by Anna Bradley
Pink perfection, as far as the eye could see.
A lie, swathed in layers of expensive silk.
You’re not the quiet, docile lady you pretended to be.
Iris squirmed against the settee, but no amount of squirming or denial would change the fact Lord Huntington was right. She’d been pretending to be someone she wasn’t, just as he had, and if she hadn’t quite realized how far she’d taken it until he said it aloud, it didn’t make her any less guilty.
That cursed wager—her blood boiled every time she thought about it, not only because Lord Huntington had chosen Honora over her, though that was enough to offend any lady. No, what truly galled her was he’d thought she and Honora were interchangeable, as if it hardly mattered if he lost one lady on the turn of a card, since the other lady would do just as well.
Despicable, of course, except for one small thing.
He wasn’t entirely wrong. That is, he was only right in a miniscule, shallow, and insignificant way, but still—he wasn’t entirely wrong. She and Honora might be nothing alike in character or temperament, but they were so alike in their manners, their dress, and their accomplishments, it was a wonder anyone could tell them apart.
If all of London thought her a pale shadow of Honora, then it was her own fault. Somehow, over the course of the season, between the suitors, the balls, and the flirtatious flutters of her fan, Iris had realized plain Iris Somerset, the simple country miss from Surrey, wasn’t going to be good enough for fashionable London society.
So she became Lady Honora instead.
Not consciously, of course, but now, looking back on it, Iris could see how it had happened. It made perfect sense, really. Her grandmother wanted a match with Lord Huntington, and Lord Huntington wanted Lady Honora. Well, Lady Honora, or Lady Beaumont. Iris wasn’t sure which, but it hardly mattered, because she wasn’t either of them.
The truth was, if he’d known what she hid under those layers of pink silk, he never would have offered for her at all.
Iris sighed and wished for another glass of wine.
“My goodness,” Violet murmured as Lady Honora neared the end of her piece with a dramatic display of ringing notes. “How awful it would be to have to play after Honora does. You play beautifully, of course, so you’ll have no trouble, but think how it would be for any lady less skilled than you are, Iris. I’d be quite terrified.”
Iris snorted. “Yes, well, nothing motivates a young lady more effectively than terror. Why practice the pianoforte at all other than the threat of humiliation? It’s no wonder the gentlemen expect such docile, predictable wives. The ton terrorizes us into compliance, and then marries us off.”
“My, that’s cynical.”
Cynical, but true nonetheless, and young ladies who didn’t comply—well, they had every reason to be terrified, didn’t they?
The moment she’d jilted Lord Huntington, Iris had ceased to be compliant.
Her gaze wandered back to him, and her breath caught. He was so handsome, so perfect, with his snowy white cravat and that charming dimple in his chin. He’d transformed effortlessly from the fiercely passionate man who’d kissed her in the stables this afternoon to the flawless Marquess of Huntington this evening.
He could be both of them, it seemed.
But I can’t.
She couldn’t pretend anymore. The pink gowns, the perfect quadrille, the pianoforte—it wasn’t who she was. She was the lady who hiked her skirts to her knees and ran races, the lady who wanted to tear across the countryside on a half-wild horse, with her hair streaming out behind her. All the things she wanted to do, like kiss a gentleman in a garden, or wear a royal blue gown, or ride Chaos—every single one had been denied her, and she could no longer pretend it didn’t matter.
She could never be the perfect marchioness Lord Huntington wanted, and all the knee-weakening kisses in the world didn’t change that. This afternoon, in the stables, she’d told him Lord Wrexley was her only choice, and it was still true. Lord Huntington’s kisses, that hint of vulnerability in his hazel eyes—they would distract her from her goal, and then what would become of her and her sisters?
It wasn’t the time or place to get into a panic, but within seconds Iris’s heart was thrashing and her hands were trembling with it, and just then Lady Honora’s fingers crashed down on the keys, and the music rose to an emotional crescendo, and Iris’s head jerked toward the pianoforte, and all the fear in her chest tightened into a cold, hard ball of dread and lodged in the back of her throat.
Iris stared at the despised pianoforte. “I don’t want to play.”
Violet gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean, you don’t want to play? Everyone expects it. You have to play.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.”
“But…but then they’ll ask me to play!” Violet was far from shy and retiring, but her one fear was public musical performances, and it was such a deep and abiding one it teetered on the irrational.
“Refuse, then.” Iris gave her sister’s hand a distracted pat as she glanced around the drawing room for a possible escape route. Now she’d made up her mind not to play, she couldn’t bear to sit here another minute.
Violet was wringing her hands. “But I can’t refuse. Can I?”
“Why not? I am.”
Violet continued to mutter and fret to herself, but Iris didn’t have the energy tonight to soothe her, and as it happened, she didn’t have to. A movement in the hallway outside the drawing room caught her eye, and her gaze met Lord Wrexley’s.
He’d been mysteriously absent at dinner this evening, and he seemed to prefer to stay hidden now. He’d positioned himself so he could see her, but he was just out of sight of the rest of the party. When she met his gaze he gave a beckoning tilt of his head, and an inviting smile drifted over his handsome face.
Iris didn’t think about how rude it was to leave the drawing room while Honora was still playing. She didn’t think about how she was abandoning her sister, or the impropriety of wandering off alone with Lord Wrexley.
She was thinking about pink gowns, and pianofortes, and Lord Huntington’s hot mouth on hers, his commanding voice telling her she couldn’t ride Chaos and ordering her to choose another horse.
It doesn’t matter what either of us want. Not anymore.
But it did matter. It mattered to her.
She clutched her skirts in her hands and rose to her feet.
“Iris!” Violet hissed. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I need some fresh air. I’m going for a walk.”
Violet caught hold of a fold of her skirts to stop her, but Iris yanked it away, and in the next breath she’d crossed the drawing room and joined Lord Wrexley in the hallway. He held out his arm as she approached, and she took it, and let him lead her into the darkness beyond the terrace doors.
* * * *
“Good Lord, it was as dull as a tomb in there, wasn’t it?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t care for the pianoforte, Lord Wrexley.”
“I’m utterly indifferent to the pianoforte, Miss Somerset, though I grant you my cousin plays very well.” He smiled down at her. “Nearly as well as you, I believe.”
“Much better, I think. Lady Honora truly loves to play, whereas I—”
“Don’t? The ton has spent the entire season raving about your skills on the pianoforte, and you mean to say you’ve been fooling them all this time? How shocking.”
He sounded more amused than shocked, however. Iris raised an eyebrow at him. “Technical skill isn’t love, my lord.”
Oh, dear. Perhaps she shouldn’t be speaking of love to Lord Wrexley, especially not when she was out here alone with him on a dark terrace.
But he only laughed. “No, it isn’t. But tell me, did you enjoy our ride today, Miss Somerset?”
<
br /> “I did, only…” She hesitated. It wasn’t proper to reveal the details of the argument she’d had with Lord Huntington to Lord Wrexley.
“Only you wanted to ride Chaos. I confess I was surprised to see you’d chosen another horse. I suppose Lord Huntington insisted?”
“He did.” In the end she’d chosen one of the mares, but she hadn’t any intention of giving up her plans to ride Chaos. After all, Lord Huntington couldn’t watch her all the time, could he? No matter what Lady Beaumont might think, she wasn’t a child on leading strings, her straps caught in Lord Huntington’s fist, her every step dependent on his whim and pleasure.
A little shiver chased up her spine at the thought of being bound to Lord Huntington, his hazel eyes following her everywhere, uncovering her secrets, but Iris shrugged it away. It was hardly anything to shiver in pleasure over.
“Ah, well. We’ll have to leave Lord Huntington behind next time. Shall we try again tomorrow morning? I spoke to Captain West, and he’s given his permission for us to take out Chaos. We should go early in the morning, I think.”
Iris hesitated. It was one thing to walk on the terrace alone with Lord Wrexley, but quite another to dash off into the countryside with him.
“Good Lord, Miss Somerset. Don’t tell me you’ve let Huntington’s blather about Chaos dissuade you from riding him. When anything pleasant is afoot, Huntington’s always the first to disapprove of it. He was the same way at school.”
Iris looked up at him, surprised. “You knew Lord Huntington in school? What was he like?”
Lord Wrexley snorted. “The same spiritless, dry old stick he is now, though I’ll grant you the other boys didn’t give him an easy time of it, what with that scandal about his mother.”
Scandal? Both of Lord Huntington’s parents were dead, and Iris had never heard a breath of scandal about either of them, but then today, in the stables, she’d been certain he’d been about to say something about his family before he’d stopped and abruptly changed the subject.
“Now I think on it, Miss Somerset, perhaps Huntington is right, after all, and you can’t handle a horse of Chaos’s temperament. My cousin assures me you’re an excellent rider, but Chaos is a challenging mount. He may prove to be too much for you.”
Iris’s lips thinned with irritation. First Lord Huntington doubted her equestrienne skills, and now Lord Wrexley did, as well? The minute she’d touched that horse, she’d felt an instant connection to him she’d never had with any other animal aside from Typhon, and she ached to ride him.
“I haven’t yet found a horse I couldn’t manage, Lord Wrexley.”
“You know, I believe you haven’t.” He grinned down at her. “You’re rather a remarkable lady, Miss Somerset.”
She forced a laugh. “Oh, not at all, my lord. I assure you, I’m quite dull and ordinary.”
Except there had been a time, when her father was still alive, when she’d felt as if she were—well, if not remarkable, then utterly and completely herself. Every now and then she felt a trace of it again, but holding onto it was like catching fog in your hand. As soon as her fingers closed around it, it vanished into the air.
“Remarkable, and quite beautiful,” Lord Wrexley murmured.
Iris’s gaze lifted to his. They were strolling across the terrace, and there was just enough light for her to admire his smooth, dark hair and the confident smile toying with his lips. They didn’t make her ache like Lord Huntington’s lips did, but Lord Wrexley was very handsome, and it was foolish to ache over a gentleman who wanted someone else.
This afternoon, in the stables, it hadn’t felt as if he wanted someone else, but tonight it couldn’t be clearer his admiration for Honora hadn’t waned.
“Miss Somerset.” Lord Wrexley drew her closer to the edge of the terrace, toward the garden, and away from the light from the house.
Iris froze, unsure what to do. She shouldn’t let him kiss her, but if she didn’t, then she’d have only the memory of Lord Huntington’s kiss when she was alone in her bedchamber tonight.
Lord Wrexley’s face was lowering to hers, his gaze on her mouth. “May I—”
“Iris! There you are. I’ve been looking for you this age.”
Iris jumped, and a low growl tore from Lord Wrexley’s throat. He was staring over her shoulder, his full lips turned down in a frown.
Iris whirled around to find Lady Annabel standing at the top of a shallow flight of stairs, one of the terrace doors standing open behind her. The fire behind her toyed with the folds of the delicious flame-red gown that had rendered Iris nearly speechless with envy at dinner this evening.
Lord Wrexley cleared his throat. “You startled us, my lady. I didn’t realize you were there.”
“Yes, that’s clear enough, my lord. Come with me at once, Iris.”
She held out an imperious hand, and Iris didn’t even think to disobey her. Before she could mount the stairs, however, Lord Wrexley caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her gloved fingertips. “Good night, Miss Somerset.” He bowed, then leaned toward her and whispered, “Don’t forget our ride tomorrow. Meet me in the stables before dawn.”
He cast one inscrutable look at Lady Annabel, then bowed once more to Iris, and melted into the shadows of the garden behind him.
“Well, thank goodness he’s gone. Come along.” Lady Annabel didn’t wait for an answer, but disappeared into the dim room beyond. Iris followed her, her breath catching with pleasure when she entered the tiny sitting room. It wasn’t grand, but so cozy, with a rich blue and gold carpet, plump leather chairs, and a fire burning low in the grate.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Lady Annabel sauntered over to the desk to fetch a carafe of wine and two glasses and motioned Iris into one of the chairs. “It’s Charlotte’s favorite room.”
“I can see why it would be.”
Lady Annabel poured a generous measure of rich red wine into one of the glasses and passed it to Iris, then sat down with her own glass. Iris expected a scolding, but Lady Annabel only traced one finger over the rim of her glass and observed her with a thoughtful expression.
The silence went on so long Iris began to squirm. “Lady Annabel, I—”
“Not yet. After you finish your wine.”
The wine was as delicious as she remembered, but Iris gulped it down with haste, anxious to end the unbearable silence.
“Lady Annabel,” she began again when her glass was empty. “I—”
Lady Annabel beckoned with her fingers for Iris’s glass, filled it again, and handed it back. Iris’s head felt a bit wobbly on her shoulders, but she took the glass and brought it to her lips.
By the time she’d half-emptied it, she felt quite a bit more cheerful about the situation. It was just a little walk on the terrace, after all, and nothing improper had occurred. He hadn’t even kissed her. Why, it was nothing—
“Now, suppose you tell me what you were doing alone on the terrace with Lord Wrexley.”
Lady Annabel was watching her, so Iris tried to arrange her face into a properly scandalized expression and opened her lips to plead ignorance, or beg for forgiveness, or do whatever it was a lady did when she was caught on a dark terrace with a gentleman.
“Well, I was going to let him kiss me, to see if I liked it as well as I did when Lord Huntington kissed me, but—”
Iris slapped a hand over her mouth. Oh, dear God. Had she said that aloud? Goodness, this was humiliating. Perhaps more wine would help. She raised her glass to her lips and peeked over the rim to find Lady Annabel watching her with an amused expression on her face.
“Well? Did he kiss you?”
Iris took a few more sips of wine to loosen her tongue. “No, but he was about to. I don’t mind saying, my lady, I was relieved to find him so eager.”
“I don’t know many gentlemen who wouldn’t be eager in that situation.”
“But indeed there are such gentlemen. Lord Huntington, for one.”
“Lord Huntington?” Lady Annabel looked surprised. “You mean to say he had an opportunity to kiss you, and he didn’t take it?”
Iris covered her mouth to disguise a tiny hiccup. “Yes, but to be fair, he was in rather a rush. His mistress was hiding behind the rose bushes at the time, you see, and she was listening.”
Lady Annabel’s eyes went wide. “Lord Huntington had Lady Beaumont secreted away in the bushes while he was meant to be kissing you?”
He wasn’t precisely meant to be kissing her, but it was too difficult to explain that to Lady Annabel, so Iris nodded. “Yes, something like that. Lady Beaumont is rather unpleasant, isn’t she?”
“Oh, no. No more unpleasant than a nest of poisonous vipers, that is. But you mentioned Lady Beaumont the other day, when we spoke in your bedchamber. Is she the reason you jilted Lord Huntington? Because many aristocratic gentlemen keep mistresses, Iris. I don’t suppose their wives like it much, but I’m afraid the only acceptable response for a lady is to look the other way. It’s not sufficient grounds to jilt him.”
Iris waved a hand in the air, then frowned down at the splash of red wine she’d spilled on her skirt. “No, no. I realize aristocratic gentlemen often have mistresses. No, it wasn’t that, or even that awful wager he made, though I do think I would have been well within my rights to jilt him for that.”
“Ah. The wager.” Lady Annabel leaned forward. “You mentioned that before, as well. Well, let’s have the worst of it, then.”
Goodness, was her wine gone already? Iris held out her glass to Lady Annabel. “It was a very ungentlemanly business, but I suppose I ended up with the better end of it, since poor Honora only narrowly escaped a marriage to Lord Harley, that scoundrel.”
Lady Annabel poured more wine into Iris’s glass. “You mean to say Lord Harley, Lord Wrexley, and Lord Huntington wagered for the chance to court you and Lady Honora?”
