Page 89 of Better Than a Duke
And abruptly she wasn’t shackled to her aunt all evening. “Thank you, Bradley,” she murmured, and would have kissed the footman on the cheek if that wouldn’t have definitely lost her Trent’s contest.
Beckett offered his arm. “Trent’s already here,” he commented, “as are Lord and Lady Elmond and Lord Henry and Lady Mary and young Lord Michael.”
“Oh, he’s nasty. Watch out for him,” Edmund whispered from her other side.
“I will, Edmund,” Beckett muttered back, nodding. “My thanks.”
Edmund nodded back at him. The Marquis of Elmond’s son, the nasty Lord Michael, made six Howards here this evening—four men and the two wives of the brothers. Her own aunt anduncle would side with the Howards if any arguments arose, which raised their numbers to eight. Lady Pauline seemed to have a similar number of allies attending this evening.
“You realize you have three factions here,” she said to Beckett as Butler introduced the lot of them. “If you pit the Grenedys against the Howards against the… well, I don’t know whoweare, but the numbers would be fairly even.”
“We’re the Biscuits,” he informed her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Hadn’t you heard?”
“I had, but I didn’t know if you’d been informed.”
“I was told yesterday, actually. But I believe in a three-way battle, we would have the advantage. We Biscuits aren’t above being underhanded.”
“Oh, we pride ourselves on it. Anything to win. Isn’t that our motto?”
“The—”
“Darling,” Lady Pauline said, gliding up to Beckett as the butler finished his introductions, “we must make certain the children sit together, don’t you think?”
Well, if that was what it took to be considered a perfect hostess, perhaps Iris had a chance, after all. But then she’d simply assumed Becks and Edmund would be sitting next to each other. Evidently, though, even the obvious needed to be stated aloud, so someone could claim credit for it. No wonder she so frequently felt like she was drowning in a well-dressed, over-perfumed sea of propriety.
She glanced at Lady Pauline, to see the woman gazing at her. A slight, amused smile curved red lips, but didn’t touch her eyes. Ah, Iris realized, she’d been measured and found wanting. Her dress was her finest, the violet-and-mauve silk-and-lace gown with elaborate beading, and matching ribbons twinedthroughout her elaborate bun and its twisting blond curls dripping about her face.
She also knew it would have been the height of fashion seven or eight Seasons ago, and that now the shoulders were a bit too puffy, the neckline a bit too high, and if one looked closely enough, the lace ruffles at the bottom of the gown had been replaced and in bright-enough light didn’t quite match the rest of the ensemble. She knew it was too fancy for a dinner party that included children and servants, but Edmund had wanted her to wear it, and until Pauline’s glance, she’d felt pretty in it.
Rolling her shoulders, she reached over to brush her finger against Edmund’s cheek. No. She still felt pretty. And she felt… proud. Lord Hentrose, Beckett, had several times complimented her on what a fine boy Edmund was, and she’d seen it herself, things she hadn’t even anticipated but that had warmed her to her bones. In light of that, well, who gave a damn if her dress wasn’t quite the thing? Iris flashed Pauline a bright grin.
“Is it time to eat now?” Rebecca asked, bouncing up to take her father’s hand. “I ate a very small luncheon so I would have all my appetite this evening.”
Beckett lifted an eyebrow at Butler, who nodded. “I believe it is. If you would, Butler?”
“With pleasure, my lord. Lords and ladies and gentleman, dinner is served.” Turning his back, the butler threw open the doors of the large dining room and stepped aside.
Iris blinked. When she’d come for dinner previously, they’d eaten in the small dining room, which could comfortably accommodate a dozen people. Four times that would fit into the large dining room, and still leave space for another twenty-five or so miscellaneous guests.
More impressive than the sheer size of the room, though, wasthe way it glittered. Silver-appointed chandeliers dripping with crystals, silver candlesticks, crystal vases of bright red and pink and yellow roses, silver utensils and a sheer white tablecloth decorated with doves and olive leaves formed of silver thread. Even lofty Lord Elmond looked impressed, when she’d thought Trent’s oldest son didn’t have that capability.
“Oh!” Rebecca exclaimed. “It’s like a fairy tale!”
Her father grinned, clearly pleased at his daughter’s delight. “We do not stand on ceremony in Raines House,” he said in a carrying voice. “All of my guests are equally welcome. Everyone to the table, if you please. You’ll find your names on the plates.”
He’d assigned seats. Or the children had. Either way, this would be interesting. “You did this with one day’s notice?” she asked, stepping back as he, Pauline on his arm, started through the drawing room doors.
“Butler and the staff did it,” he returned over his shoulder. “I only suggested that the words ‘too fancy’ be eliminated from their vocabulary.”
“They seem to have understood your direction,” she said, chuckling. “Well done.”
A hand slid around her arm, pulling her sideways. “I request a private word with you after dinner,” the Duke of Trent murmured, his mouth brushing her ear.
Iris stifled a shudder at the whispery, intimate tickle, and at what his words likely meant. A marriage proposal. The end of the last of her stupid, silly daydreams where her life went as she wanted it to, where they could all be happy and she would be able to stop worrying. God, how long had it been since she hadn’t had anything to worry over? Ten years? Eleven? Her last worry-free moment had probably been the night she’d gotten strawberry cream all over Beckett Raines’s coat.
She glanced at him holding the chair for Lady Pauline. Elevenyears ago they were two strong-minded, opinionated people who would have butted heads at every turn, each thinking they knew best. And now that they knew better, it was too late. She’d managed to fall madly in love, but with the wrong man. Oh, she detested irony.
CHAPTER TWENTY
