17
As it turned out, Iris’s dunking in the stream had not left her entirely unscathed. Early the next morning she woke to a scratchy throat and a body that ached in places she had not expected.
It wasn’t anything serious. In fact, she had every certainty that, with proper rest, she would be back to normal by lunchtime. She had always been one to bounce back quickly after an illness, after all.
Yet she couldn’t deny she was secretly relieved to be under the weather, even for a morning.
Not only could she miss the picnic that Sylvia had promised a local landowner they would attend, an event that had nothing whatsoever to do with their delayed plans for Lord Durand but was merely for company and pleasure—and was something Iris had looked forward to with about as much excitement as a tooth extraction—but she could think of Oliver to her heart’s content.
That was, of course, if she could convince Sylvia to go without her. Something that had proven incredibly difficult throughout the morning, even with the help of Laney and Euphemia.
“Are you certain you don’t need me to stay with you?” Sylvia asked, tugging on her gloves even as her concerned gaze took Iris in from the top of her head to the tips of her slippers peeking out beneath the edge of the blanket.
“I’m certain,” Iris consoled her. She breathed in deeply of the minty steam wafting from the porcelain cup in her hands and smiled up at the woman. “I have this lovely tea, and am resting comfortably, and am already feeling better.”
Sylvia, however, did not look the least convinced.
She frowned, looked down to the gloves she had just put on, grabbed the tip of the middle finger of one, and looked about to pull it off again.
Blessedly Laney was there to lay a calming hand over Sylvia’s.
“Iris would not lie about something of this sort,” she soothed.
Then, linking her arm through Sylvia’s, she hugged it to her side.
“There is nothing else you can do. And besides, you know you are not comfortable playing nurse anyway.”
An understatement if there ever was one.
Sylvia did tend to become quite anxious when anyone was sick or hurt.
Why, when Laney had boxed her last match a year ago and been pummeled nearly to a pulp, Sylvia had been beside herself.
She had not left Laney’s side, had attempted to nurse her through every second of every day until she had nearly fallen ill from the strain of it.
“If you’re certain,” she said now to Iris, her expression betraying her own uncertainty.
“She is,” Euphemia cut in with a wide smile.
“But let us be off. The longer we stay here hovering over Iris like great morose buzzards, the worse she is likely to get.” She exchanged a conspiratorial look with Laney.
“And I daresay I’m just as tired as you of being cooped up in this house.
I am so looking forward to getting out, feeling the sun on my face, meeting new people, and eating good food. ”
Which finally convinced Sylvia to leave. After many reminders for Iris that she should send a servant to fetch them immediately should she worsen in any way, they were off. The echoing sounds of their footsteps and conversation faded, the front door closed behind them. And then silence reigned.
A lovely thing. While she had quite enjoyed their fussing—strange, really, as she had never been partial to it before—she had wanted nothing more than peace and quiet, to rest and think over all that had happened the day before.
Not that she hadn’t thought of it plenty up until now.
Every moment, waking or sleeping, had been spent going over every minute of that eventful morning, from her time with Verity, to the dunking in the stream, to the incendiary kiss with Oliver, to his mother’s loving ministrations and consoling of her when she had broken down crying.
And she missed them. Not just Oliver, but all of them.
Strange, that, as she had not even known of Oliver’s existence a fortnight ago, and his family for just a portion of that.
How could people work their way into your heart so quickly and so thoroughly?
She sighed and rose, letting the blanket drop to the floor as she moved to the window.
The sun shone brightly in a blue and cloudless sky, with not a bit of breeze to move the trees.
The overcast chill of yesterday was no more, the perfect day to go exploring, to seek out her new friend—and to perhaps run into a certain tall, barrel-chested man who made her heart flutter in the most astonishing way?. .? .
As if she had summoned him by mere thought alone, there he was, making his way up the drive. She frowned, rubbing at her eyes, taking another look. Surely her mind was playing tricks on her. But no, there was Oliver, with that long-legged stride of his, heading her way.
She was out of her bedroom and flying down the stairs before she knew what she was about.
Why was he here? Was he coming to see her?
And why did she feel like a debutante about to be called on by her suitor?
Her heart pounded in the most disconcerting way, excitement and nervousness and longing all mingling within her.
By the time she reached the front door her legs were shaking so much beneath her she had to grasp on to the handle to keep herself from toppling over.
Then, with one deep breath, she threw the door wide.
Oliver stood there on the front step, hand raised to knock. His eyes flared wide when he saw her, his mouth dropping open.
“Iris,” he breathed.
“Oliver,” she said, just as breathless.
He blinked, cheeks turning an interesting ruddy hue as his hand fell to his side. “I’m sorry for intruding. I didn’t expect you to be home.” When she gave him a perplexed look, he continued, “Verity informed me you would be attending a picnic with some of the locals today.”
“Ah!” she said, understanding dawning, even as disappointment filled her. So he hadn’t been coming to see her after all. She cleared her throat, trying to clear her chagrin along with it. “Yes, I was set to attend. But I wasn’t feeling well and so stayed behind.”
Immediate concern took over his features. He stepped forward, eyes raking over her. “You aren’t feeling well? Are you ill from our fall in the stream?”
His worry had her disappointment disappearing as quickly as it had come. “It’s nothing to be concerned about,” she replied hastily, pleasure blossoming in her chest. “I have rested all the morning long and am much better now.”
He sagged in relief. “I’m glad,” he said, his features easing.
Her pleasure expanded into something warm and comforting. More than a little flustered by how happy she was becoming just from having him near, the question that had been loudly knocking about in her head burst from her lips: “Why are you here?”
Not the most welcoming, perhaps, but thankfully Oliver did not seem to take it as an insult. He gave her a crooked smile, one so endearing it made her heart skip an entire beat.
“I actually came to bring you something. I had intended to leave it for you, but now I can give it to you in person.”
She blinked. “Me? You have brought me something?”
At his nod her insides melted. She would not have been surprised to look down and see she had transformed into a puddle of mush.
But she must have stared at him much too long without replying, for his smile faltered. “Unless you would rather I leave—?”
“What? Oh! No. Don’t leave.” She stepped back, motioning him inside. “Come in. Please.”
He did, stepping into the front hall when she moved back, somehow making the roomy, open space feel close and intimate until he was all she could see, all she could feel.
“The drawing room is this way,” she squeaked, gripping tight to her wrist, thumbnail unconsciously picking at the tender skin there as she led the way down the hall.
What the devil was wrong with her? It was not like they had never been alone before.
And they had shared some incredibly pleasant kisses when they had been.
Though mayhap that was where her nervousness lay. Was he thinking of their kisses as well?
She had her answer almost immediately. The moment they reached the drawing room she heard a soft click, and she turned to find he had closed the door and was leaning back against it, the look on his face one that could be described only as acute pain.
“I cannot begin to tell you,” he said with seeming effort, “how difficult it is to stop myself from kissing you right now.”
A thrilled shiver worked its way through her. Once again a question burst from her lips the moment it took shape in her head, though she couldn’t bring herself to regret it: “Then why stop yourself?”
He groaned, closing his eyes, leaning his head back against the door with a dull thud. “Because,” he replied hoarsely, “I came here with another purpose entirely.”
Which could have no other reply than “Your visit can have two purposes.”
Again that groan, though now it seemed to be dredged up from the depths of his soul.
“Iris,” he said, “you are making it damned difficult to stay focused.” With a determined look on his face, he pushed away from the door and strode toward her, pulling a small bundle from the pocket of his jacket as he did so.
As soon as he reached her he thrust the package at her and took one large step back.
“For you,” he mumbled, that ruddy cast back to his cheeks, an almost sheepish look in his eyes.
Iris did not wait even a second. With shaking fingers she opened the bundle—and stopped in confusion when she unveiled the peculiar object within.
Made of a thick canvas on one side and a softer felt on the other, with long ribbons hanging from each end, it looked like nothing she had ever seen before.
She frowned. “What is it?”