Page 4 of Plucked By the Orc

Miss Gabbert pushed the handle of her flower basket tighter under her shoulder. “Save it for the next poor sap. I ain’t interested.”

“Youaren’tinterested.”

“And youaren’tmy teacher, no matter what notions you got in that big ‘ead.”

“So you’re doing well? Selling flowers and searching for a doss house every evening?”

“I lease a room now, I do.”

“At least let me accompany you home. It won’t do for you to walk alone at this time of night.”

“La! I would never. My mate Lottie Greenstreet and me walk home together. Pity the poor bloke who takes a shine to us.” She opened her pelisse, and he glimpsed a glint of metal hidden therein, the hilt of what appeared to be a small dagger tied with a limp ribbon to a button sewn on the inside of the garment.

With a sigh, Duncan relented. Clearly, this woman had the heart of an orc and could take care of herself. Besides, he was already far behind his schedule for the evening. Clemons, the butler, would be worried, and Duncan had no chance of engaging a coach now that the crowd had dissipated.

Never mind. A walk home would do him good. It could rid him of thoughts of this unnerving young woman.

“So be it. But if you reconsider, I reside in Mayfair.” Duncan withdrew a silver-plated case filled with calling cards. He presented one of the cards to Miss Gabbert. “Some hours invested in study might change your world.”

“My world’s not in need of changin’.” But as she spoke the words, Miss Gabbert inserted his card alongside the drooping flowers in her basket. The mud still clung to her skin, not far beneath her lovely right eye. It simply wouldn’t do.

“May I?” Duncan indicated the silk handkerchief still in one hand. When he gestured toward her face, she nodded vaguely. He dabbed at the mud on her cheek, frowning until it was all gone. “There. Now, you are fit to confront the night.”

Gently, she tapped the spot where his handkerchief had touched her skin. “Soft,” she murmured. And then, straightening her back once more, she added, “Thank you.”

“Please consider my offer, Miss Gabbert,” he told her, stuffing the handkerchief in its designated pocket. “Call on me tomorrow if you desire. My address is inscribed on the back of the card. I accept visitors between two and five.”

With a last tip of his hat, Duncan turned on his heels and headed for Mayfair. Both his gloves and his handkerchief had kept his skin from contact with hers. As the English insisted was proper. And yet, he had to suppress the full growl that threatened to escape from his lips, tempering the sound to a mere hum. It was but one of the many nuances of his homeland he’d had to abandon to make his way in London.

For orcs, a growl communicated far more than mere words: anger, disgust, or quite the opposite, a thrumming lust. The growl rumbling in his throat was not born of annoyance but a deep, simmering desire.

Dash it all if he didn’t hope to see Iris Gabbert again.

Chapter Two

Hope.

The idea of hope played tricks with Iris’s thoughts. She should have been out and out angry at the big green bloke who had knocked over her flowers and ruined her night. And then had the cheek to suggest she needed his charity?

And yet, the longer she thought about him, the more she dwelt on his offer. She couldn’t deny that a tiny bud of hopehad now seeded in her heart.

He was an odd duck. There was that. Not that she knew precisely what to expect. She’d seen a picture of the bloke’s father in the papers around the time of his passing. So she knew not to expect fur, feathers, tail, or any other extraordinary features from rotten rumors about these Orcan gentlemen. People said all manner of things about how the orcs lived.

Then again, people said a great deal about a great many matters, and they usually had a mighty rocky relationship with the truth.

Duncan Higgins was dignified and handsome in a glowering way, with a clean-shaven face no different than any other man’s save for the horns and hints of pointed teeth overlapping his upper lip. He had lush, wavy black hair, thick black brows, and deep-set dark eyes against his olive-green complexion. Were she honest, she’d say she’d fought a flutter in her chest when she first saw him. But that was likely fatigue getting the best of her, then, wasn’t it?

After the gent had taken his leave of her, Iris and her best mate, Lottie Greenstreet, departed from the dwindling bustle of the Theatre-Royal. As soon as they left Drury Lane, the streets darkened, untouched by the gas lighting enjoyed by their so-called betters.

Once they crossed Westminster Bridge back to their rented bedsit alongside the south bank of the Thames, the stink of manure and cesspools caused Iris to reach for her handkerchief. Not near as fine as the orc’s, perhaps, but well enough to keep the stench out of her nostrils. Mostly, at least.

“And then I told ‘im that if he thinks he’s gettin’ more than a flower from the likes of me, he best run straight to the nearest parson and give alms for the poor and all that,” Lottie was saying as they trudged up the flight of stairs to their room. One of the wooden boards creaked ominously under Iris’s light footfall. She inhaled sharply, expecting it to splinter and perhaps even crash completely. Thankfully, it held.

“That’s what them lot think of us,” Lottie continued. “I socked ‘im a good one, I did. Right in ‘is big belly.”

“Hmm.” Iris tried to concentrate, but her thoughts returned to the calling card at the bottom of her wicker basket. She’d allowed herself only a glance when he’d passed it to her, long enough to take stock of the rectangular parchment, unadorned but for thick black lettering:

Duncan Higgins, Duke of BarringtonKindly respect the visiting hours of two to five Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.

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