Page 33 of Better Than a Duke
“Where they would be even easier to forget, and by and by it would be the four of us, you and Edmund and Harold and me, living together. Oh, Edmund wants to purchase a commission and join the army or the navy, you say? And who would pay for that, I wonder? Ah, Lord Harold and Lady Margaret, kind souls that they are. What’s a few more pounds here and there after supporting the Silberns for years and years?”
“We have been here less than a week,” Iris snapped, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the largest window. “At your invitation, I might add.”
“Yes, because I’m a kind soul and in need of someone to roll me about. I won’t be in this chair forever, though. And while I’m happy to have you here while Suzette is away, frankly, Iris, how do you mean to earn your keep after my maid returns?”
“I’ve written you and Uncle Harold letters explaining my intention to open a boardinghouse. It’s only the initial purchase where I need some assistance, and I will repay you and Uncle Harold before I do anything else.”
“So you say. And I believe you intend to do precisely as you say.”
“Then what is th—”
“Intentions don’t keep off the rain. You are a widow. You have no home. You have no means of income. You have a son who needs all the things you need as well as tutoring, schooling, and a way to support himself. Marriage to a duke would sweep all of those obstacles away, in addition to making you a duchess, of all things.”
Iris scowled.This was too much. And too… all at once to make any sense at all. “I don’t care about b—”
“You don’t care about being a duchess. You should. Having the pin money of a duchess, being the wife to a family’s patriarch.You know how that could elevate you.” Her aunt twisted to look up over her shoulder at Iris. “In the meantime, keep your mouth closed over your cynicism. Don’t ruin it for yourself. You owe Edmund, and Harold and me, the courtesy of careful thought.”
Careful thought. She did everything with careful thought, for the devil’s sake. Well, everything that affected Edmund. Before him, she’d made some choices that had turned out to be questionable, at best. Her aunt’s advice made sense, at least until she had enough time to unknot her very large wad of tangled thoughts.
At dinner Uncle Harold and His Grace discussed trade with the Colonies, and she didn’t point out that the Colonies weren’t called that any longer, or that British prices would have to be fair or the Americans would simply take their business elsewhere. The duke spent a good twenty minutes giving his opinion on why people who didn’t own land shouldn’t have any voice at all in the government, and she didn’t mention that farmers who didn’t own any of their land still paid taxes.
Finally the men called for brandy and cigars, and she wheeled her aunt out of the dining room and back into the drawing room. “I don’t think you’ve been this silent for this long in your entire life,” Aunt Margaret noted.
“I’m thinking, as you advised.” Iris settled her aunt beside the fire, fetched her a blanket and some Madeira, then walked to the door. “And now I’m going outside for a breath of air.”
“Good. We’ll be able to discuss you. Return in time to wish His Grace a good evening. And don’t demolish my plants.”
“I’m not going to… Oh, never mind.”
Yes, she had a temper, but she did not go about walloping plants simply because a better subject wasn’t to hand. In this instance she didn’t know who deserved a bloody nose, anyway. Her, probably. She’d clearly done something wrong at some point in her life, or none of this would be happening now.
She walked out the kitchen door and closed it behind her. The night air had a chill to it, the scent of rain heavy and thick, but she continued deeper into the garden anyway. At least it was quiet and not full of self-concerned men. “Stupid dukes and their stupid dead wives,” she muttered, just refraining from taking a swipe at a blooming rose after all.
“That was very specific.”
Iris jumped, whipping around to face the garden wall. A bottle of whiskey sat in one of the regular openings, fit neatly between a pair of wrought-iron bars. Above the bottle, the Marquis of Hentrose gazed at her, one eyebrow raised. “Oh, thank goodness it’s you,” she said, stalking up to the stone barricade.
“I am very rarely greeted with those words,” he commented, lifting the bottle, tilting it back, and taking a drink before he replaced it. “Thank you.”
“May I?”
“God’s sake, yes. I hate drinking alone.”
She took the bottle and drank. She imbibed on occasion, mostly Madeira or wine, and despite the earthy, smoky taste of the very fine whiskey, the tail end of her swallow burned a bit as it went down. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were entertaining your mother and Lady Pauline this evening.”
Taking the bottle back from her, he took another drink and returned it. “I’m supposed to be drinking and smoking by myself in the dining room right now, and retelling myself bawdy tales I overheard at some club or other. The ladies are in the drawing room and have utterly no need of me at present.”
Chuckling, she took another swallow herself. “I’m presently chatting about embroidery and current fashion with my aunt, who is snoring by the fire in the drawing room while my uncle drinks and smokes with the Duke of Trent.”
“Trent, eh? He’s the duke you were cursing?”
“Yes. Evidently he’s decided to remarry, and I’m on his list of possible brides.” That required another swallow before she passed the bottle back again.
He looked at her through the generously spaced iron bars. “You didn’t murder him, did you?”
“Everyone seems to think I mean to do violence. I may be annoyed, but I’m not going to shoot anyone.” She grimaced. “He says I’m pretty and not too tall, which seem to be his main requirements. And he said he would see to it that Edmund receives a good education and enough blunt for him to become an officer in the army or buy a bit of land and order people about on it.”
“That’s generous. He has two sons of his own, and they both have families.” Beckett tilted his head. “Both of them are older than you are, now that I consider it.”
