Page 97 of Better Than a Duke
“Yes, we have. Does that mean we’re not supposed to be able to be happy again? If marrying me would make you happy, that is. I’m presuming, I suppose, that you feel the same way about me as I do about you.”
Oh, she did. So much. “You’re the one thing I can’t stop daydreaming about,” she whispered. “But how could we? There’s a duke about to appear in your garden, and he’s convinced that I will marry him. I’ve agreed in principle to do so. You have a duke’s granddaughter still waiting for you in the library, and all of Mayfair knows a proposal is imminent. You could no doubt weather a scandal, given that you’re… you, but I—”
“I’m getting very tired of the burden that comes with being honorable,” he said, scowling. “I don’t—”
A scream ripped through the night. Her heart jumping again, Iris sat up. “That sounded like Aunt Margaret,” she gasped.
Beckett was already on his feet. Pulling her up after him and lifting her over the hole that apparently did almost reach to London’s sewers, he ran with her back into his garden and straight for the back door of Raines House.What now?If Edmund had somehow summoned his rat army, Iris meant to join them, because everything had gone mad now.
Beckett grabbed the door handle, then nearly smashed his face on the door when it didn’t give. “It’s locked,” he snapped.
“What about the front door?”
“I nearly hope the kitchen’s caught fire.”
If a fire was what it took to have Beckett holding her hand as they ran to the front of the house and into the foyer, then so be it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lady Margaret Baverstock looked at her husband’s pocket watch. Three more minutes, and then she was to stumble upon the Duke of Trent and Irisen deshabillein the morning room. They would be compromised, and as good as married. However… sticky the idea of purposely ruining her own niece felt, by doing so she was giving Iris a better life, one where she didn’t have to beg relations for money, or stay in houses that didn’t belong to her in the hope that someone would come along to save her. And she didn’t have to cling to silly ideas like the granddaughter of an earl running a boardinghouse, of all things, having strange women—and worse, men—living beneath her roof, and hoping by virtue of some miracle that she would have enough income to support herself and to see Edmund into an acceptable career.
That made all of this a good deed. For heaven’s sake, how many women ever became duchesses? Very few, indeed. Perhaps only one every seven or eight years, even. And Iris would be that one, thanks to her. Yes, thanks to Lady Margaret Baverstock. And while she wouldn’t receive any credit for it, that was unnecessary.
The drippy girl Rebecca refused for some reason to go upstairs and change, and instead insisted on chatting with her grandmother about the best way to remove orange stains from a pink gown. The Dowager Lady Hentrose looked irritated, and Margaret didn’t blame her a bit. If a messy, sticky nine-year-old girl attempted to hugherwith meringue all over her front and in her hair and dripping onto the very expensive carpet, well, someone would be forcibly removed from the house and a bucket of water dumped over her. The girl had even managed to fling some of it on a number of guests.
“Rebecca!” Lady Hentrose finally snapped. “You are not coming anywhere near me while you’re covered in dessert. Go away. I have things to manage.” With that the dowager marchioness turned on her heel and left the drawing room.
Because Margaret noticed everything, and listened to every bit of gossip, she could guess where Georgiana, Lady Hentrose was going. It would be to the library, where she would find her son and Lady Pauline Grenedy alone together, hopefully even more scandalously than her niece and Trent, and they would be well on their way to a wedding, as well. No one appreciated the effort, the skill, and the timing that a family’s matriarch put into all the behind-the-curtains maneuverings. No one but themselves.
She handed the pocket watch back to Harold. It was time. A shiver of excitement ran through her. She hoped whatever Trent and Iris were up to wasn’t too scandalous even for discussion, but she did expect to see perhaps a bare breast in addition to kissing. Bad enough to force a marriage, but not so bad that even becoming a duchess wouldn’t render Iris palatable to the ton.
“Bradley, is it? I wish to go to the morning room,” she stated, tapping the arm of her wheeled chair.
“Are you certain, my lady? No one is—”
“Now.”
“My lady.”
The footman pushed her forward. Half the room seemed to be watching her, or at least all the Howards were. That was why Trent had chosenherto make the interruption, though; he didn’t trust any of his own blood to do it. They didn’t want their patriarch married again. They didn’t want Trent bestowing money and favor on anyone but themselves. But the duke had made it clear to her and to Harold—he would be exceedingly grateful for the part they’d played in putting him together with Iris. Gratitude from a duke was a very good thing.
“The morning room door is shut,” the footman observed as they reached the foyer.
“So it is. Continue.” She bumped a little in her seat to urge him forward. When the devil was Suzette due back, anyway? The ungrateful thing had said a fortnight, and it had been nearly twice that long. Just one letter, that her mother’s illness was lingering, and then nothing else. Well, when the maid finally bothered to return, she might well find that she’d been replaced.
“Should I knock, my lady?”
“Why? It’s dark beneath the door. No one’s inside. Open it and push me in. Your employer holds odd parties, you know. Inviting children and servants to eat at the table, and then vanishing. I need a breath of air. In there.”
The door was also locked, which she considered a very good sign. Bradley turned the key, shoved it open, and rolled her chair through the doorway. The room was black as pitch after the bright hallway, and for a trio of heartbeats she thought it empty, after all.Damnation. All this effort and—
“Blast it, close the damned door!” came the duke’s voice, not quite as they’d planned it, but close enough.
Margaret took a deep breath and screamed.
The duke roared. “No, you bottle-headed fussock! We’ve been—”
“No! Let me out!”
