Page 59 of Better Than a Duke
That was interesting, though she didn’t think anyone would dare say any of those things to Lady Pauline’s face. “She does seem quite confident,” she said, sitting back as the coach rolled into the street.
Margaret pointed a finger at her. “Being a five-time widower might have put off someone as haughty as Lady Pauline Grenedy, but the Duke of Trent outranks even Hentrose. She’ll be curtsying to you, if you can manage this.”
“I don’t care who curtsies to whom, Aunt Margaret. I would like your assurance, though, as the one who’s thrown me at Trent, that he hasn’t had a hand in the demise of any of his previous duchesses.”
Her aunt folded her hands on her lap. “It would be lovely, Iris, if you could be more grateful to the people assisting you, especially when your own plans were such a poor, naïve idea. Thank goodness you’ve put it aside. A boardinghouse. Goodness.”
Iris looked at her aunt, at her straight mouth pinched at the sides, her chin jutted just a little forward, and her eyes a bit large. “Don’t be so certain I won’t ask for that money again if I lose the contest to wed Trent,” she said. She could discard hopes, but she would always have a plan.
“It won’t do you any good. Family or not, you are a poor investment. Marry Trent, if he’ll have you. That will cost us nothing, cost you nothing, and put you in a better position socially and monetarily.” She waved one hand in the air. “We would happilypay for a few new gowns for you. A small sum in exchange for you and Edmund not clinging to us for the remainder of our lives.”
Now Iris felt like the last piece of bread left on the board after everyone had eaten their fill. A thin, left-behind bit of heel, not terribly appetizing, but available to anyone who might want an extra helping. “How fortunate for me that I have family on whom I may rely.”
“Precisely. Now. I’m looking for something I can wear to my dinner with Lady Naton, a bit of decoration for my hair. In silver and blue to complement my blue gown. The one with the silver lace at the sleeves and hem. Do you remember the one?”
It was on the tip of Iris’s tongue to say that she couldn’t remember it because she was too occupied with deciding whether she and Edmund could flee to the Continent and become jugglers, but she kept her mouth shut. Aunt Margaret might approve of that and send them packing regardless of Trent’s decision.
The moment they returned to Grove House she asked to be excused, and then informed Tollins that she and Edmund would be taking their dinner in the small dining room upstairs. An evening of listening to what she’d been hearing all afternoon would definitely have her punching things, and one of them was likely to be her uncle’s nose.
A stack of invitations and calling cards sat in the foyer, and three of them were actually for her. A walking invitation from a Mr. Vincent Mainer that sounded… less than proper, a carriage drive invitation from Lord Bernard Paples whom she couldn’t recall ever meeting, and an invitation to the widows’ tea from the Duchess of Richmond. She wanted to dump them all into the wastebasket, but no doubt her aunt would fish them out and complain about her lack of ambition in netting the duke. Sighing, she shifted them to Margaret’s stack and headed upstairs.
Over dinner Edmund continued to complain about Delilah. “Did Lady Pauline bite you?” Iris asked, sipping at her ratafia when she would much rather have been drinking whiskey or brandy in the garden with Beckett. “You still seem very angry at her. Delilah wasn’t her fault.”
“She’s—She’s a… a taker.”
“Lord Hentrose must have said something previously to make her think she would be receiving a gift, or she would have had no reason to make that assumption. So at worst, this was a matter of confusion. If you want to remain friends with Becks, you’re going to have to be able to be polite to the woman who’s going to be her mother.”
“Stepmother,” he corrected.
“Yes, stepmother. Now. If you’re going to continue to sulk, please go to your room and read one of your books. I’ll tell you goodnight later.”
He stood up, his shoulders squared. “You don’t need to do that. I can put myself to bed. I’m not a baby.”
Well, that hurt. She had tolerance for two men in her life at the moment, and one of them evidently didn’t need his sheets tucked in any longer. The other one, she wanted to untuck. “Certainly. I’ll see you in the morning, then. I love you, Pickle.”
He stopped in the doorway, his back to her. “I love you, too,” he grumbled, and left.
And now she felt better again. If children had any idea how much their happiness and well-being affected the moods of their elders, they would rule the world. Which would be interesting, but also too full of ponies and sewer tunnels.
She finished her dinner alone in the small dining room. Tonight, Grove House felt like a trap, a place where the walls pushed closer and closer together until she didn’t have room to breathe.Going for a walk would clear her head, but doing so by herself after dark would have been worse than stupid.
Instead she paced the length of her borrowed bedchamber, sending Polly away when the maid came to help her change into her night rail. She didn’t feel ready to give in to the evening just yet. The second she caught herself looking toward the window she knew why she felt so restless.
Grabbing a shawl, she made her way downstairs and out the garden door. Raines House was as quiet as Grove House this evening. Beckett was more than likely at a dance or dinner elsewhere, as she was aware of at least a half dozen of those going on tonight.
Even so, she walked over to the gate and put her hands on the railing. “I don’t suppose anyone is over there,” she muttered, on the chance that someone—he—was.
A half-full bottle of wine appeared over the top of the fence, and she reached up to take it. “I started without you,” the marquis said.
“I’m not about to complain.” She took a swig, leaning back against her side of the wall. “That’s a fine wine.”
“It’s Spanish. Made from black currants. I have no idea what happened this morning, Iris. I would have headed Pauline off, but then you went and said that I’d bought Delilah for her. Now Rebecca isn’t speaking to me, I had luncheon in a public room of a crowded establishment with Pauline’s grandparents, the word ‘marriage’ twittering through the air, and I’m going to Lord and Lady Ramsey’s home for dinner tomorrow night. Those are her parents, you know. No doubt they’ll be shouting that word at me, as well.”
“Are you going to ask Lord Ramsey for permission to marry Pauline, then?” The words tasted foul, so she drank another large swallow of wine to dispel them.
“I’m meant to, certainly. I dislike being cornered, though, and so I expect I’ll be obtuse about it. Next week, perhaps, or the week after, but on my schedule. Not her family’s.”
Good. “Your courtship has been quite orderly, when you consider it,” Iris commented, handing back the bottle. “First a luncheon with her, then a dinner with her sisters and brothers-in-law, luncheon with the family patriarch, and next dinner with her parents.”
