Page 60 of Plucked By the Orc

Lady Bellingham’s city manse was too expansive for Duncan’s taste, but then it was intended for entertaining. From the imposing windows on the upper level, Manchester Square appeared naught but a thin ripple of slush below them. Young ladies of fashion hid their faces behind silk fans, no doubt whispering about the gentlemen swanning about the perimeter with snifters of cognac in hand, their conversations buzzing.

The ring he had impulsively purchased for Miss Gabbert was tucked deep in his dress coat pocket, but his blasted thoughts kept returning to it. He reminded himself that he had only to getthrough the next few hours. Then he would have Iris to himself once more.

And they could settle the matter of their future once and for all.

To enhance the mystery of “Countess Jessup,” Duncan had arranged for Iris to arrive separately, a decision that now seemed less than ideal as his nerves got the better of him, waiting on her. On top of that, Albion had insisted on joining them this evening. Duncan suspected his brother only wanted to vex him. That, he was sure, was more important to his brother than the actual outcome of the wager over Wintermist and hosting Mother’s 60th.

“I have no intentions of bending the fabric of time,” Duncan told his brother in what he hoped was a dry tone. “Yet I do wish I had the ability, for Miss Gabbert is nearing a quarter of an hour late. You know how I feel about tardiness.”

“Oh, we are all well aware, Dunc.”

“Dunc is a verb. Duncan is a name. And am I outside my rights to expect others to adhere to a timetable agreed to by all?”

“Not outside of your rights, brother, but perhaps committing a grave injustice against your happiness by clinging so closely to such rules.”

Duncan’s jaw tightened. Drawing nearer a window, he toyed with a tassel dangling from one of Lady Bellingham’s heavy draperies and stared through the frosty glass at the snow-dusted stone arch at the townhouse’s entrance below.

“Don’t you have a card to compose for some lady in honor of St. Valentine?” Duncan muttered. “Or some other affair with which to concern yourself.”

He expected his brother to make another flippant remark, but to Duncan’s surprise, Albion’s features softened.

“I have already attended to that task,” he said. “And had it delivered to the lady.”

“Albie!” Duncan cried, falling back on Albion’s childhood nickname without realizing it. “You are courting someone? In London? A human woman?”

Before his brother could respond, something on the ground level captured his attention. He turned and rushed to the other side of the staircase’s balcony, grasped the handrail, and leaned over.

“Ah,” Albion said, returning to his frivolous tone. “I feared my brother might expire from all the worry he’d worked himself into on your account.”

Duncan spotted the woman Albion was addressing. His breath caught in his throat.

Iris Gabbert stood at the base of the staircase, gazing up at them. She wore a slim, fitted purple gown that Duncan had tasked Mrs. Thompson with purchasing for her, flowing over the curves of her body in an unbearably alluring fashion. It was cut low across the bodice with soft layers of sheer muslin draped in loose folds from the high waist. Matching slippers with heels, graced her dainty feet.

An iris nestled in her up-do completed the look. She looked elegant enough to pass for a countess, yet undeniably like Iris Gabbert.

The wager was Duncan’s to lose. Wintermist would remain safely in his stables, and Mother’s party would fall into Albion’s capable hands. Even so, Duncan, for perhaps the first time in his life, admitted defeat.

Regardless of what happened this evening, or any other evening for that matter, his heart would always belong to Iris.

He forced his claws to stay unsheathed. Even if he had no stake in Iris’s success, he could not have taken his eyes off of her.

Iris looked down momentarily, fussing at some imaginary tufts of fluff or what have you on her frock. Duncan wanted to believe the blush suddenly staining her cheeks indicated she wasexperiencing the same sensations he was. Desire. Anxiety to be once again in one another’s presence.

But he refused to flatter himself. More likely, Iris was nervous about the evening ahead and the innumerable unspoken rules of etiquette she’d need to remember.

Apparently satisfied that all was well with her attire, Iris gathered her skirt in her hands and ascended the staircase, gingerly avoiding the garlands of ivy adorning the handrails. The toes of her low-heeled slippers—tied with satin ribbons interwoven at her ankle and dyed to match the gown—trod lightly on the scarlet runner beneath her feet.

Every move she made was exquisite as a dancer in a ballet. But he maintained his calm demeanor. On the exterior. Anything else would have been less than honorable.

“Are you ready, countess?”Duncan asked as she approached them.

“Yes, this is your last chance,” Albion said merrily. “If you decide not to undertake this venture, no one will think less of you. Certainly not me. I’d be pleased to take Wintermist off my brother’s hands right now if he wishes it.”

“You will do no such thing, Master Albion. I believe this wager is already won.”

His brother didn’t seem disappointed in the least. He jabbed Duncan’s side.

“Aren’t you going to make the introductions?”

---