Chapter Eighteen
Iris pushed her aunt’s chair around a shop’s display of feathers meant for decorating hats. “I’m beginning to feel pity for all the bald-arsed ostriches in the world,” she muttered, angling to the right when Aunt Margaret jabbed a finger in that direction.
“What was that, dear?”
“Nothing. Just amusing myself.” And wishing she’d been able to go kite flying with Edmund and Rebecca, and Beckett.
“Well, stop it. I’m after a silver brooch to match my silver hair clip. A silver one. Made from silver. With a rose or a lily decoration.”
“Yes, I understand the directive.”
“Keep looking. You have a better view than I. And don’t say ‘arse’ in polite company. For heaven’s sake. Your camel’s back is already overburdened with straws, Iris.”
Considering that Aunt Margaret now only saw the need to be wheeled about when it would be the most inconvenient for everyone around her—namely in shops and at balls—Iris wasn’t certain which of them more deserved a scolding. “Perhaps we should try Tindersen’s?”
“I detest the shop woman who guards the counter there.”
“Mrs. Tindersen, you mean?”
“Is she married to the shopkeeper? How dreadful for him.”
Stifling yet another sigh, Iris steered the chair around the rear of the shop again. “She is the shopkeeper. It belongs to her.”
Aunt Margaret twisted to look up at her. “Shameful, a woman owning a business. We shan’t be purchasing from there any longer.” She slapped her hands against her thighs. “Roll me to Dandridge and Sons. Perhaps I’ll have better luck with antique brooches.”
“Very well.” Wrenching the chair about again, Iris pulled it out of the shop, using her arse—backside—to keep the door open when the other shoppers decided to pretend they didn’t have any arms.
“Your uncle spoke with His Grace last night. Harold seems assured that Trent will be making a formal offer for you in the next day or two.”
She’d expected it, but Iris still felt like all her hair was standing on end. “And you waited until this moment to tell me?”
“Oh, pish. You’re going to accept, I trust. You’d be mad not to. You! A duchess!”
Iris leaned down so she could lower her voice. “Considering that he expects me to bear more children for him, children which will more than likely be left to me to raise and support after his death, I’m beginning to think that marrying him might not be the soundest decision.”
She mostly said it to be contrary, though clearly she needed more than a stipend for Edmund and herself to ensure she didn’t end up worse off than she was now.
It was so odd that lately, on occasion, she forgot how dire her circumstances were.
She—and Edmund—had been so happy over the past few weeks. Blasted daydreams.
“I suggest you reconsider, immediately,” Margaret said, her tone sharper.
“Dangling yourself in front of any man and then declining his attentions is unwise; leading on a duke will have consequences you are not in a position to manage. You’re one loud sentence away from being cut from Society as it is. ”
That had been harsh, and a shiver ran up Iris’s spine. “I haven’t led anyone on,” she retorted, just remembering to keep her voice lowered. “You threw me at him.”
“And have I made a secret of that?”
“No. You’ve been quite open about your eagerness to have Edmund and me gone.”
“Quite. I always prefer to avoid misunderstandings whenever possible.” Abruptly Margaret reached back, patting Iris’s left hand.
“Look. It’s Lady Pauline Grenedy. Your new dear friend’s nearly betrothed.
Such a surprise, him deciding he wishes to marry again and then choosing a woman embarking on her sixth Season rather than one of the debutantes.
” Before Iris could respond, Aunt Margaret continued.
“I have to say, despite your protests I did wonder if you meant to make a play for him. But you managed to maintain your ruse of being reluctant to remarry long enough to lure in the Duke of Trent, once we ‘threw you’ at him, as you say. Beckett Raines must have been tempting, even so. A handsome, wealthy man with a title—not as grand as a duke, of course, but who is? Well done, Iris.”
Iris contemplated letting the chair’s handles go, just to see how long it would be before Aunt Margaret realized she was rolling down Bond Street by herself.
It could be miles. Blowing out her breath, she leaned back a little as they neared Dandridge and Sonss.
Downhill ought to have been easier, but it took all her strength just to keep from being pulled off her feet and dragged behind the wheeled chair like a flapping, discarded coat.
She risked a glance behind them to see Lady Pauline stop to chat with an acquaintance, even her hand motions and expression poised and perfect. Iris faced forward again. “Six Seasons does look well on Lady Pauline,” she said, sighing.
“You might look as pristine, if you took a moment to improve your wardrobe. And smile. And be polite. And refrain from glaring at everyone.”
Iris glared at the back of her aunt’s head. “Are you aware of how often you insult me, or do you simply not care?”
“I don’t care in the least. Neither do I care if anyone speaks ill of me—unless they outrank me. Words may be weapons, but they only draw blood if you let them.”
Iris thought about that. “You might consider why it is that someone would wish to wound you,” she said, turning around to pull the chair into the shop.
“That would be paying them mind, Iris. Oh, look at the brooches! Aren’t you pleased you came shopping with me instead of going about running after kites?”
“No.”
“Oh, hush. And hand me that box. No, the one on the second shelf.”
Iris retrieved the shallow wooden box of velvet-cushioned silver brooches.
Was everyone as … blithe about their lives as her aunt?
Was she the odd duck for worrying too much about everything?
Food? Clothes? A bed and a roof? Beckett worried as much as she did, though his concerns were about raising a perfect, poised daughter, a mirror image of Lady Pauline.
And who could fault him for that? Though there was one thing young Becks had that she’d never seen from the duke’s granddaughter—the ability to laugh, especially at herself.
Iris hoped becoming Society’s darling wouldn’t mean Edmund’s dear friend would learn to take everything seriously except other people, because that would be a shame.
And so would be the end of the evenings she could flee out to the garden and expect to find Beckett there, waiting for her with a bottle and a smile.
He had no idea how many nights she’d slipped outside, even knowing he had an engagement elsewhere.
He didn’t need to know how long she waited out there, occasionally garbed in nothing but a thin robe, wishing he would walk out his door and join her.
Perhaps it wasn’t so horrid, wasting a thought or two on things that might have been.
“You want me to hold a dinner party,” Beckett said, putting his hand on his chin, his elbow on his knee, as he watched Edmund drag his kite over the grass and Rebecca twirled hers in a circle a foot beyond her head beside him.
“Yes. Eddie and I talked about it, and we think we should do something to celebrate being friends, and all the things that are happening this Season.” Stopping her spinning, she pulled a piece of paper out of her pocket and unfolded it.
“We made a list of who you should invite. And we want it to be tomorrow night.”
“That’s very short notice.”
“It’s the next slow evening in Mayfair. We looked at the list of all the upcoming fetes printed in the newspaper.”
She handed over the list, and he looked down at it. “You want your grandmother to attend?” He lifted both eyebrows.
“Yes. She is part of the family. Not everyone knows how to be nice. That doesn’t mean we should be horrid back to them.”
“You’re a better man than I am, Rebecca.”
With a grin she dipped a curtsy. “Thank you.”
Smiling himself, he continued to peruse the list. “Lady Pauline, Mrs. Silbern, Lord Harold and Lady Margaret Baverstock, me—thank you for that—Lady Pauline’s sisters, their husbands, and her parents, the Duke of Trent, both of Trent’s sons and their wives, Michael who is Lord Elmond’s oldest son, another Michael—Mr. Michael Agnew, Lord Harold’s godson—the Dowager Duchess Richmond because she taught me about tea, Lord and Lady Nyfeld, and Becks and Eddie.
” He looked up at his daughter, who was mouthing the names as he read them aloud. “That’s twenty-three people.”
“Yes. We want to include Brubbie and Mr. Fredericks, but I don’t know if they would be frowned at. Nobody should frown at them, because they are quite lovely people.”
“Well. If I’m hosting this dinner party, I suppose I get the last word on who’s invited. We’ll be an uneven twenty-seven, then. If, that is, everyone else has also looked at the newspaper and realized they have nothing better to do.”
Her grin nearly split her face. “You’ll do it? Oh, thank you. This is going to be so wonderful, Papa!” She waved her arms at Edmund, now dragging his kite in their direction. “He said yes!”
Edmund whooped. “Hurray!”
“You two must write and send out the invitations, however,” Beckett continued. “Mrs. Brubbins may assist. And with Mrs. Silbern’s approval, Mr. Fredericks, as well.”
“That’s fair,” Edmund said, coiling up his string as he reached them. “The breeze has definitely gone. Do you think if I rode Flintlock Biscuits while I held the kite, it would become airborne?”
“That might suffice,” Beckett answered, gathering up the leftover sticks and paper and bits of ribbon and tossing them back into the basket they’d brought with them.
“However, a large kite with bright red ribbons for a tail could well spook Flintlock, which would make the entire enterprise problematic.”