“Quite true,” Iris added. She listened to Harriet as she continued, and then realized with clarity that her head had stopped pounding. Vinegar. Who would have expected such a thing? She’d have to remember to thank Lord Ashby when she saw him next.
“Agnes’s story is rather different from mine,” Harriet said.
“Only because your brother is not nearly so overbearing,” Agnes said. Then she smiled warmly at Lucy. “My brother, Christopher, is rather protective. So, my coming out year, and since, to be honest, men have been rather careful about approaching me to dance or even converse.”
“Is Lord Ashby protective of you, Lucy?” Iris asked.
Lucy frowned, then recognition lit her expression, and she smiled. “Goodness, but I forget sometimes that Merritt is Lord Ashby.”
“It has only been a year since he inherited the title, isn’t that right?” Agnes asked.
“A little less than a year. We already lived in London, and we kept the townhome that Merritt owned because it was larger than the previous lord’s address,” Lucy said. “He has done quite well for himself, and me, with his newspaper. Worked his way all the way to the top as owner and publisher, and he started at the very bottom, delivering them.” Pride emanated from the girl, radiating off her.
Pride. It was what had gotten Iris into this entire situation. But on Lucy the sentiment was more respectful, less arrogant than she’d seen in Lord Ashby himself. Perhaps because it stemmed from how she felt about her brother rather than a self-congratulatory notion.
“To answer your question, though—yes, I suppose he is rather protective of me. He’s been reluctant to allow me to enter Society. I believe he fears I’ll make a fool of him,” Lucy said.
Iris recognized that Merritt was more concerned with how the matrons in Society would treat Lucy rather than how she’d affect him.
“But he knows how important this is to me,” Lucy said. “Perhaps once I’m actually accepted into Society, if I am, then he shall allow me to dance with would-be suitors.” She smiled wistfully. “I do hope I’ll have suitors.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” Iris said.
“Do all of you have many? Oh, are you betrothed already?” Lucy asked.
Iris exchanged glances with Agnes and Harriet. The truth was that very few of the women in the Ladies of Virtue were married. They had decided it was because they were busy with other, more important and pressing matters than securing a good match. But that was probably not the entirety of it. Agnes always said that Lady Somersby only recruited the most intelligent women for her group, and men were often uninterested in a woman who had opinions of her own.
“No, not yet, but there are plenty of eligible men in London,” Harriet said.
Ever the optimist, Iris mused. She did not share her friend’s rosy outlook of her own future; she’d already resigned herself to spinsterhood. She’d had far too checkered an introduction into Society to warrant a marriage. Things had been set for her from the beginning. She wasn’t destined for love. It was just as well, since she had much to do with the Ladies of Virtue and keeping Jasper in line. Once she had him married off, she could pursue her travels and live her own life.
“And you? What was your coming out like?” Lucy asked Iris.
“I didn’t exactly have a typical coming out. Much like yours will be, mine was an introduction.” She waved her hand. “It is a long tedious story, but suffice it to say I did eventually make it into Society, just as you will.” Iris stood. “Now then, I shall go and see about our tea and cakes. Meet me in the gardens in a few minutes.” She should have known Lucy would inquire about her own entry into Society, but she’d hoped that Harriet and Agnes’s stories would suffice.
It was not a tale Iris enjoyed telling. She hated the pitying glances she received when she numbered the years her debut had been delayed and the reasons for it. That when she’d finally entered Society, she’d merely arrived at a ball one evening, and that had been that. She hated even more that after all these years, the entire ordeal still pricked her with emotion. Steadying herself against the corridor wall, she took several deep breaths. She had to pull herself together before she was in Lucy’s presence again. The entire reason she’d asked Harriet and Agnes to tell their debut stories was to alleviate some of Lucy’s fears. Iris’s story would likely cause the poor girl anxiety.
She pushed herself off the wall and headed for the kitchen. Iris still remembered the day she’d found out that her dad’s death also meant the death of her girlish dreams of balls and handsome suitors. Two days after his funeral, her mother’s modiste had come to their house and measured Iris for all of her mourning gowns, while Iris’s lady’s maid had carefully packed up all of the pretty new dresses purchased for her debut. Her mother had donated them to a charity, since she wouldn’t be needing them that year. She’d explained that the following year, after they were out of mourning, they’d buy her new ones. But everything had changed that day. Something in her mother had broken, and she’d never returned to them. Then she’d died nearly a year later, and Iris had been fitted again for mourning clothes.
One would think that after all this time, the lack of a proper debut would not still bother her, yet here she was with tears burning her eyes. Foolish.
It was not her lot. Not meant for her. She could accept that. She only wished she’d cease wanting that which she could not have. Jasper was more important than any fantasy of being whisked away and wooed by a handsome stranger, especially one with haunting blue eyes and a wicked kiss. Besides, she’d quickly realized that passion would fade, but heartache could last for the duration of one’s life.
…
Lucy had come home yesterday all smiles and giggles, with so many things to tell him. Her enthusiasm would have been infectious if he didn’t know that nothing but disappointment awaited her in those ballrooms. But there was no talking sense into her, so he indulged her.
Today, though, he would undertake his part of this wager. The clothes he’d ordered for Iris’s charade had arrived, and he’d sent her a note earlier that day requesting her presence.
He’d had the screen from one of the dressing rooms upstairs brought down to his study, and he currently sat behind his desk while Iris hid behind the screen and fought with the trousers.
“Do they fit?” he asked.
“It is difficult to tell with all the layers in my skirts,” she said, her voice labored and her breathing winded. There was a pause, and then she said, “I believe I need to take it off.”
“The trousers?”
“No, my dress.”
His mouth went dry. “I see.”
“I need assistance.”
Damnation. This was ridiculous. He stood and walked around the screen. Her arms were piled with the yards of fabric from her skirts, her long legs covered in the wool trousers. She turned her back to him, revealing an extensive line of buttons.
“If you could unbutton them, then I should be able to do the rest,” she said.
He started at the top, careful not to touch her, just the buttons themselves. He didn’t need any other reason to want her, and knowing that her skin was soft as silk would only further whet his appetite. He was not even a quarter of the way down the buttons when her scent engulfed him: lemon and sugar.
“How many buttons does this damned dress have?” he asked.
“Normally this is work for ladies’ maids. I apologize if it is too much for your delicate fingers,” she said.
He grinned in spite of himself. She was clever. And beautiful. It was a dangerous combination. Dangerous and distracting. Finally, he finished with the row of pearl buttons and the dress gaped open, revealing the thin shift covering her stays and her long pale neck that begged for kisses.
“Is that all?” he asked, taking a step backward.
“I believe so.” Her voice came out breathless. She was aware of him, too. It did not help in pretending not to desire her.
He stepped back around the screen, quite
relieved to have a barrier between them once again. Several long moments passed where he heard her make small noises of frustration as she maneuvered her body into the foreign clothing. Clothing that would no longer hide her body beneath yards of material, but rather accentuate every curve with tailored lines. What the devil had he been thinking?
“I’m ready,” she said from behind the screen, but she made no move to come around.
“Are you going to show me?” he asked.
“You will laugh at me. I believe I look rather ridiculous, though, I have no looking glass to confirm it,” she said.
“I can guarantee I will not laugh.”
She peeked around the edge of the screen and exhaled, blowing a stray curl out of her face. Then she stepped out, and all words fled his thoughts.
“I look silly, don’t I?” she asked.
“Silly is not at all what comes to mind,” he said. He twirled a finger indicating she should turn around so he could see her from other angles. She did as he bade her. Her shirt tucked into her trousers and then a waistcoat finished the look.
Christ! Her backside was delicious—he’d need to get her a coat with long tails to cover those curves, else that would no doubt give her away—as was the delicate arch of her neck, subtle hint at breasts… What had she done with her breasts? He knew she’d had them earlier, but now all visible signs of cleavage or supple skin were gone.
“What did you do with your breasts?” he asked, unable to squelch his curiosity.
“I, uh…” Her hand went to her chest. “I bound them. Is it noticeable?”
He forced his glance away. “No, it is well done. I was merely surprised.” He was a complete cad for doing all of this. For speaking to her about her breasts. For taking liberties with her body as he measured her for trousers. For the first time in his life he was thankful that his parents had passed, else they would string him up by a pole for all to see. He might not have been raised a gentleman by Society’s standards, but he knew how to behave as one.
This was for Lucy, he reminded himself. Otherwise he wouldn’t be playing such a dangerous game with the delectable Iris Bennington.
“Now what?” she asked.
Precisely. Now what? He’d given her liquor and taught her to play cards, and now he’d gotten her dressed in pants. He took in the length of her—even with her hair up and her breasts bound and her prancing about his study in trousers, she looked every inch a woman. A delectable woman.
“Walk to my desk then back again,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
He waved his hands to indicate what he meant, and she followed, though confusion still etched her features.
She crossed to his desk. “What am I doing?”
“At the moment, you do not look like a man.” He didn’t see how she’d ever pass for one. Her features were far too delicate, from her pert nose to the graceful arch of her neck to her luscious curves and feminine hands. “This is never going to work.”
She stopped midstride and arched a brow at him. “Are you giving up on our wager, my lord?”
He exhaled slowly. “That is not what I said.”
“No, what you boasted was that you could pass off anyone as a gentleman.”
He crossed the room and stood behind her, practically molding his body to hers. He ignored the desire pulsing through his veins. “You must hold your hips in this manner.” He grabbed her hips and gently shifted them. Then he moved his hands up to her shoulders. “Lower your shoulders so they don’t appear so round and delicate.” Then he stepped away from her. “Try again.”
He did his best to ignore the flush that stained her throat and cheeks. She walked again, this time slower, more deliberate.
“Better, but you need to open your legs more. Men have a wider stance than women.”
She frowned, looking up at him. “Why do you know this?”
“I’m an excellent observer of people. You’d be surprised what you can learn about someone merely by watching them.” For instance, he’d already noticed that Iris was loyal to a fault, dedicating her entire life into those she cared most about.
She moved her right foot so that her legs were farther apart. “Better?”
He nodded. Better for so many things. Damnation, this was going to be more difficult than he expected. Again, he moved behind her, so close he could smell the tart sweetness that was only Iris. “Don’t tilt your head.” He pulled her chin down. He straightened her arms. “Hang your arms at your sides and try not to move your hands when you speak. Men are not as animated as the fairer sex.”
It would take no effort to lean forward and press his lips to that tender spot at the base of her neck. If he did so, she’d tilt her head back into him, giving him better access to her neck and he’d be unable to resist slipping a hand into the top of her shirt. It took enormous effort for him to step away from her.
“Very well, I believe that should give you enough information. You should return home and practice.”
“Yes, of course. Are you going out?” She bit down on her lip.
“No, but I have business to attend to.” And he needed distance from her before he did something foolish, like kiss her again. He knew that the one thing that would solve his temporary distraction was to unearth a good story, something scandalous that would set London on its ear. Finding the next great story would remind him who he was—the editor of the Daily Scandal, not some dapper gentleman set on wooing a pretty lady with bright red curls.
…
If she’d had to stand there any longer with his hard muscles pressed against her and his warm breath fluttering over her skin, Iris would have gone mad. She’d instructed her driver to take her to the side of the house, so she could enter unseen. There was no explaining her coming home clothed in men’s attire with her gown draped over her arm.
She knew she need not worry about Jasper seeing her; he was never home this time of the night. His evening was likely only just beginning, whereas she was quite ready to fall into her bed. But luck had never been her forte, and tonight seemed no different because as she entered her home, she was met by Agnes with a most disapproving expression
Iris frowned. “How did you know I was coming in this way?”
“I heard the carriage.” Agnes nodded toward her. “What are you wearing?”
“Can we get out of the doorway? And then I shall explain.” She loved her friends dearly, and they were always there for her, even when she did not wish them to be. She led Agnes upstairs to her bedchamber.
“Do you want me to help you get out of that?” Agnes asked.
“No, it is rather comfortable. More so than any of my clothes,” Iris said. She leaned against one of the bedposts.
“Do you not think you are taking this charade a little too far?”
“This is all part of my plan.”
“You realize these are not the disguises Lady Somersby encourages?”
“Of course.”
Agnes frowned. “Who helped you get into those clothes?”
Why? Why did Agnes have to be here right now? “If you must know, Lord Ashby unfastened my gown, and then I did the rest.”
“Oh my goodness, what did I miss?” Harriet asked from the bedchamber door.
Splendid.
“Are those your trousers?” Harriet asked before Iris could even answer her first question.
“They are. Made especially for me.”
“Well, let me see.” Harriet twirled her finger.
Iris stood and turned in a circle.
Harriet clapped her hands. “You look perfect.”
“Harriet,” Agnes chided. “You really shouldn’t encourage her.” She turned her gaze to Iris. “You are going to ruin yourself.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Agnes,” Harriet said.
Agnes fell onto the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. “I don’t see how any of this educates Lord Ashby on his prideful nature. If anything, Iris is behaving quite prideful as she prances
about in those pants.”
“Honestly,” Harriet said. “This is the first thing Iris has done for herself in more than six years. Even if it accomplishes none of what she set out to do, it is a worthwhile adventure for that reason alone.”
Iris frowned. “Thank you, I think. I have not lost sight of my original intention, though, and am keeping that in mind. Perhaps my method is a little unorthodox.”
“Why don’t you tell us what you did this evening,” Harriet said. “Besides allow one of London’s most handsome men remove your gown.”
Agnes groaned.
Iris told them about how Merritt had instructed her on how to walk and position her body. She demonstrated as she explained.
“That’s really quite good,” Harriet said.
“I do need more practice.”
“I suppose you watched Lord Ashby demonstrate all of these actions,” Agnes said.
“I did watch him some,” Iris said.
“And you’ve allowed him to take liberties with you. Kissing you. Undressing you.” Agnes shook her head. “Do you not see what is happening, Iris?”
“I am participating in a wager that, when I prevail, will put an end to the reckless advice that is ruining my brother as well as other gentlemen in town.” But even she found her words difficult to believe.
“No, my dear. You are falling in love with Lord Ashby.”
“What?” Iris asked. “That is ridiculous.”
Harriet had grown unusually quiet, and Iris found herself wishing for chatter.
“Iris is having a bit of fun,” Harriet said as if reading her mind. “Nothing more, right?”
“Absolutely. I am not foolish enough to fall in love with the man who has single-handedly destroyed my brother.”
Chapter Seven
Iris had brought Harriet along with her to Merritt’s townhome that afternoon because she was a most accomplished pianist and they certainly needed music to refine Lucy’s dancing skills. Merritt sat in the corner of the parlor reading a newspaper whilst he waited to play his sister’s dancing partner. At the moment, though, Iris had to ensure that Lucy understood the etiquette of the dance floor.
The Scoundrel and the Lady (Lords of Vice) Page 8
