Chapter 1
SEVEN YEARS LATER
“May I have this dance, Miss—”
“Lady Hentley,” Iris corrected the gentleman.
“Ah… are you the late Viscount Hentley’s wife?” He cocked his head and eyed her curiously.
Iris shivered as the memory of her husband’s lifeless body filled her mind.
She had an odd feeling that every gentleman at this ball imagined her quite differently.
Although this particular gentleman’s eyes praised her body, she knew he was about to change his mind about the dance.
Men always perceived her under a superstitious light after Viscount Hentley’s untimely death became the talk of the ton.
“I am her,” Iris admitted.
The gentleman gave her one last look, disappointment flashing across his face. He made an excuse to leave; Iris simply smiled, understandably, and watched him walk away.
It had been seven years since her husband passed, and still, a small part of her hoped for a man to walk toward her with intent in his eyes.
Just as the thought crossed her mind, another gentleman approached with a hesitant smile.
Iris held her breath until his gaze slid past her, settling on a younger lady.
In that moment, she was grateful that Raph and Camelia reappeared through the crowd with two glasses of wine.
“Forgive us… We got caught up.” Camelia looked flushed, but Iris brushed it off as one of her pregnancy symptoms.
“I cannot forgive you as I used up my forgiveness when you convinced me to attend this disastrous ball,” Iris shot back.
Her sister gaped at her. “Who ruffled your feathers so early into the night?”
Iris eyed the couple suspiciously, but Raph avoided looking at her. His hair was a complete mess, and Camelia’s dress looked as if it had been hastily put together.
“If you wanted to dance the entire night, please do not let me stop you,” Iris said innocently.
Camelia laughed. “Oh, we were not dancing.”
“Then why do you look so flushed and out of breath? Are you unwell?” She cocked her head towards Camelia’s belly.
“All is well, Iris; do not fret.”
Raph cleared his throat as Camelia smiled shyly at her husband and handed Iris the glass of wine.
“We just found the duke’s library and…”
“It was a fascinating place. There was a lot of mesmerizing… books,” Raph finished the sentence as he stared into Camelia’s eyes mischievously.
Iris obviously did not believe a word they said, and something about the way they smiled at each other made her crave what they had.
Perhaps I shall find this library since I will not be dancing tonight.
“Have you seen the duke?” Camelia demanded.
“No, he has not made an entrance yet,” Iris confessed quite disappointedly.
Iris looked down into her wine as a murmur swept through the crowd, rising like a sudden wind.
“The unfortunate widow,” a woman whispered nearby.
Her insult was quickly followed by a gaggle of laughter, and the words stung Iris. Camelia glared at the group of women.
“Do you want me to say something?” Raph asked Iris, his brow furrowed, and all traces of humor vanished.
“No,” she said quickly.
The last thing she wanted was more attention to her. Raph grabbed her empty wine glass; she had not noticed she had drunk it all, and he walked away to get another.
Camelia tutted. “Do not listen to them, Iris.”
Iris watched as rage flared in Camelia’s eyes.
Society had seemingly shunned her ever since she was titled the viscountess.
It had been a lonely journey, but Iris felt a little grateful that she was excluded and received no invitations.
It was better than being in the company of people who made her feel ashamed.
It was a dreadful experience hearing the whispers at gatherings about the circumstances of her husband’s death, followed by the curious looks of each gentleman.
“But it is true, Camelia.” Iris looked into her sister’s eyes that were so similar to hers. “I am unfortunate. I spent my days paying off my husband’s debts with my dowry. The same dowry that could have saved Papa from his debts with Lord Montague.”
“That is water under the bridge,” Camelia said sternly. “And you know if you need anything, even if it is money, Raph and I are always here to help—”
“No, thank you, Camelia. I am handling everything on my own just fine.”
Camelia sighed. “What is so wonderful about living alone, dear sister? If I were unmarried, I would want to go home to Papa and Margaret.”
Iris sighed heavily. “It is the quiet. The silence and comfort of it. Especially on my evenings alone in that house. It is… peaceful.”
“And it is yours,” Camelia added with a tone of understanding.
Iris nodded in agreement. “At least the supposed heir has not cared to claim the title for the last seven years. So, I get to keep the house, even if it is falling apart.”
“Have you heard from this potential heir?” Camelia looked at her curiously.
Iris thought about it for a second. “No, I have not.”
“Then there is nothing to worry about.” She beamed.
But the knot in Iris’s gut did not ease. “The heir to the title is a married duke with a family who lives far from London. But it seems that he has no inclination to come to town. Even so, I have to be prepared that he might change his mind and eventually show up.”
Camelia placed her hand gently on Iris’s shoulder. “You do not have to stay there if it makes you miserable. You could come live with us. Truly. Raph would insist on it.”
“I cannot impose myself,” Iris said tautly. “I already lived with Father for a short while when his debt left him hopeless. And you and His Grace saved him. You saved all of us. How would it look if your duke saved your sister… again? I cannot be a burden.”
Camelia’s smile dimmed. “You are not a burden!”
“Well, I feel like one,” Iris whispered, smoothing her skirt with a gloved hand. “I wished I had been capable of helping then. Of doing something. Anything.”
“You were there for Papa and us,” Camelia said gently. “That is all that matters.”
“I should have been stronger.”
Camelia took her hand firmly into hers. “You are strong. You always have been.”
Iris looked away as her throat tightened. Paying off her dead husband’s debts was becoming a heavy burden, but she could not dump that on her sister, especially not at a ball.
“Are you ladies ready to meet the scarred duke?” Raph announced on his return with a new glass of wine for Iris.
The sisters exchanged looks and asked in unison, “The scarred duke?”
Camelia tilted her head to Raph, eyes narrowing. “Tell us what else you know of him, Raph? Truly.”
Raph sighed, leaning slightly against a nearby pillar. “All I know, my dear wife, is that he went off on his own at seventeen, built some sort of fortune for himself all over the country, and now he has inherited the dukedom title, and he threw this extravagant ball to introduce himself.”
“How… unsatisfying,” Iris said softly as she tugged at her skirt.
“You must know more,” Camelia pressed eagerly.
Raph squinted his eyes as if he were deep in thought.
“There is more,” Camelia prompted him with a determined grin.
Raph hesitated only a fraction of a second before he shook his head, causing his wife to huff with frustration.
Men are useless when it comes to gossip.
“Oh! I just remembered he was rumored to have killed his older brother,” Raph added casually from behind them, and the sisters whipped around to face him.
“What?” Iris gaped at her brother-in-law.
Raph shrugged nonchalantly. “It is just a rumor.”
Around them, every conversation stuttered, then hushed.
“That must be him!” Camelia whispered excitedly, and Iris followed her gaze.
The crowd around them began to whisper, and a shadowy figure entered from a set of double doors at the far end of the room.
The sisters watched the duke’s grand entrance, flanked by two footmen holding tall candelabras.
Iris saw him first as a silhouette. He was tall with broad, muscular shoulders and strong legs that flexed with each step.
When he stepped fully into the ballroom’s light, the sound seemed to thin even more around them.
Iris gasped, and Camelia whispered, “Raph, what happened to him?”
The man was strikingly handsome but not in the delicate way of some lords.
His jaw was strong and framed with the darkest hair she had ever seen.
It curled carelessly as though he had once run impatient hands through it and not bothered to smooth it after.
His mouth held the ghost of a smile that suggested he found everything amusing and did not mind much if the world knew it.
But one thing stood out the most for Iris.
“How did he get that scar?” she overheard someone whisper, and Iris very much wanted to know the answer to that, too.
The scar was ragged and ran from the duke’s left brow in a clean, vicious line, slicing down across his cheekbone and ending near his jaw.
It was still red, not yet faded into the pale silver of old wounds.
Against his otherwise chiseled face, it was a raw, deliberate slash as if fate had tried to mark him and he had refused to hide it.
Feminine gasps fluttered through the room like the sudden beating of wings.
“He looks dangerous,” the young Lady Petunia murmured behind them. She was making her debut this Season, and Iris was jealous of her youth and hopefulness.
“More fascinating than dangerous,” another woman replied huskily. “That scar… it only adds to his charm, well… that is what I think.”
Iris swallowed. She could not deny that there was something compelling about him.
His eyes looked dark, but she could not see their true color clearly from where she stood.
Iris was tall enough to see him, and as she drank in his body, she found him staring straight into her eyes.
Heat enveloped her skin; it was as though he had felt her scrutiny and answered it with his own.
Surely, he cannot be looking at me.
But there was no mistaking that he was staring deep within her soul until his lips parted and he began his speech.