Page 66 of Better Than a Duke
“You’re attending?” Iris narrowed her eyes.
“I’m quite sought-after,” he replied, grinning in a way that made her mouth go dry.
“I don’t know who’s invited where,” Margaret said, pointing at the front door, “but you’re welcome to share the carriage with us. Do make it clear that you received your own invitation, though. I don’t as a rule bring additional persons to parties.”
“Certainly. And thank you.” Tollins pulled open the front door, and Iris pushed her aunt to the edge of the front step so they could lift her and then the chair all over again. “Tollins, I would appreciate if you would inform Mrs. Brubbins that she is to return Rebecca home at her discretion, and I’ll be along later.”
The butler nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
As they wrestled Margaret into the coach and her chair onto the roof, a hand brushed hers. “A moment?” Beckett murmured, walking behind the vehicle.
She tossed the end of a rope up to the coachman on the roof and stepped back to join Beckett. The heat curling beneath her skin reminded her of that very lovely time right after she and Thomas had married, but at the same time it felt… different. All reason didn’t flee her mind when she set eyes on Beckett, and she knew perfectly well that this whatever-it-was between them could only last a short while. But she still craved it, and him.
“Have you seen the newspaper this morning?” he asked, keeping his voice pitched low.
“No. Why?”
“It mentions you pushing your aunt through Mayfair at alarming speed, and warns readers to beware your temper and tendency toward violence. It also notes that I had luncheon with the Duke and Duchess of Milton and their granddaughter, and that an announcement is imminent.”
“Aunt Margaret won’t like that much,” she said, glaring up at the chair as it wobbled on the coach’s roof. “She likes to go fast, but she’d never admit it.”
He faced her. “I’m glad you aren’t troubled by the gossip,” he commented, his voice clipped. “I am.”
“I’ve already told you that I’m a lost cause, fit only for an old duke looking for his sixth bride and surrounded by sons who could pass for bickering badgers.”
His jaw twitched. “I disagree, but I was actually referring to me being all but dragged into matrimony.”
“Oh.” He disagreed? Beckett knew how badly she fit into London Society. It was nice that he’d said it, though. “Well, perhaps the news escaped before you were ready to see it in print, but nothing’s been said that isn’t true. You do mean to offer for Lady Pauline, and you do mean to marry her.”
Beckett scowled. “I… Yes. But I have no doubt my mother made certain the gossip pages printed the details so I’d have no chance of escape.”
Iris looked at him, at his frown and his downcast eyes and the muscles clenched at his jaw. A fluttery daydream flitted to life again in her chest, and with a hard breath she squished it. “But you don’t wish to escape. The only thing that’s changed is that you’ve seen your own intentions in writing.”
“Damnation, Iris. I’m not—I’m not ready yet.”
Oh, this was beginning to hurt her heart. “If you’re hesitating because we’ve become friends, you know this can’t last. The only question has been whether it will be because you become engaged first, or I do.”
His eyes narrowed a little. “Damned stubborn woman.”
“I’m practical.”
“I’m not—we are not—engaged yet. And I’m not—I enjoyed last night.”
She felt her cheeks heat. “I did as—”
“For heaven’s sake, Iris, are you coming, or do you mean to take root there on the carriage drive?”
Iris shut her eyes for a moment. It was just as well, because this particular conversation wasn’t going anywhere she felt ready to follow. “Are you still joining us?”
“Yes. Looking forward to it.”
He followed her to the coach. “Lord Hentrose, you will sit beside me,” Margaret said, patting the leather cushion next to her.
Nodding, he turned to look at Iris. “After you, Mrs. Silbern,” he said, offering her a hand. She took his fingers, heat racing beneath her skin as they touched. Just the idea of facing him for the entirety of the coach ride—without saying anything about what had transpired last night or what they meant to do about the attraction they clearly felt for each other—made her breath quicken. Beckett Raines was better than all the lemon and strawberry ices, ever.
He sat beside Aunt Margaret as the coach rolled into the street. “If you accepted an invitation to this luncheon,” Iris said, a smile pulling at her cheeks, “why were you visiting Grove House?”
“The time quite escaped me,” he said easily. “No doubt I would have missed it entirely if you ladies hadn’t reminded me.”
