Page 28 of Plucked By the Orc

“Is it just the three of you?” Felton asked. “Residing in London?”

“We have cousins who speak of making the trip to England,” Albion said lightly. Albion always spoke lightly. “At present, it is only Mother, Dunc, and myself.”

“Extraordinary! And you have made yourself at home in society and among our kind.” Felton laughed a bit at that. “You even have the haberdashers working overtime to put you in the latest styles. Splendid indeed.”

“It is important to keep to our customs in our world.” Mother rang for the tea service. “While we are here, it is equally important to respect yours.”

“I’ve read that women are charged with leadership in your culture, duchess.” Lady Maberly straightened her back primly. This was a daring topic of conversation for an at-home, and only a woman with a title could get away with it.

“Proudly so,” Mother responded calmly. “It does not mean I can’t abide the restrictions placed on women here.”

“Some might characterize them as restrictions, but others call such practices protections and are glad enough to have them in place,” Lady Maberly said.

The vicar laughed nervously. “By the by, I hear that Lady Stewart’s daughter has returned to London. No one has seen her since she was sent to spend time with relations in America.”

“Indeed.” Duncan was used to acknowledging less than cumbersome inquiries with empty words.

“I want to hear more about howyoucame to live in London,” Felton said, ignoring the vicar’s comment. “I say, it must be dreadfully different for you fellows. Or is it not that different atall? Do you find that humans and orcs share more qualities than not?”

Though Felton kept his tone cordial, Duncan started to resent the questions. He felt as though this boy had put them all under a lamp and was adjusting the light to observe.

Not unlike what Duncan did with humans for his book. Come to think of it, hadn’t Iris Gabbert made a similar comment?

Thankfully, before he was further interrogated, he heard someone scuttling in the foyer. Sure enough, the butler entered the room once more.

“Miss Iris Gabbert,” he announced. “Here to pay a call on her grace.”

Chapter Ten

Iris Gabbert swept into the parlor looking the very picture of this season’s fashion.

She wore an alabaster morning gown with tiered ruffles around its high collar. The sleeves were segmented with crystal beads and tapered into delicate lace cuffs at her wrist. A slim gold band sat at just the right height on her waist. It matched the embroidered birds on the sheer, tasseled silk shawl draped over her shoulders and looped over her arms at the crook of her elbows. A bustle lent a genial curve to her already perfect figure, and her hair was gathered high into a loose bun with ringlets framing her face.

Still, it wasn’t her impeccable appearance alone that made Iris Gabbert, one-time flower seller, cut an impressive figure before Mother, the imposing Dowager Duchess of Barrington. With exceptional grace, Iris moved from the doorway to the opposite side of the room, to the hearth where his mother awaited.

This version of Iris Gabbert who approached Mother—dainty hands in white gloves clasped before her—was a lady. Her features fixed in an expression that was pleasing but also conveyed mystery.

Of course, she hadn’t spoken yet. That would be the real test.

“My dear,” Mother said once Iris stopped in front of her. She pulled her wool shawl tighter around her shoulders. “My son told me I would have the honor of meeting you. I am so pleased you could come. I trust it was not much trouble.”

“Not. At all. Your grace.” Iris’s voice was soft, almost like she was trying to catch her breath and could barely get each word out. “The pleasure. Is all. Mine.”

Accustomed to the slurring connections between words so common on the streets, and in particular in the area of London she frequented, Iris had to focus her energy on every syllable to the point that it literally robbed her of breath. But at the same time, it gave a lovely inflection to her tone, which set her apart from other women of theton, no matter how genteel their accent. This simple quirk forced one to lean nearer to ensure they understood her. Even Lady Maberly was doing so.

The quality lent an otherworldly air to her presence that, combined with her obvious beauty, was irresistible.

Duncan had aimed to create a lady fit for high society. Dash it all if he hadn’t outdone himself. The highborn denizens of thetonwould have to prove themselves worthy ofher.

His claws retracted, and the faintest of growls emitted from the back of his throat. He feared Felton might hear those sounds and ask further questions about the customs of his “kind.” Fortunately, the sound seemed undetectable to all but Albion, who threw him an amused look.

However, Duncan’s pride in his accomplishment—and, he would confess, satisfaction in being able to rub Albion’s nose in it—soon deflated. That was due to the realization thatFelton Maberly looked enchanted with the woman who had just entered the room. He goggled at the sight of Iris.After paying her deference to Mother and all the proper introductions were made, Felton was quick to pull out one of Mother’s armchairs for her.

A maid in a tidy apron and bonnet came in with the tea service on Mother’s sterling silver platter. Iris’s eyes widened as the three-tiered tray filled with biscuits, scones, and thin finger sandwiches passed by her, but she folded her hands in her lap and waited. Only the patter of the heel of her satin slipper on a bare floor plank betrayed her impatience. Even this fidgeting was charming.

Not that Felton Maberly would have minded either way, given the nonsensical, besotted expression washing over his blandly handsome features. He had lost all interest in asking questions about the Hidden Realm. Once Iris entered the room, or at least as soon as Duncan could pryhisgaze from her to evaluate what the others thought, Felton’s attention was wholly diverted.

Confound it all. Why must this boy ruin the day? Why, his chin had scarcely sprouted whiskers.

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