Page 51 of Plucked By the Orc

“We have only two days remaining until Lady Bellingham’s affair,” he said. “And still many lessons to review. As ‘Countess Jessup,’ you will be introduced to all manner of human dignitaries and expected to address them properly. Have you been studying the list I provided?”

“I have indeed,” Iris said, wondering why Duncan was being so formal. “You know that I have those committed to memory. What say you regardin’ Lot?”

He fussed with his cravat and wouldn’t look at her. Her heart bounced anxiously.

“A visit is hardly appropriate at this time. We must focus on your lessons. We haven’t much time before our experiment reaches its conclusion.”

Experiment? Her cheeks heated. There was a tone to his voice she hadn’t noted since the earliest days of their acquaintance. “Is that all that has come of this, Dunc? You see me as an experiment?”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that. It is not befitting a woman of the station to which you aspire. The woman you want to be.”

“What’s wrong with me the way I am? That’s what I’d like to know.”

“It keeps you from becoming your best self.”

“My best self to the outside world,” she cried. “But I thought you … well.”

The words almost escaped her lips.I thought you loved me.But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, even as a part of her deep inside shattered at his cold words.

“So I’m not good enough for you,” she said. “Not when you know that deep down I’m still the flower seller you first met. And not worthy of your attention. Here I thought you might treat me the same as any fine duchess you might meet.”

His fists clenched, but his claws still did not retract.

“I do not treat anyone differently because of their station. A flower seller should be treated as a duchess and a duchess as a flower seller.”

Which spoke not a word of how he could see her as someone different. Someone he loved. But he could not spare such kindness for her any more than he was willing to share the largess of his home with poor Lottie.

Iris rolled her shoulders back. She would not let him see how deeply this conversation wounded her.

“Fine, your grace. Let’s get back to the lessons, then.”

Later that evening, after sundown but prior to supper, restless and still reeling from the conversation with Duncan, Iris headed for the library. She couldn’t mope the rest of the night away.

Having finishedCeciliaand hoping another excellent novel might soothe her bruised feelings, Iris entered the library. It had been Duncan’s habit to maintain the room for his use alone, or so Mrs. Thompson had said, until Iris came around. And then she had been invited to take whatever books she pleased.

Iris closed her eyes.Not Duncan, you twit. Not even Mr. Higgins. He’s the Duke of Barrington to the likes of you, and don’t forget it ever again.

The flicker of candlelight cast long shadows on the wall. She shivered, thinking how eerie the space looked under such circumstances. Duncan’s massive chaise longue and armchair made her feel small, like a doll in a miniature house that wasn’t constructed correctly for its proportions.

Carefully, she set the candle holder down on the enormous mahogany desk and was about to move toward the rows of books on the left shelves, which she had not yet had the time to review properly, when something on the desk caught her eye.

Iris saw the title clear as day on the cover of the notebook:The Curious Customs of the Human Ton.

She wasn’t about to suppose she’d get the privilege of reading an early edition. That was Duncan’s—the duke’s—affair. Not hers. Hadn’t he said as much?I ask that you wait until it is complete and I have polished the manuscript sufficiently. Until then, I forbid you from reading it.

While he had left the library unlocked, and while the notebook was sitting there just asking to be read, Iris knew he didn’t wanther, or anyone else for that matter, reading it yet. Still, as the candle glimmered and cast the eerie shadow of the notebook, three times what it was in real life, on the opposite wall, the temptation to take a peek wormed through her mind.

It was a sensible decision, after all. Duncan Higgins had made no secret that he intended to include a section about her in his book. Not as exciting as being the heroine of a novel likeCecilia, but intriguing all the same.

Too intriguing for Iris to resist. She grabbed the notebook, telling herself she would just take a quick peek.

Most of the initial notes were indecipherable. Some letters resembled those in the Latin alphabet and others looked closer to Greek. The Orcan writing system, she assumed.

She couldn’t look for her name because he had assured her he never used the actual names of his “subjects of study.” However, she was in luck. A few pages later, Duncan had translated his Orcan notes to English in his precise and legible hand. Which was odd on the face of it since he had told her the book was for the Orcan public. Yet here it was in plain English. And Iris could determine the parts meant to describe her easily enough.

This particular young woman was first made known to me quite by accident as I passed the sidewalks in front of the Drury Lane Theatre-Royal one dreary night. To her misfortune, I accidentally knocked her basket of flowers to the ground. As this was her sole means of making a living, it was only right to compensate her for the fiduciary loss.

As I’ve stated previously and cannot fail to emphasize often enough, there is a curious quality in human society whereby no matter how low theircircumstances, pride prevents them from accepting help. Perhaps they feel pride outweighs all other concerns, even putting food on the table.

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