Page 48 of Plucked By the Orc

He turned to her, his retracted claws allowing him to pull her closer.

“Are you happy, Iris Gabbert?” he asked.

“As a clam,” she said, surprised and a smidgen hurt that he had to ask. “Why, once we get this big to-do behind us, I imagine I can walk into any shop in England and find a suitable position. For myself and my mate Lot as well. We want to have our own place at some point, but getting hired would make for a good start.”

“Truly. That will make you happy? It’s enough for you?”

“You think I would keep the truth from you?”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Why don’t we start again,” she said. “And I can show you how happy you make me.”

As he kissed her, Iris soon thought of nothing else. It never occurred to her that he might have wanted her to promise she would never leave him.

The next day, during one of her rare breaks from her lessons, Iris sat alone in the front parlor, curled up on a chaise longue with one of the books she’d found in Duncan’s library and which he’d personally recommended.Ceciliawas about a young woman navigating London society. Not unlike Iris intended to do. Even from her short stint in the dowager duchess’s parlor, Iris recognized the same quirks in the lot described in this novel. To make it all the more intriguing, a woman had written the book. Miss Frances Burney.

Caught up in the story, Iris didn’t notice when Mrs. Thompson entered the parlor, Mr. Clemons at her heels. The butler cleared his throat to capture her attention, and she looked up to find them both staring at her. Clemons held the silver tray meant for calling cards.

“A young man to see you, Miss Gabbert,” the butler said.

“Well, Duncan … err … his grace can see him, surely,” Iris said, thinking of nothing except that she had been interrupted in the middle of an intriguing scene between the protagonist and one of her suitors and wished to return to it immediately.

Mr. Clemons maintained his usual placid expression, but Mrs. Thompson pressed her lips together. Whether that was due to Iris’s tone or that she’d slipped and called him Duncan in her presence, Iris didn’t know.

“The gentleman is here to seeyou,miss.” Mrs. Thompson nodded at a calling card on the tray. The butler offered it to Iris and she peered at the three words in block lettering.

Master Felton Maberly

“He claims to have made your acquaintance,” Mrs. Thompson said skeptically. “He told me you have already been formally introduced.”

Well, that much was the truth. But she had been so nervous during her visit with Duncan’s mother that she’d not taken much note of the gentleman’s face. Apparently, however, she had made a lasting impression on him.

“His grace is out on his daily constitutional, miss,” Mrs. Thompson informed her. “And cannot presently serve as a chaperone. I could tell the young man to try another time.”

Iris bit her lip, unsure what to do. On the one hand, she would prefer to return to her book. She didn’t like the notion of needing to slip into the persona of Lady Iris on such short notice. And without Duncan present.

On the other hand, Mrs. Thompson could serve as a chaperone so she would not be alone with the young man. And it might be rude to turn him away.

“Would you be willing to sit with us, Mrs. Thompson?” Iris asked, restoring her tone to the plummy accent Duncan had so ably taught her. “Just for a quarter of an hour, so I can say I received him. I see no need for tea and such.”

“Whyever not?” A voice from behind the housekeeper and butler rumbled. “You do not wish to make our guest feel at home, my lady?”

And there was Duncan, back from his constitutional, silver-tipped walking stick still in hand. Next to him stood young Felton Maberly, hat in hand.

“If it’s not an imposition,” Felton said with a nervous smile, gazing at Iris.

“I should not think it an imposition to treat a caller as such.” Duncan nodded at Mrs. Thompson, who hurried to the kitchen while the butler attempted to help Duncan out of his large overcoat. “What do you take me for, Maberly?”

“Oh, thank you, sir.” As soon as Duncan gestured to it, Felton scrambled to a winged armchair near the chaise where Iris was lounging. And had been reading not five minutes before. Contentedly at that. Now, she had to straighten her back and accept the kiss this Felton fellow planted on her hand before he sat down.

For all his polite discourse, Duncan’s face was blazing with anger.Without intending to, she had caused his distress.

Blast this boy! Felton Maberly was all done up like a popinjay in a dark indigo dress coat, sitting fashionably high on his damnably flat abdomen and tight-fitted beige breeches. Who the devil did he think he was? What was he doing? Did he intend to make a fool of Duncan? And right here in his own home? When Iris had a mere two days remaining until Lady Bellingham’s rout.

Albion would have said he was overreacting. Albion would have pointed out that Felton was merely making a friendly call on recent acquaintances, a common practice among the English, as Duncan well knew. Albion might even have suggested that Iris did not look particularly happy about the visit. He would have noted Duncan’s copy ofCecilia, which was now abandoned but with a ribbon carefully keeping the place where Iris had left off. Iris stole glances at the novel even as she kept pace with Felton’s inane observations on the weather and the state of the gravel street in front of Duncan’s townhouse.

No matter how innocent the scene unfolding before him and how he forced his lips to stretch into a tight and tolerant smile, Duncan could see none of those things. Not really.

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