22
What do you mean, they’re gone?”
Iris stood in the middle of the sitting room, fingers busy scratching mercilessly at the cuff around her wrist. But Oliver did not feel his typical pleasure in seeing his gift to her hard at work.
No, his mind, still muddied from his restless sleep, was utterly blank as it attempted to absorb the full implications of what she had just told him.
“They claimed they have had this trip planned for some time,” she said, eyes bouncing about the room. “She was certain she had mentioned it, but I could not recall ever hearing of it.”
“Nor I,” Oliver managed.
They stood that way for a time, awkward, silent, the merciless ticking of the clock on the mantel the only sound. He had been achingly aware of her these past five days. Even when he had not been home, when he had been hard at work at Durand Manor, he could not fail to be aware that she was here.
But now, knowing they were completely and totally alone, that awareness had multiplied tenfold.
Suddenly Iris jolted as if prodded and pulled a crumpled letter from a pocket in her skirts.
“I nearly forgot,” she mumbled. “Your mother left this for you.”
She held the letter out to him at full arm’s length, as if she feared touching him.
He was equally cautious as he took it from her, making certain their fingers did not so much as brush.
The atmosphere fairly crackled with electric energy, the space between them seeming to vibrate with a magnetic pull.
God knew what would happen if he were to touch her.
He opened the letter quickly, eyes scanning his mother’s shaky writing. But it gave him no answers, only more questions.
Iris, still attempting to maintain distance between them, bounced on her toes just out of reach, craning her neck in an attempt to see the contents of the letter. “What does she say?” she asked, the impatience in her voice clear.
His lips quirked as he glanced at her. “If you’re so curious about it, you should have read it yourself before I woke.”
The look she gave him was adorably outraged. “I would never betray your privacy like that. But what does she say?”
His amusement gone as quickly as it had come, he frowned at the letter, turning it over in his hand as if it could somehow reveal some hidden meaning.
“She merely reiterates what she told you, that she had promised a friend she would visit, something she was certain she informed me of. She claims they shall be back tomorrow afternoon.”
She gaped at him. “Tomorrow? They shall not be back until tomorrow?” He nodded and he could hear her swallow. “Which means we shall be?.? .? .? alone for all that time?” she continued faintly.
He nodded, feeling more than a little dazed. “It appears so.”
Once more they were submerged in silent awkwardness. What the hell had his mother been thinking? He was certain, with every fiber of his being, that she had never once mentioned going to London. Had she simply forgotten to tell him? Was she just mistaken? Or had she made the whole thing up?
Perhaps his mother was attempting to play a bit of a matchmaker.
She treated Iris much like a daughter, leaving no doubt that she cared for her.
And hadn’t there been times in the past five days, since Iris had come to stay with them, that he had thought she might be trying to push him and Iris together?
As soon as the idea had taken shape, however, he brushed it aside. No, he was certain she had just been mistaken in thinking she’d informed him of her trip. That had to be it.
Iris shifted from foot to foot, looking as lost as he felt. “But I should be getting dinner on the table,” she finally said.
“Dinner?”
“Yes.” She raised her chin, something like pride sparkling in her eyes. “I made dinner.”
He blinked. “You did?” At her nod he repeated, “You made dinner?”
A small smile ghosted across her lips. “I did. To be fair, your mother instructed me through most of it. But I’m quite proud of my efforts, though it’s simple fare by anyone’s standards.”
Before he could think how to respond she was off, hurrying down the hall toward the kitchen. Leaving Oliver to stare after her wondering how the hell he had gotten into this situation.
A thought that was compounded the moment he stepped into the small dining room.
While he was certain Iris had not meant for it to appear intimate and romantic, that was exactly how it felt.
The curtains were drawn tight against the setting sun, casting the room into deep shadows, while candlelight shimmered in a wholly magical way on the plates and glasses and danced across the walls.
The two seats with their place settings faced one another, and his imagination turned disturbingly fanciful picturing being seated across from her, with nowhere to look but at her.
How the hell was he supposed to eat, much less survive in general, in such a setting?
Without thinking he strode across the room to the window, grasping the drapes in his fist, ready to throw them open. Until Iris’s alarmed voice cut through the air.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder—and was immediately frozen in place by her panicked expression. Which was when he remembered the desperate need to keep her hidden from any and all prying eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, raking a hand through his hair. “It just felt too close in here, and I’d hoped to open the space up more.”
She hugged her arms about her middle, looking longingly at the window. “I’m quite aware it feels too close,” she replied. “But while I would love nothing more than to get even a single glimpse of the outside world, it is much more imperative that we prevent anyone from knowing I’m here.”
And Oliver had not thought he could feel any lower.
He was so low he was a worm. No, he was lower than a worm.
He was the dirt beneath the worm. While he had been caught up in his own struggles of having her under his roof this past week, he had conveniently forgotten one very important fact about Iris: She thrived out of doors.
Yet she had willingly let herself be shut up in his house, without so much as a glimpse of the sky.
And her determination to remain unseen was not only to protect herself but to protect his family for hiding her away.
How difficult must these past days have been for her.
Something that was made starkly obvious the more he studied her.
He saw now what he had missed before in his need to protect himself from her effect on him: Her skin was paler, and dark circles cradled her eyes, eyes that were duller than they had been.
What he wouldn’t give to give her some respite, to bring a spark of light back to her.
An idea took shape in his mind that would not only get her out of doors, but get them out of this close, intimate space as well.
Heart pounding, he headed for the door. “Keep the food warm for just half an hour,” he said over his shoulder.
Iris didn’t know what she had expected when Oliver had bolted from the dining room as if his breeches had caught fire. Nor had she known what she would find when he finally called her to the kitchen. But it certainly wasn’t this.
Confused, she stared out the back door into the small garden.
Where there should have been a darkening sky and tall box hedges, there were instead softly glowing white walls that shifted and swayed.
Frowning, she took a step closer, craning her neck to better see the alien landscape.
When she finally realized what it was, she gasped.
Ropes had been strung up from the roofline, and Mrs. Archer’s pristine white sheets had been draped over them to create a lopsided sort of makeshift tent.
A quilt had been laid over the ground, and lanterns were strung up, illuminating the tent in a soft golden glow.
When she crept forward and glanced up, a small window of sky was visible, the deepening blue of it, with the beginnings of the twinkling of stars, proof that night was fast approaching.
It wasn’t a large space, or particularly well constructed.
Yet it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing Iris had ever seen.
“Oh, Oliver,” she breathed, turning eyes on him that were prickling tellingly.
He gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize sooner how difficult it must be for you to remain locked away indoors.
I know this”—he swept a hand out to indicate the tent—“isn’t truly what you need.
What you really need is to walk through the woods and breathe fresh air and search for plants. But I do hope it helps some.”
And she had not thought she could love him more. She clutched her hands to her chest, utterly devoid of speech. He stood quietly beside her for a moment, as if he understood her need to gather her emotions into something manageable, before he spoke again, his voice gentle.
“If you’re not comfortable doing something of this sort we don’t have to. I know having a semi-picnic just outside the kitchen door is not very elegant or proper, that you must be used to so much better—”
His words cut off in a soft oomph as she lurched forward and wrapped her arms about his waist.
“You silly man,” she said into his waistcoat. “I love it. I love it so much I could burst with happiness.”
He relaxed against her, his arms coming around her, his cheek resting against the crown of her head. “I’m glad,” he said softly.
Which was entirely too lovely a feeling, one she would have gladly submerged herself in had her stomach not given a particularly loud rumble.
“But I’ve delayed our meal enough,” he said, putting her away from him.