Page 59 of Plucked By the Orc

Iris returned to the present and gawped at her reflection in the looking glass. Between the perfectly coiffed hair, the jewels she had been allowed to borrow for the evening, and the creams and ointments that made her skin glow, Iris scarcely recognized herself. She touched a stray curl, artfully tousled. This was Iris Gabbert in the mirror. And yet it wasn’t.

“It’s lovely,” she told the housekeeper. “Thank you. I suppose this is the last time you’ll dress me.”

“Truthfully, I wish you would stay longer, Miss Gabbert. If you don’t mind me saying.”

Iris found her arms opening. Mrs. Thompson never struck her as one who was much for hugs, but this evening, she joined Iris and squeezed her right back. For a moment, Iris had a vague memory of hugging her mother. So long ago.

“I don’t mind,” Iris told her. “I’m flattered. I wish I could stay longer. I’ll miss you.”

Mrs. Thompson nodded sadly.

Suddenly, nothing about this seemed fitting. No matter what she saw in the mirror, she was still Iris Gabbert, she was. Just as she’d told Lot.

This countess was no more than a fantasy she and Duncan had concocted. For a laugh, really. She’d done a fine enough job of passing for a lady when she visited Duncan’s mother’s parlor, hadn’t she?

Even that was starting to bother her. It was one thing to put on such airs to better yourself or even to have some fun with the high and mighty folks she was sure to meet later this evening. But putting on the charade in front of Duncan Higgins? The very gentleman who had orchestrated it? She didn’t have to keep playing along. She didn’t care for the thought of doing so at all.

It seemed to her now that much as she wanted Duncan to love Iris Gabbert, warts and all, she continued to hide her true self from him. This, she no longer wanted to do.

He may have viewed her as an experiment when they first met. Perhaps, on some level, he still did. That was what made Duncan Higgins who he was. Curious. Intense. Intellectual.

Weren’t those the same qualities that drew her to him? Well, those and a powerful pull to those muscles and clever fingers. And nothing wrong with that, she’d say. There was just more to it all as well.

Iris needed to know if maybe, just maybe, he did love Iris Gabbert, as she was, after all.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” she blurted.

“What?” Mrs. Thompson stepped back. Her kind features clouded with confusion.

“I’m not a countess! Why would I try to pretend I am?”

“But you and the duke have spent so much time preparing,” Mrs. Thompson said. “Why let it all go to waste? His grace made a wager with his brother—”

The housekeeper paused, realizing that perhaps she wasn’t supposed to know that part. Iris made a dismissive gesture. The girls she knew who were lucky enough to find positions as servants in grand houses knew everything about everyone, and not for a second had she thought it any different with Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Clemons.

“Ain’t it just?” Iris said. “A flutter, that is. And I don’t know that I like being treated as the game itself. Know what I mean?”

Her speech had lapsed. She sounded like Iris Gabbert again, flower seller extraordinaire. Assuming her cockney drawl so no one would suspect she’d once been a woman with a home, a family, and even prospects for a decent life. Before her mother died and her father left.

“His grace does not consider you a game, my lady,” Mrs. Thompson said quietly. “If I know anything, I know that.”

Iris’s heart quivered. She liked the sound of that. She wanted to hear more of the like, but then it didn’t matter until those same words came from Duncan himself.

She moved to the armoire and thrust the bottom drawer open. There was the gift from her mother, which she thought too small for the occasion. She should never have removed it.

Iris reached for the amethyst on its chain and struggled with the clasp.

“Will you help me, then? It’s too small for a countess, but from my mother, it was. If I’m to go through with this, I want to wear it.”

“A lovely gem, indeed. And it suits you and your gown.” Gently, Mrs. Thompson turned her around and snapped the clasp in place at the back of Iris’s neck. “And I have one last addition if you please.”

Despite the turmoil of emotions brewing inside her chest, Iris smiled at the housekeeper. Mrs. Thompson reached into a box she had brought into the bedchamber, filled with all manner ofhair brushes and the like. When she turned to Iris again, she held a single flower: an iris that matched the hue of her gown. She held the delicate petals in her hands and nodded at Iris to bow her head before affixing the blossom to the coiffure.

“Perfect,” Mrs. Thompson whispered. “Take them all by storm tonight, my lady. I’ve no doubt that Iris Gabbert will shine.”

“I’m no gentleman of science, such as yourself, brother, but I am sure that the mechanics of time won’t change simply because you insist on checking your pocket watch at half-minute intervals.”

Duncan snapped the lid on his watch shut and glowered at his brother. They stood at the top of the staircase overlooking Lady Bellingham’s circular foyer beneath a domed ceiling. A medieval tapestry hung from the high wall on the upper level of her townhouse. An imitation, Duncan was sure, for while the maiden stroking a unicorn wore a hooded gown from that era, the thick wool looked pristine, and the colors were still bright. He supposed his hostess had purchased the item from Harding, Howell and Company in Pall Mall while no doubt attempting to pass it off as a family relic.

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