by Lucy Monroe
Lucas’s eyes had turned so dark, the blue was the color of the night sky. He’d bent his head and she was sure he was about to kiss her when some silly idiot giggled nearby. Lucas had jumped back from Irisa so quickly she’d almost lost her balance for real. He insisted on taking her home immediately, citing his concern for her lightheadedness as the cause.
As frustrating as the whole failed enterprise had been, it had given her hope and the impetus to try this new scheme. Lucas had desired her, she was sure of it. Well, almost sure anyway. Thus the plan.
She needed to know that Lucas wanted her.
While she was comfortable discussing any number of subjects with him, personal matters were another thing altogether. Even in the novels she read, the ladies were not so bold they discussed passion with the men they loved. And she’d spent far too many years behaving with perfect decorum to break the habits of a lifetime to ask him to kiss her...or to even ask if he wanted to.
He was courteous, caring of her welfare almost to a fault, but he had not shown that he wanted her and how could she marry him if he did not? The prospect of a typical society marriage in which the husband satisfied his passions with a series of discreet liaisons repulsed her.
Lucas turned his body toward her, offering her his arm. He did not flicker an eyelid at her altered gown. Why should he? He had not so much as glanced at her and that was the problem. She would not spend the rest of her life being ignored in this most basic sense by her husband. She was beginning to fear that Lucas had a very prudish view of the relationship between a husband and his wife.
When Lucas led Irisa into the drawing room, Thea came forward to greet them. “You two are right on time.” She smiled at Lucas. “It’s nice to see you again, Lord Ashton.”
Turning to her sister, Thea’s smile froze in place and her eyes widened.
However, being Thea, she merely said, “Hello, Irisa,” and gave her younger sister a hug.
Drake motioned to Lucas and her fiancé excused himself without looking her way. Irisa frowned at his retreating back. How was she to entice him if he took no notice of her at all?
“I take it this very daring evening gown has something to do with the concerns you voiced to me during your driving lesson last week?”
Irisa turned her attention from Lucas’s retreating back at her sister’s words. She couldn’t help the huge sigh that escaped her, or the irresistible urge to tug at her bodice. Had the neckline been quite so close to her nipples at home?
“Is it awful?” she asked her sister, truly worried now.
Thea’s smile was both devilish and reassuring. “It is not awful, but it is not in your regular style either. I have noticed that many ladies of the ton wear a similar neckline once they marry.”
Although she knew the words were meant to reassure, Irisa felt anything but. After all, she was not yet married.
Sighing again, she muttered, “Once Mama sees this gown she’s going to throw a terrible fit and it will all have been wasted because Lucas appears determined to ignore me this evening. Do you know he has not once even glanced at me since we arrived?”
Thea laughed, not one of those ladylike tinkles one heard among the ton, but a genuine sound of amusement. “If he had, you would not still be standing here. He would have bundled you back in your cloak and in your carriage in that order.”
Irisa’s spine straightened. “I think not. I’ll not tolerate Lucas taking such a possessive approach when he refuses to follow through on his other obligations as my betrothed.”
Thea tried to smother her amusement, but Irisa heard it anyway.
“You may laugh. Drake makes no pretense of his feelings for you. He is so affectionate that there are times he heats the room with the way his eyes devour your person.”
Her sister’s humor turned to sympathetic understanding. “I’m sure Lord Ashton will be all that you require after marriage as well, Irisa. You must be patient.”
She closed her fan and gripped it with both hands. She did not feel like being patient.
She would have expressed as much to Thea, but the butler came in to announce dinner. Lucas turned from his discussion with Drake to offer his arm to Irisa and became motionless. He stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head rather than simply exposed a bit more of her skin than perhaps was strictly proper.
It was not a look that said he was experiencing an overwhelming fit of desire. In fact, the expression transforming his face more closely resembled fury than anything else. With nothing left to do, but brazen it out, Irisa walked toward him as if Lucas did not look in the least like he wanted to throttle her.
In what she thought was a truly courageous act, she took his arm and attempted to step forward. “Shall we go into dinner, my lord?”
Lucas did not move, effectively halting her progress as well. “Where is the rest of your dress?”
The question was so ridiculous, she was sure he didn’t truly expect an answer, so she did not give him one.
After a moment of continued silence, she said, “The others are waiting for us, my lord. Shouldn’t we go in?”
Lucas turned his ferocious scowl toward Thea. “Mrs. Drake, do you have a shawl for Irisa to wear? I do not want her to catch a chill over dinner.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lucas,” Irisa hissed, “I don’t need a shawl. I’m not in the least bit cold.”
Indeed, embarrassment had her so warm, she was practically perspiring. Drake had noticed her dress as well and he was watching Lucas with an expression of unholy glee. Gentlemen could be quite irritating.
Shifting his glittering gaze to her, Lucas did not bother to mute his reply. “Either you put on a shawl or we will leave before the first course has been set.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “You are making a scene.”
“This scene is not of my making,” he replied in a hard voice that would have no doubt intimidated Wellington had Lucas chosen to be a soldier rather than a spy during the war. “Choose. A shawl or we leave.”
If the choice of leaving didn’t mean a carriage ride with nothing but Lucas’s company, Irisa would have gladly opted for departure. However, she did not trust herself alone with him right now. She might try to kill him.
She let go of his arm and turned to face Thea and Drake. “I would be most grateful for a shawl.”
When Lucas handed her into his closed carriage two hours later, wearing both the borrowed shawl and her own cloak, Irisa had her ire under tenuous control. It was not only his heavyhanded behavior in demanding she wear a shawl that had her silently seething, but the obvious failure of her plan as well.
Lucas’s order to his coachman destroyed her forced calm.
“We were supposed to attend the Barringer soiree after dinner with my sister, or had you forgotten?” she asked in frigid tones after Lucas instructed the driver to return to her parents’ home.
Lucas shot her a dangerous scowl. “Impossible. The shawl is bound to shift were you to try to dance.”
All of her nervousness and feelings of being exposed in the gown evaporated in the light of such male arrogance. “Not at all, my lord. The shawl cannot shift while I am dancing if I’m not wearing it and I can assure you I will not be wearing it at Barringer House this evening.”
Lucas reclined against the squabs with an altogether deceptive casualness. For although he appeared relaxed, Irisa had the distinct impression she was sharing the carriage interior with an untamed beast ready to spring.
“You are quite right, my dear. You will not be wearing the shawl to the soiree because you will not be attending. I’m taking you home and if you ever attempt to wear such an immodest garment in public again, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
She had an almost irresistible urge to scream and then to laugh. It was that, or cry, for she had no doubt the actions he threatened had nothing to do with the passion she had hoped to ignite. Oh, he was passionate all right, but only in anger. He had not found the gown in the leas
t enticing. He found it objectionable.
“May I point out that my gown is no more immodest than those of a great many ladies of the ton?” she asked in scathing accents, uncaring that her anger would undoubtedly only fuel his own.
“They are not betrothed to me.”
“Lucky them,” she muttered.
“Are you unhappy with our betrothal, Irisa? I had the impression that you enjoyed my company.” His silky accents no doubt had served him well when extracting information from the enemy, but she had no desire to answer such a loaded question.
She enjoyed his company all too much.
She frowned at him in a mute refusal to answer.
He returned her stare, his blue gaze probing in an expressionless face.
Why did she have to love such a stubborn, unbending gentleman? And she did love him, idiot that she was. She’d allowed herself to fall helplessly in love with a man as destined as her parents not to return her tender feelings.
“Tell me, Irisa. Do you wish to cry off?” His voice had softened to a tone of puzzlement laced with hurt.
Shocked at his interpretation of her actions, she exclaimed, “No!”
She was not entirely sure she could marry him if he did not even desire her, but she was equally unsure she could live without him. It was a quandary she had no hope of solving at this particular moment.
“Then why?”
Despite her upset at the misunderstanding between them, she could not make herself admit the true reasons for wearing such revealing dress. “I am not unhappy, my lord.”
“I see. You are certain this little display is not an attempt to subtly tell me that you no longer think we shall suit?”
A cold wind blew through her insides, dissipating the last of her anger and leaving a feeling of hollowness behind. Her intention had been to spark his passion, not end their relationship.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I thought you would like this dress.” Well if not like, than at least be inspired by. “I was told it was very flattering to my figure.”
She did not mention that Pansy had made the comment after nearly keeling over in shock from the sight of her mistress in the low-cut gown.
“In the future you will do well to grace a different modiste with your patronage. The one who made that dress appears to cater to another sort of clientele entirely.”
“What sort of clientele do you mean?” she asked, feeling quite dangerous all over again.
After all, she had altered the dress and it might be a tad risqué, but it was not scandalous. She was after all still a lady and she had intended wearing it to the soiree.
Lucas’s narrowed eyes chilled her insides. “The indiscreet sort. Women who are not mistaken for ladies.”
He uttered the insult in a flat, cold tone that told her more effectively than words that he expected his fiancée to be entirely above reproach. While the circumstances of her birth might be suspect, Lucas nevertheless had found her to be an acceptable candidate as his wife because of her impeccable manners and ladylike decorum in all situations.
That decorum had been compromised tonight.
Her efforts to please her parents had not been sufficient to gain their love, but her pains had gained Lucas’s attention and approval. He wanted the image just as her parents did, not the living woman underneath it. Her anger drained away once more as a sense of hopeless loss filled her.
What a fool she had been to try to draw from Lucas what he clearly did not possess - desire toward her person.
“You need not concern yourself in the area of my dress further, my lord. Tonight’s indiscretion will not be repeated.”
She had made enough mistakes in dealing with Lucas and she feared accepting his proposal had been the biggest one.
***
Lucas heard the defeat in Irisa’s voice and she was calling him my lord again instead of Lucas. He didn’t like it and wanted to demand that she not do so again, but it would sound too petty. Why had she pushed him like this tonight? She had denied his assumption she was trying to tell him without words that she no longer thought they would suit.
If not that, then what had prompted her to wear that damned gown? It did not fit with her usual ladylike ways.
Irisa was not a flirt.
“Why?” he asked again, needing more than ever to understand what had motivated her uncharacteristic behavior.
She did not pretend a lack of understanding, but when she averted her gaze, he wondered if she would refuse to answer as she had his initial inquiry.
“I set out to learn something.” Her soft voice gave no indication whether or not she had succeeded.
He was unaccustomed to such a toneless response from his usually animated fiancée. “And did you?”
Her lovely shoulders slumped. “Yes.”
“What?” That he would not tolerate his lady dressing the part of a courtesan?
She should hardly be surprised at that news.
“It isn’t important.” She tugged the cloak more tightly around herself.
“I don’t like games, Irisa.” He didn’t like her current unhappy demeanor either. He felt guilty and could not understand why. “I want you to explain what you hoped to accomplish dressing in that manner.”
“There appear to be a great many things you don’t like, my lord. Perhaps you would be so kind as to make a list before we are wed. I do not wish to inadvertently misstep again.”
Bloody hell. She made it sound as if he were some kind of ogre for having a perfectly natural reaction to his fiancée wanting to be seen in public in such an enticing dress.
He had been too angry at first for the expanse of her exposed silken flesh to affect him, but throughout dinner images of what the shawl now hid tormented him. Even now, he ached to pull her across the squabs and let his hands discover what he had denied his eyes. He’d been in a state ranging from semi-arousal to full throbbing need for the past two hours and it had not done a bloody bit of good for his temper.
“I assumed after our courtship that such a thing would not be necessary,” he said, his voice harder than he would have liked. “You have always behaved in an exemplary fashion. I can only surmise that tonight’s deviation from good sense was prompted by an excess of nerves brought upon by our recent engagement.”
The bitter laugh that fell from her lips was unlike any sound he had heard her make before.
It completely lacked the vitality and warmth that so marked the woman he intended to marry. “You could certainly say that, my lord.”
“Stop calling me that!” His own loss of control shocked him. What was she trying to do to him?
“Come, my lord, even you cannot object to such a correct form of address.”
He wanted nothing more than to grab her, pull her onto his lap and kiss her until she could say nothing but his name. He did not dare. In his current state, he would have her skirts around her waist and her legs spread within a few short moments. The idea was too bloody appealing. His only safe course of action now was silence.
Evidently Irisa felt the same way for she said nothing as the coach made its slow progression toward the Langley Townhouse.
Too soon, the silence grew unbearable. Oppressing him with its near physical weight, he tried to mentally shrug it off to no avail. He had wounded her and he did not know why or how, only that what should have been an entirely expected reaction on his part had not been. She had wanted something different from him, something he had not given her.
And for the very life of him, he could not figure out what.
They were already engaged, so she could not be trying to entice him into a deeper commitment or angling for an expression of his intentions. He’d made them clear enough.
Yet he felt as if a chasm had opened up between them, one that he was responsible for and he hated the feeling. Perhaps if she understood his past, she would understand better why he was so concerned by the semblance of impropriety.
“My mother pursued notoriety like some
fashionable women pursue a good match.”
Irisa looked at him again, shock apparent in her lovely brown eyes.
“Surely you heard of her?”
“No.”
“She died eight years ago, long before your first trip to Town, but the rumors persist in some circles.”
“I cannot abide gossip.” The intractability of Irisa’s voice implied she meant what she said in the fullest sense of the words and he felt his respect for her climb another notch.
“That is commendable, but perhaps it would have been better in this instance if you had known a little about my past.”
“I’m not sure it would have made a difference, my lord.”
He did not agree and his teeth gritted on the despised my lord. “Mother was twenty years younger than my father and they fought constantly.”
“I’m sorry. That would have been difficult for you.” Her softly spoken words, lacking any sort of guile, were like a key turning in a very rusty lock and he knew that he would tell her everything.
About his mother.
“She wanted a life filled with excitement and pleasure. My father wanted to insure his line. He married her and she gave him two sons. He was content.”
“But she was not,” Irisa finished for him.
“No. She wanted to live in London during the Season and travel from house party to house party the rest of the year. He refused, insisting on the need of living on the estate and training me to take his place. She wanted to play, to pursue pleasure. While my father lived, he managed to keep her wildness under control, but when he died, she did as she pleased.”
He took a deep breath, refusing to allow the pain of a ten year old boy, who had effectively lost both father and mother in one blow, overcome him. “She dressed to attract men and she succeeded. She took lovers and she made no attempt to be discreet about it. She traveled incessantly. My brother and I rarely saw her, but we heard about her. The entire Polite World heard about her.”
