Page 36 of Better Than a Duke
“If that’s all we need, it’s easy. Papa knows I want to see London. I’ll just tell him where I want to go, say I want you to go, as well, and then you tell your mama you want her to come with you.”
“And you think that will be enough to make them want to get married?”
“It’s the beginning of a plan. But we can’t let them know what we’re doing.”
“Definitely not. Adults are very thickheaded about changing their minds.” He caught up to Becks, walking beside her while their ponies bumped each other. So many things had happened over the past four years. Most of them had been bad. Meeting Becks and Lord Hentrose, though—that had been good. Fun. And warm, like a big hug. “I think we should try it,” Edmund decided. “You’d be a good sister.”
She grinned. “I didn’t think I would want a brother, but I do know I’d be sad if we couldn’t spend any more time together. And you like horses and painting, and you don’t think girls are silly.”
Sometimes girlsweresilly, but he knew some silly boys, too. And he definitely liked having someone close by with whom he could play and talk. Becks was a good listener, and she didn’t talk about hair ribbons and dresses all the time. “Then we should start tomorrow.”
“Good. I’m going to ask Papa to take me to see Madame Tussaud’s traveling exhibition.”
That didn’t sound very interesting. “What is she exhibiting? I don’t want to go look at gowns or hats.”
“No, she makes wax people. She has a Bonaparte and a Wellington, a Mozart, and a President Washington. And more than that, but I can’t remember them all.”
“That’s much better than dresses. I’d like to see Bonaparte. Everyone says he’s short. I agree, then. You let me know if your papa says we’re going, and I’ll get Mama to go with us.”
Nodding, Becks bounced on her toes. “I like your mama. She’s fierce. And she’ssomuch better than Lady Pauline.”
Her excitement made him feel hopeful, but hope could be tricky. “This is a good plan. But failing means you’ll have analmost-murderess for a stepmother, and I could end up with a skeleton duke for a stepfather.”
“I don’t even want to think about that. We have to make them see that they like each other, and make them think about romance. And I’ve read enough books to know that adults are always thinking about romance. You’ll see.”
“Aunt Margaret, I would prefer not to attend,” Iris said, yanking her gloves up over her wrists. “Wouldn’t it be more impressive to have Gerald in his full livery standing behind you?”
Lady Margaret looked over at the footman just as he covered his grimace with a blank glance at the floor. “Nonsense,” she said. “You’re in a competition to be a duchess now. Even if Trent isn’t in attendance, people he knows will be. And they will report how you conducted yourself and how well you showed.”
“So I’m to be fluttery and… useless, and that will improve my odds of being chosen for a contest you foisted on me?”
“I didn’t foist it on you, dear. I’m helping. And even if the duke rejects you, tonight you could well catch the eye of some other eligible gentleman. Collect your wrap and let’s be off.”
“Indeed,” Uncle Harold contributed, handing his half-empty glass over to Tollins. “The earlier we arrive, the earlier we can leave.”
The idea of a short evening was some solace, Iris supposed. And attending didn’t mean she was obligated to dance. Nor did it mean she would be obligated to accept Trent’s absurd suit if he offered it. But it did make sense to keep her foot in the door so it didn’t slam in her face before she had time to consider it.
As they walked out to the front drive, she spied Hentrose’s coach with its blue-and-yellow falcon-eating bear in front of the next-door entrance, and she nearly tripped over her own feet.Blast it. Simply because two mature individuals had had too muchto drink and shared a kiss didn’t mean anything—other than perhaps the fact that there were moments they felt… lonely, she supposed.
She meant to pretend the kiss hadn’t ever happened unless he brought it up first. It didn’t matter that last night she’d dreamt she and Beckett went riding on tiny ponies together and that he kept looking at her in a way that made her feel… precious. Wanted. Dreams, though, were silly. “How long have you been chatting with His Grace about me?” she asked, sitting on the soft leather seat opposite her aunt and uncle.
Margaret shrugged. “Since you sent the letter that you were leaving Shropshire. That’s when your uncle began asking about for any appropriate single gentlemen eager to wed a woman with a son.”
“So you didn’t believe me when I said Edmund and I would only stay through the end of the Season. Because a woman’s plans count for nothing, I suppose. Is that it?”
“We are supporting you,” her uncle Harold commented, something of a surprise since Margaret generally did enough chatting for both of them. This would be about money, though, which was his province. “We sent a duke in your direction. A union with him negates any need for your plans or for the extreme frugality which would have to accompany them even under the most ideal circumstances. Chat about something else. No one will admire those frown lines on your forehead.”
Iris continued to frown, anyway. She hadn’t asked for anything but a roof over their heads for a few weeks. The Baverstocks had decided all on their own to alter her future and disregard her plans without even bothering to consult with her. Her marrying Trent would eliminate their need to lend her funds, and that was what concerned them.
When they arrived at Morrison House the driver set thecoach’s brake, then clambered onto the roof to hand Aunt Margaret’s wheeled chair down to a pair of waiting footmen. They settled it just inside the foyer, then returned to the coach and lifted a hand-fluttering Margaret between them and carried her up the step and into the chair.
Considering that she’d seen Margaret stand up to fetch her embroidery this afternoon, she had little doubt that her aunt could have managed to walk into the house, perhaps with the aid of a cane and holding on to someone’s arm. Being pushed about, though, especially at social events, seemed to delight her. Iris had been instructed not to spare anyone’s toes, because it was their “own blasted fault if they couldn’t mind their own feet,” but she’d thus far managed not to injure anyone.
“Come along, Iris.”
Iris blinked. “Of course, Aunt Margaret.”
As they rolled into the ballroom Margaret reached over to take a dance card and pencil from the stack by the main doors. “Here you are, Iris,” she said, lifting them over her head.
