Chapter Seven #2
She meant to pretend the kiss hadn’t ever happened unless he brought it up first. It didn’t matter that last night she’d dreamt she and Beckett went riding on tiny ponies together and that he kept looking at her in a way that made her feel …
precious. Wanted. Dreams, though, were silly.
“How long have you been chatting with His Grace about me?” she asked, sitting on the soft leather seat opposite her aunt and uncle.
Margaret shrugged. “Since you sent the letter that you were leaving Shropshire. That’s when your uncle began asking about for any appropriate single gentlemen eager to wed a woman with a son.”
“So you didn’t believe me when I said Edmund and I would only stay through the end of the Season. Because a woman’s plans count for nothing, I suppose. Is that it?”
“We are supporting you,” her uncle Harold commented, something of a surprise since Margaret generally did enough chatting for both of them.
This would be about money, though, which was his province.
“We sent a duke in your direction. A union with him negates any need for your plans or for the extreme frugality which would have to accompany them even under the most ideal circumstances. Chat about something else. No one will admire those frown lines on your forehead.”
Iris continued to frown, anyway. She hadn’t asked for anything but a roof over their heads for a few weeks.
The Baverstocks had decided all on their own to alter her future and disregard her plans without even bothering to consult with her.
Her marrying Trent would eliminate their need to lend her funds, and that was what concerned them.
When they arrived at Morrison House the driver set the coach’s brake, then clambered onto the roof to hand Aunt Margaret’s wheeled chair down to a pair of waiting footmen.
They settled it just inside the foyer, then returned to the coach and lifted a hand-fluttering Margaret between them and carried her up the step and into the chair.
Considering that she’d seen Margaret stand up to fetch her embroidery this afternoon, she had little doubt that her aunt could have managed to walk into the house, perhaps with the aid of a cane and holding on to someone’s arm.
Being pushed about, though, especially at social events, seemed to delight her.
Iris had been instructed not to spare anyone’s toes, because it was their “own blasted fault if they couldn’t mind their own feet,” but she’d thus far managed not to injure anyone.
“Come along, Iris.”
Iris blinked. “Of course, Aunt Margaret.”
As they rolled into the ballroom Margaret reached over to take a dance card and pencil from the stack by the main doors. “Here you are, Iris,” she said, lifting them over her head.
“I don’t need a dance card, for heaven’s sake.”
“I beg to differ. They are invaluable for keeping one’s evening free of tangles.” Her aunt shook the card and pencil again.
Blowing out her breath, Iris took them and dumped the things into her reticule. “The only tangles I mean to face are the ones in my hair,” she muttered, changing direction when her aunt pointed toward the refreshment table.
“I heard that, Iris. And I can hear you scowling. Frowning canyons into your face is no way to improve your reputation.”
“My reputation doesn’t need to be improved.”
“It certainly does. You haven’t been to London in what, seven years?
That makes you a recluse—or worse, an oddity.
Adding in your shrewish shrieking at Lord Danvers’s sons at Forsythe House in front of everyone, I imagine you were only allowed entry tonight because of Harold and me. You’re treading on our good name.”
Being drummed out of Society would make it nearly impossible for her to join Edmund and the Raineses on their London excursions.
And it would make Edmund’s future much more difficult.
Otherwise, she might have welcomed it. There was certainly nothing in London for her but a ridiculous marriage contest that sounded like it had been invented to give the members of White’s Club something to wager over. “I’m not—”
“Good evening, Lady Margaret.”
Margaret put her good foot down, and they came to a stop so suddenly that Iris nearly went over her aunt’s head and onto the floor. “Blast it, Aunt M—”
“Lord Charles Smythe,” her aunt said, smiling so broadly that even from her position at the rear of their caravan Iris could see Margaret’s cheeks widen. “What a pleasant surprise. Do you know my niece, Iris Silbern? Iris, Lord Charles Smythe. Younger brother to the Earl of Chester.”
The man with sun-colored hair a few shades lighter than her own sketched an elegant bow.
He was handsome, she supposed, though his cravat was tied so intricately it must be choking him.
“We’ve met,” he drawled, “though not recently. I’d wondered what happened to you.
Widowed, eh? Might I claim you for a dance? A quadrille, perhaps.”
Since her aunt was tittering like a happy fox between them, Iris nodded, putting a brief smile on her face.
“Certainly, my lord.” Yanking the dance card from her reticule again, she looked down at it rather than handing it over to him.
“The … third dance of the evening is a quadrille. Will that suffice?”
Lord Charles inclined his head again. “I shall look forward to it.”
As he walked away, Margaret caught Iris’s arm and half dragged her around to the front of the chair. “For heaven’s sake, Iris. You should have let him choose the dance.”
“I offered him the evening’s first quadrille, as he requested. What’s the difficulty?”
“Oh, good heavens. A smile, fingers brushing as you hand the dance card over and collect it again, a bit of a curtsy to remind him that you have a fine figure, and you’ve done half the work of the dance before you’ve even stepped on the floor.”
Iris frowned again. “I’m not setting my cap at anyone. I’m here because you asked me to be. But I am not looking for suitors. That’s you and Uncle Harold stirring up nonsense. And even if I make it through Trent’s half-witted contest, the decision whether to marry him will be mine.”
“Pshaw. Some men like a challenge, so your standoffishness may have some benefits—though I doubt it. Push me to the dessert table, you stubborn, ungrateful thing.”
“Very well. But please stop introducing me to other men. I promise to leave Grove House at the end of the Season. You don’t need to find me dozens of potential husba—”
“Lady Margaret. Mrs. Silbern.” A stout man with shirt points so high they pushed his ears forward bowed in front of them.
For a moment Iris considered running him over, but Beckett had mentioned a possible excursion for ices tomorrow.
She would hate to miss that because she’d failed to rein in her temper.
“Mr. Agnew. Iris, this is Michael Agnew, Lord Harold’s godson, the actual son and heir of Viscount Rodderend.”
“Mr. Agnew. If you’ll excuse us, I’m taking my aunt to the dessert table.”
“Certainly.” Bobbing his head, Mr. Agnew stepped sideways, then fell in beside her as she walked.
“The thing is, I’d like to ask a dance of you, Mrs. Silbern.
We did dance a time or two back when you were a debutante.
Pleasant thing, you were. Still are. If Thomas Silbern hadn’t snapped you up, you might well have become Mrs. Agnew, the future Viscountess Rodderend. ”
She remembered him. He’d had more hair eleven years ago, and less … middle, but the same bloated sense of his own worth. “As I said, I’m tending to my aunt this ev—”
“I’ll manage, dear. Give Mr. Agnew a dance.”
Iris blew out her breath. “Certainly. I have the first country dance open.”
“I’m not much for hopping about, these days,” he said. “A waltz would be more to my taste.”
“No.”
The chair stopped sharply, and her shin struck one of the crossbars. At the same time, her aunt chuckled. “Stop being so shy, Iris. Of course she’ll dance the first waltz with you, Michael.”
With a nod that made his chins jiggle, the rotund Mr. Agnew departed. “How am I going to dance at all, with my leg broken?” Iris snapped, bending down to rub her left shin.
“You’ve already agreed to one dance this evening. For politeness’s sake, you are now obligated to accept every request given you. You know this.”
Iris shut her eyes for a moment. “I am a mother, Aunt Margaret. I am not some hip-swaying, dampened-muslin wearing, flirtatious debutante. What the duke has potentially offered me—a home, no more monetary concerns, the chance for a better future for Edmund—potentially interests me, but I am not going to strut about swishing my skirts to prove my … attractiveness to men. I don’t have the time, the inclination, or the patience for it. ”
Before her aunt could respond to that, Iris set the chair off again, advancing at her best speed to the dessert table. Once there she handed her aunt a plate, took one for herself, and went directly to the sugar-coated strawberries.
“Oh, good God,” a low male voice came from beside her. “Not the strawberries again.”
She snorted, nearly choking on the one she’d popped into her mouth. At the same moment it occurred to her that Lord Hentrose was the reason she hadn’t wanted to give away her waltzes. And that was a bit dismaying, for several reasons. “Good evening, Beckett,” she intoned, swallowing.
He reached past her for a strawberry. “That was quite the smile you favored Michael Agnew with a moment ago. You’re not armed, are you?”
“I hope my … discontent with the evening isn’t that transparent,” she muttered under her breath, pretending to assess the desserts. “I used to be adept at navigating this sea.”
“I don’t think it was obvious. It’s only that I’ve seen you infuriated, so I recognize the signs. What did he want?”
“A waltz.”
The marquis stilled beside her. “Good God. And you didn’t murder him where he stood?”