.”
Camelia’s fingers felt warm and sure around hers. “Then sit. That bag looks as if it has weighed a mile of pavement.”
“This little bag contains all my belongings. That is how little I owned.” Iris said shakily.
Camelia perched beside her, tucking one leg beneath her and giving Iris all her attention. “You are jesting. I am terrified, Iris. What is going on?”
“I am not jesting.” Iris stared at her gloves. Her knuckles showed pale through the skin. Methodically, she peeled one glove off, finger by finger. “I am… relieved. In a sort of way.”
“You have fled your house at dawn.” Camelia’s tone went dry. “Forgive me if I struggle to see the relief in that.”
