Page 58 of Plucked By the Orc

For women without husbands, human society was cruel. Such women were invisible in the best cases and lowered to abject poverty in the worst. Iris might choose an independent life if she thought she could get by in a shop, but she’d have none of the security someone like Felton Maberly could provide for her.

And then her time with Duncan Higgins, the odd duck of an orc, would dissolve into no more than a story to tell her friends one day, well after she was properly married, behind a fluttering fan. Letting her accept a proposal from someone like Felton Maberly was for the best.

But it didn’t feel that way as he left the box with the ring in his pocket and walked back down the hallway, away from Iris Gabbert.

London was intolerable enough, but he remained here for the sake of his father’s legacy. Now, it was a place where he wouldsee Iris Gabbert married to Felton Maberly. She would be a lady of society in her own right and without further need of Duncan’s assistance. And so it should be.

No matter how much it hurt, he would never betray her secret. While he had fancied himself in love with Lady Margaret, his feelings for Iris were on a higher plane entirely. Whether with him or without him, he wanted Iris to be happy.

By this time tomorrow night, she might already have accepted Felton Maberly’s proposal. She would move out from her quarters here straightaway, perhaps to an apartment in Lady Maberly’s mansion, until she was married.

As for himself, he did not expect to find happiness ever again.

It was time he left London and returned to the Hidden Realm. After all, Albion was making a solid show of it here. He could fulfill any of Duncan’s remaining obligations well enough. His brother would make for a finer diplomat than Duncan ever had.

Passing through the corridor, past the portrait of his ancestors, Duncan stopped at his father’s picture. Father wore the court uniform he’d had specially tailored to appear before King George: a navy blue dress coat with scarlet embellishments and white breeches. He leaned in closer, believing he could see the glint in his father’s dark eyes. Duncan had made a habit of trying to make his father proud, as was his duty as eldest.

If Father could see him now, he wouldn’t feel proud of him in the slightest. He would say he was running away. He would say he was ruining his chance at happiness.

Duncan should have protested such a characterization, if only in his mind. In turning away, he was controlling his impulses. As he should. However, Duncan had no wish to be that man any longer. The orc who kept himself under such tight control that he made no allowance for the passion of his heart.

Only he could free himself of fear’s grip. Regardless of her response, Duncan needed to work up the courage to tell Iris he was in love with her.

Chapter Nineteen

Iris bit her lip as Mrs. Thompson put the finishing touches on her toilette. She had availed herself of the various “tradespeople” recommended to Duncan, who had left their cards. And Iris had enjoyed the small luxuries, particularly the rosewater ointment applied to her cheeks and lips in an attempt to make them seem “pleasingly plump.”

Taking stock of herself in the looking glass, Iris couldn’t be sure the concoction had the desired effect, but she appreciated the smooth, glowing aspect of her face regardless.

She’d asked Mrs. Thompson to add the finishing touches to the style the hair-dresser had given Iris this morning after a much needed trim: a loose chignon high on the crown of her head with tight ringlets behind her ears. While the housekeeper fussed and twisted wavy locks of Iris’s hair higher, Iris thought back to Felton’s visit.

She hadn’t intended to receive anyone. She wanted to get that right in her head straightaway. Though she would confess tofeeling relief when his grace had canceled their lessons not only for the early morning hours, but later in the day as well, claiming a bit of rest and relaxation would do them both good. Iris had wanted to spend midday reviewing the forms of address from the etiquette book. She had recited them previously without error, yet Iris still ran through them in her mind.

Your excellency!

Your holiness!

Your grace!

How on earth would she remember them all? Surely, Lady Bellingham wasn’t so important that these dignitaries would show themselves at her affair tonight. Iris hoped to have these monikers memorized for no other reason than to satisfy her pride.

The more humbling task of packing her belongings was also set before her. How could she remain in this house a minute longer than strictly necessary? She had savings from her time here, but now wished she hadn’t been so firm about only accepting the amount she would have made selling flowers.

But hope for something more profound had been ingrained in Iris in a way she couldn’t quite put into words.

In this frame of mind, Iris had learned that Felton Maberly was at the door with a bouquet of pink and white hothouse Provence roses that looked right finer than any Iris Gabbert had ever sold at the theater. They smelled better, to boot. With Duncan gone and no reason to refuse him, Clemons admitted Felton to see “Lady Iris” and then kept a steady watch as their chaperone.

Iris hadn’t enjoyed the visit. She had been too preoccupied with thoughts of Duncan and Lady Bellingham’s affair to feel much of anything one way or another. But when it came down to it, Felton was a pleasant chap interested in courting her.

She almost regretted allowing the call, for she didn’t want to raise his hopes. But Felton Maberly’s company, though uninspiring, was preferable to endless moping. That was good old sensible Iris talking.

Besides, a less sensible voice inside her head had whispered, wouldn’t it be something if Duncan were to arrive home, catch them in the parlor, and be overtaken with jealousy? Which was just what he deserved, as far as Iris was concerned, after he had written about her in such cold prose in his blasted book.

But then he never appeared. If he had, perhaps he wouldn’t be jealous at all. Worse, he might encourage her to entertain Felton’s courtship. Felton Maberly may have been the younger son in the family, but his position was sufficient to grant her a permanent place in London Society.

That would only be sensible, yet her heart sank like a stone at the mere thought.

“What do you think, my lady?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

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