Page 16 of Better Than a Duke
“No need, my dear. Your first evening back in Mayfair should be for dancing and seeing old friends. You used to go about with Miss Anne Reynolds, did you not?” Margaret tugged Iris around behind her chair, then pointed to the left. “That way.”
Iris smiled as she pushed the chair forward. A friend here in Mayfair would be an unexpected boon. “I did. Is she—”
“Lady Paskill!” Aunt Margaret sat forward to tug on the skirt of the tall, willowy woman who stood beside an even taller, thinner man. “I told you she was here, Iris. Lady Paskill, Mrs. Silbern. Iris, Lady Paskill.”
“I…” Iris took a breath as Anne’s eyes widened slightly. “Hello, my lady. It’s good to see you again.”
Anne held out one limp hand, which Iris wiggled. “Iris. How pleasant. Have you met my husband, the Earl Paskill?” She gestured at the tall man.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” She dipped a curtsy. “My lord.”
“Ronald, this is an old friend of mine, from my first Season.”
He nodded. “Mrs. Silbern. Are you attending tonight without your husband?”
At that, Anne flipped a hand at Iris. “Oh, he’s passed on,” she said, in the same tone that one might describe an old loaf of bread. “She’s a widow now.”
“Oh. My condolences, of course. Was it the war?”
There were certainly several of those to choose from. “No, my lord. It was wagering.”
“Ah. Shall we, wife? I believe this is our dance.”
Widow. That was the only word that mattered, apparently, though she’d noticed that the words “with a son” could instantly end any conversation, especially when partnered with the first word. The earl and countess turned for the dance floor, though they were far too late to join in the quadrille. How far would they go to escape her? she wondered. Then Aunt Margaret swatted her on the arm, and she jumped.
“Ouch!”
“What are you doing, going about saying your husband was killed by wagering?”
“He fell so deeply into debt that he got drunk and drowned. Should I have said ‘drink,’ then? Or ‘drowned in a ditch’?”
“You say ‘fever.’ That satisfies curiosity and stops the stickier questions. You used to know this, Iris.”
“I never paid much attention in the ‘how to be a successful widow’ class in boarding school. It mostly entailed which garments to wear.”
“You are nine-and-twenty, Iris. There are a handful of wallflowers here of nearly that age who haven’t even managed to be married once. And at least you have a reason to presently be without a man; you had one, and he perished. That’s much better than acknowledging that no one’s ever looked twice at you.”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is. Don’t be daft. Now push me over to the fireplace before I catch a chill.”
She rolled her aunt and the chair into the half circle of guests in front of the fireplace. This corner of the room, offering a warm, comfortable place to sit, smelled like liniment and cats.And now she stood there, as well, the roaring fire blasting her left side and the ceaseless judgments and gossip thundering into her ears. It was hell. Yes, that was it. She’d left Shropshire and been killed in a mail coach accident, and now she’d landed in hell.
“Oh, a widow?” an older woman, the Dowager Duchess of Richmond, as she recalled, walked up and took Iris’s hand in hers. “I’m a widow myself, my dear. My dear Charles passed on nearly twenty years ago.”
“My condolences, Your Grace,” Iris said.
“Thank you. You should come to one of our teas, Mrs. Silbern.”
“Teas?”
“Yes. We meet every other Tuesday at three in the afternoon. There are eleven of us—oh, and you’ll make an even dozen. An even number is always better.”
Thinking she’d missed something vital in the conversation, Iris put a smile on her face. “Eleven of you who…”
“Widows, my dear. Eleven—twelve, now—widows.”
Wonderful. “Do you… comfort each other, then?”
