Page 37 of Better Than a Duke
“I don’t need a dance card, for heaven’s sake.”
“I beg to differ. They are invaluable for keeping one’s evening free of tangles.” Her aunt shook the card and pencil again.
Blowing out her breath, Iris took them and dumped the things into her reticule. “The only tangles I mean to face are the ones in my hair,” she muttered, changing direction when her aunt pointed toward the refreshment table.
“I heard that, Iris. And I can hear you scowling. Frowning canyons into your face is no way to improve your reputation.”
“My reputation doesn’t need to be improved.”
“It certainly does. You haven’t been to London in what, seven years? That makes you a recluse—or worse, an oddity. Adding in your shrewish shrieking at Lord Danvers’s sons at Forsythe House in front of everyone, I imagine you were only allowed entrytonight because of Harold and me. You’re treading onourgood name.”
Being drummed out of Society would make it nearly impossible for her to join Edmund and the Raineses on their London excursions. And it would make Edmund’s future much more difficult. Otherwise, she might have welcomed it. There was certainly nothing in London for her but a ridiculous marriage contest that sounded like it had been invented to give the members of White’s Club something to wager over. “I’m not—”
“Good evening, Lady Margaret.”
Margaret put her good foot down, and they came to a stop so suddenly that Iris nearly went over her aunt’s head and onto the floor. “Blast it, Aunt M—”
“Lord Charles Smythe,” her aunt said, smiling so broadly that even from her position at the rear of their caravan Iris could see Margaret’s cheeks widen. “What a pleasant surprise. Do you know my niece, Iris Silbern? Iris, Lord Charles Smythe. Younger brother to the Earl of Chester.”
The man with sun-colored hair a few shades lighter than her own sketched an elegant bow. He was handsome, she supposed, though his cravat was tied so intricately it must be choking him. “We’ve met,” he drawled, “though not recently. I’d wondered what happened to you. Widowed, eh? Might I claim you for a dance? A quadrille, perhaps.”
Since her aunt was tittering like a happy fox between them, Iris nodded, putting a brief smile on her face. “Certainly, my lord.” Yanking the dance card from her reticule again, she looked down at it rather than handing it over to him. “The… third dance of the evening is a quadrille. Will that suffice?”
Lord Charles inclined his head again. “I shall look forward to it.”
As he walked away, Margaret caught Iris’s arm and halfdragged her around to the front of the chair. “For heaven’s sake, Iris. You should have let him choose the dance.”
“I offered him the evening’s first quadrille, as he requested. What’s the difficulty?”
“Oh, good heavens. A smile, fingers brushing as you hand the dance card over and collect it again, a bit of a curtsy to remind him that you have a fine figure, and you’ve done half the work of the dance before you’ve even stepped on the floor.”
Iris frowned again. “I’m not setting my cap at anyone. I’m here because you asked me to be. But I am not looking for suitors. That’s you and Uncle Harold stirring up nonsense. And even if I make it through Trent’s half-witted contest, the decision whether to marry him will be mine.”
“Pshaw. Some men like a challenge, so your standoffishness may have some benefits—though I doubt it. Push me to the dessert table, you stubborn, ungrateful thing.”
“Very well. But please stop introducing me to other men. I promise to leave Grove House at the end of the Season. You don’t need to find me dozens of potential husba—”
“Lady Margaret. Mrs. Silbern.” A stout man with shirt points so high they pushed his ears forward bowed in front of them. For a moment Iris considered running him over, but Beckett had mentioned a possible excursion for ices tomorrow. She would hate to miss that because she’d failed to rein in her temper.
“Mr. Agnew. Iris, this is Michael Agnew, Lord Harold’s godson, the actual son and heir of Viscount Rodderend.”
“Mr. Agnew. If you’ll excuse us, I’m taking my aunt to the dessert table.”
“Certainly.” Bobbing his head, Mr. Agnew stepped sideways, then fell in beside her as she walked. “The thing is, I’d like to ask a dance of you, Mrs. Silbern. We did dance a time or two back when you were a debutante. Pleasant thing, you were. Still are.If Thomas Silbern hadn’t snapped you up, you might well have become Mrs. Agnew, the future Viscountess Rodderend.”
She remembered him. He’d had more hair eleven years ago, and less… middle, but the same bloated sense of his own worth. “As I said, I’m tending to my aunt this ev—”
“I’ll manage, dear. Give Mr. Agnew a dance.”
Iris blew out her breath. “Certainly. I have the first country dance open.”
“I’m not much for hopping about, these days,” he said. “A waltz would be more to my taste.”
“No.”
The chair stopped sharply, and her shin struck one of the crossbars. At the same time, her aunt chuckled. “Stop being so shy, Iris. Of course she’ll dance the first waltz with you, Michael.”
With a nod that made his chins jiggle, the rotund Mr. Agnew departed. “How am I going to dance at all, with my leg broken?” Iris snapped, bending down to rub her left shin.
