Page 52 of Plucked By the Orc

Iris hesitated. So far, so good. She couldn’t fault his version of their first meeting. She had been too prideful to accept his money. Then again, he hadn’t bothered to note his foibles, telling her about her “reduced” circumstances and what have you as though she weren’t fully aware. She turned the page.

Since this is a most sensible woman, she agreed to accept lessons in etiquette, elocution, and comportment as a justifiable compensation for losing her flowers. When the subject in question did so, it occurred to me that with such lessons for the subject in question, I might showcase everything I had learned about theton.

She bristled at reading herself referred to as “the subject in question,” but at least he had deigned to mention she was “sensible.” That was high praise from his grace.

Would this not be the ultimate test of human behavior? Could they stick so closely to their strange hierarchies when an orc could take such a woman and pass her off in society as a fine lady? The subject has been a challenge, to say theleast, but one I feel equal to. What could be more damning to thetonthan seeing their customs so easily emulated?

Iris’s cheeks warmed. What was the big green lug saying here?

To those in the Hidden Realm with designs on venturing to London, hear me clearly. A woman who lives on pennies a day can become the subject of a grand transformation. She who was once at the very bottom of the human social ladder has blossomed into a woman who can hold her head high in London Society. She is an entirely new creation and one of which I am most proud.

At that, Iris slammed the notebook shut. Tears stung the back of her eyes. Now, the truth of it was out. Duncan Higgins had never cared for Iris Gabbert, flower seller. Only the lady he’d fashioned. What further evidence did she need?

Her heart dropped to her stomach and didn’t stop there. It kept plunging, down to her feet, dragging the rest of her down as well. It took all her will to remain upright. If she gave in and collapsed, her heartache would drag her down to the very center of the earth.

Duncan Higgins was a gentleman, the same as any human who considered himself such, with all the cruel opinions and prejudices of that lot. She was naught but a romp in bed for this bloke. And she had been a fool ever to think there could be more between them.

When Iris had left the room earlier that day, having flawlessly recited every form of address Duncan could summon, his head fell into his hands.

He had upset her. And he couldn’t bear it.

It might have been easy enough to assent to Iris’s request and let her friend stay with them. No harm done. And yet Duncan had not thought she would spring such a thing on him out of nowhere.

On top of that, he wondered if this had been her plan all along. To get him nice and comfortable and satiated, and then start to invite friends into a space he had been led to believe she enjoyed sharing just with him. And that, Duncan feared, was because she viewed her relationship with Duncan himself as transactional.

It had started that way, but surely she couldn’t continue to view it in such a light? Not after the pleasures they’d experienced in one another’s company.

She had touched his horns, aware of their sensitivity, before making the request. It was the kind of trick Lady Margaret would have tried. Extending some faint promise of intimacy while asking for a new bauble or an introduction to an influential parliamentarian on behalf of a younger brother in need of direction in his career. And now Iris had pulled the same trickery. He would never have imagined her capable of such crass manipulation. Iris was different. He had witnessed as much.

Hadn’t he?

He might have thought nothing of it but for Felton Maberly’s visit beforehand. And that set him to thinking about what Albion had told him at the club. That Iris would be entertaining proposals soon enough.

Perhaps by that time, she would have gotten her fill of the strange-looking fellow who kept her bed warm. He was a novelty to these humans. Nothing more. A procurer of gemstones and an object of interest, but never truly one of them.

For the fourth time that evening, Duncan dipped his quill into the ink pot on his desk and attempted to finish the last section of his book. And for the fourth time, he failed.

When he heard the distinctive rap-a-tap-tap of Iris’s knock, he determined he must remain strong, no matter what enchantment she tried to cast on him.

Iris popped her head in. “Your grace? Might I have a word?”

Duncan beckoned for her to enter. Bugger it all if his heart wasn’t pattering so quickly he thought he could topple over from the force of it.

She had not yet dressed for bed but still wore her daytime attire: a cream-colored bodice overlaid with tightly threaded lace and complemented by a dusky pink skirt. Iris Gabbert looked as proper as any lady of theton, but his body responded to the memory of a different version of Iris Gabbert. The woman who joined her luscious body with his in round after round of frantic pleasure.

He had made a mistake. He had listened to his head rather than his heart. Albion told him that would get him in trouble one day. But it might not be too late. Perhaps they might say the right words to each other and then—

He saw the expression on Iris’s face and the rigid stance of her body. His hopes of reconciliation retreated.

“Miss Gabbert?”

“There is a matter. Of which. I wish to speak.”

He frowned. This sounded more like the performance she would give in public as a countess.

“You and I speak of all manner of topics,” he told her, conscious of the distance between them and loathing it. “We’re past you asking for permission, surely.”

She nodded. “May I sit?”

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