Page 8 of Plucked By the Orc

“The tome is strictly for the Orcan public, Miss Gabbert. It won’t be published in London or any other part of the English-speaking world. I will not identify you by name. But I don’t wish to limit discourse to the higher echelons of human society. I’d like to include other elements, namely, you.”

So she was an element, was she? Iris released her breath, feeling like one of them poor butterflies some men who called themselves scientists caught in nets. Only to stab through their delicate abdomens and put them on display in glass-paned wooden boxes. Iris didn’t care for the image one bit.

“‘ave I a choice in the matter, your grace?”

“A choice?” He raised an eyebrow, an expression she would grudgingly submit was appealing on his stern face. For some reason that escaped her, she wanted him to speak more, not less, when he looked at her that way. It made her wonder what was going on in that big head of his. What did he make of her, really?

Not that it was sensible to care what some bloke thought. And one who was only a stranger. Human or orc that could only lead to trouble. Perhaps she should have taken the money from his billfold as first proffered.

“I would rather not have notes and equations and whatever other to-do you plan to write in your book.”

Her gaze wandered to the shelves all along every wall save for that hosting the hearth, crowded with row after row of books. Most of them were out of her reach, but a high ladder waspropped to the left side of the shelves, and she figured she could handle it well enough.

“I ‘ave nothing against books, exceptin’ them that that is about me. But I don’t know if I have a choice.”

“One always has a choice, Miss Gabbert.”

That sounded like the sort of nonsense she’d expect from a chappie who never wanted for anything in this life, orc or not. Sometimes, a girl found herself in circumstances with no good choices at all. “Maybe me and you can just ‘ave a chat? No notes.”

He shut the notebook with a gentle thump and nodded his assent. Iris got the sense he was only humoring her and would scribble plenty of notes into his ledger later. But she had to move forward, regardless.

“You remember what you said at the theater?”

“I recall.” He gave no indication as to whether this memory was pleasant or off-putting. She couldn’t detect evidence of either.

“I’ve been thinkin’ on it. I want to take you up on the offer.”

Before Duncan could respond, Mr. Clemons entered the library bearing a sterling silver tray with a pot of tea on a knit cosy. A three-tiered crystal platter held an assortment of scones, macarons, petit fours, and tiny sandwiches filled with cream cheese and watercress. The butler placed the service on a side table.

Iris’s eyes widened. With any luck, her stomach wouldn’t growl at the sight of those treats.

“Thank you, Clemons.” When the butler gave him a curt nod and left the room, Duncan proceeded to choose some of the tastiest looking morsels. He plopped them on a small china plate rimmed with dainty flowers and then handed the plate to her.

It was all she could manage to not stuff all these delights into her mouth at once. She tested a blueberry scone, finding it crispoutside and softer in the middle, with a perfect layer of sugar sprinkled on top.

“Go on,” he said, pouring the tea but still not taking a seat himself. “What changed your mind?”

Iris tried to swallow but had bitten off more than she intended and made a grunting sound. He handed her a linen serviette, which she passed over her lips.

“To better myself, sir,” she said at last. “As you suggested.”

“So you’re convinced I no longer wish to dishonor you?”

“Convinced is a tad strong. But I’m willing to hear you out.”

“I have already stated my intent plainly, madam. I instruct you on how to emulate a lady of thetonto improve yourself.”

“I don’t like the sound of ‘improve yourself,’ but we all have dreams. Even when we’re out sleeping rough, you know.”

He frowned, the pointed front teeth on either side of his jaw showing again. “You told me you were not residing on the streets of London, Miss Gabbert.”

“I have a bedsit now,” she said. “But it ain’t much, that’s the truth.”

“Isn’tmuch.”

“Isn’tmuch. I scrape by but no more than that. I don’ want to live the rest of my days not knowing better.”

At last, he took a seat, leaning back on a massive chair behind his desk. Unlike every other chair in the room, it had no cushions for one’s bum. “What would you consider better?”

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