Page 17 of Plucked By the Orc

Duncan checked his pocket watch on its chain once more. It was nearly half-eight, and what the devil could this woman be doing? Had he not been clear last night? Had he not specifically asked her to arrive promptly for their first lesson?

And yet it seemed she was lollygagging. He could hear her laughing with Mrs. Thompson—whom he thought long past her laughing days—from the breakfast room, along with the enticing smells of eggs cooked in butter, rashers of bacon, and toasted bread.

In the Hidden Realm, it was customary not to break one’s fast until midday, and then with boiling water from a samovar to make a modest porridge, sometimes accompanied by a cup of goat’s milk. It was an honorable tradition but one he would reluctantly admit he had been more than happy to leave behind when he immigrated to London. Something Duncan would count in favor of the English and their fussy cooking: theyunderstood the delight of a hearty and straightforward meal to start the day.

He hadn’t quite gotten his fill when he rose at half-five, as was his custom. He wouldn’t have minded another round, but how could he walk in there?

Dash it all. Shouldn’t they have started by now?

Miss Gabbert should not waste his time this way. More importantly, she should not waste her own time. Not when she boasted an intellect as fine as or better than any he’d encountered in London. Elocution lessons and a bit of ambition would suffice to make her a success in society.

And her beautiful features. Duncan was reluctant to admit, even to himself, that this also played into the matter. But he had not factored her looks and eccentric manners into his decision to allow her to live here, had he? Surely, he was not so shallow.

Surely, he was not that foolish.

After Margaret Hathaway broke his heart, Duncan made a vow. He would never allow his affections to be toyed with ever again. Certainly not by a woman in London. And definitely not at the hands of a flower seller he had met by chance outside a theater.

No matter how often Iris Gabbert’s face and form might work their way into his thoughts.

His memory blinked back to the sight of Miss Gabbert in the mulberry silk dressing gown the prior night, the delicate material caressing her skin. Which looked far softer and smoother than he would have ever imagined, given the roughness of her circumstances and manner.

And then, without warning, she had caressed his face. She had touched him. She wouldn’t do such a thing if he held no appeal. Would she? It had taken all of Duncan’s willpower, his intractable sense of honor, to keep from returning that touch.

If he relented, it was not just honor at stake. He would risk his heart. Which he most decidedly would not do. Some men might separate the two feelings, lust and affection. But it had never been that way for Duncan, so he kept his emotions tightly under wraps.

He had slipped once before, letting his impulsive affection for Lady Margaret override his sense of control. He would never do so again.

If only Iris Gabbert hadn’t insisted on stroking his jaw. What was he to make of that?

“I’m ready for you now, your grace. If you please.”

Iris stood in the arched doorway of the library, grinning in a most puzzling manner. They were about to engage in a series of lessons of a most serious nature, yet she looked as though she were about to enter some shire fair with games, bonbons, and prizes.

While Iris was more formally clad than she had been the previous night, she looked as fetching this morning as she had been in her mulberry silk. If not more so. Mrs. Thompson had located one of the day gowns worn by her daughter, who had worked in the house as a maid before marrying and starting her own household. The daughter, having found her form much altered after childbirth, kept her old attire stored here.

The gown was a simple cut: a rose-colored satin with a high empire waist and a broad, square neckline that, while too modest to have been the rage among the faster set, flattered Miss Gabbert’s complexion and figure.

As his housekeeper told it, the frock had been worn for church by the younger Miss Thompson. Now, Iris appeared most respectable in it. Blast. She looked like the type of beauty who could conquer theton.

His thoughts cluttered with the most disrespectful images of his body pressing Miss Gabbert’s against the finely flockedwallpaper as she met his lips with her eager tongue. And they bonded with ferocious kisses and caresses that would lead to the bedroom above.

No. With a force of will, he silently commanded his claws to remain out, not to retract into their sheaths as they did whenever a woman aroused his basest desires.

“Miss Gabbert.” He pointed to his pocket watch, praying she didn’t note the tremble in his hand. “Henceforth, please find it in yourself to arrive at the appointed hour.”

“I intended to, but your cook’s more talented than I could resist. First square meal I’ve had in some time, I tell you that.”

“Chef Laurent does well enough with human food, I suppose.”

“You should have joined us. I imagine a gentleman of your size and stature might need a little extra sustenance now and again. We could have talked over the papers.”

Duncan drew a breath and counted to three, exhaling slowly. His nostrils flared. While Iris Gabbert was welcome to stay here for the duration of her tutelage, no good could come from them sitting down to discuss the news as though they were an old Orcan married couple.

“What the devil would we talk about?”

“Why all manner of topics, gov. The plight of the working class, for one. Seems like there are plenty of blokes out there willing to fight for what’s theirs. Ladies, too, for that matter. And what’s more, I like to read about events abroad. Maybe what trouble that petty dictator Napoleon Bonaparte finds these days.”

“It is a more complicated matter than mere dictatorship, Miss Gabbert. Let us not forget that not long ago the French took to the streets to behead their king and—”

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