Page 25 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
Iris’s mouth curved. “A promising start.”
Lady Gossamer, seated stiffly near the window, cleared her throat.
“Lady Thornfield, a pleasure, she said archly. “One had imagined your visit would be… investigatory—given the unusual nature of the engagement.”
“Oh, indeed,” Iris replied, unhurriedly peeling off her gloves. “I have made it my business to vet new entrants to the family circle. The Vexley men, while deliciously ornamental, are not famously discerning in matters matrimonial. I, on the other hand, have been married twice—once as was expected of me, and once as I expected of myself. That makes me something of an authority, don’t you agree?”
Lady Gossamer made a sound somewhere between a cough and a suppressed scoff.
“You’ve arrived at a delicate moment,” Jasper interjected, steering his aunt toward the morning room. “There’s been some scrutiny of Seacliff—”
“Oh, I adore scrutiny,” Iris said brightly. “And I do it far better than those disapproving committees with long titles and very short imaginations. I see people. Cassandra helps.”
The parrot gave a low squawk, as if in agreement.
Later that afternoon, while Cassandra was snoozing peacefully on a velvet perch near the ferns of the conservatory, Aunt Iris sat by the open window sipping a rather generous brandy.
She turned to Thalia, who sat beside her, slightly guarded but polite.
“You are a widow,” Iris said without preamble. “So am I. You, I gather, did not choose yours?”
“No,” Thalia said softly. “He was chosen for me. And then, rather abruptly, removed.”
“Most men get whisked away just when they’ve become tolerable,” Iris said with a sigh. “Some never manage it at all. But my second—utterly unsuitable, utterly marvellous. We disagreed about nearly everything, but aligned on the only things that mattered. Then, naturally, he went and died. Pity.”
She turned, assessing Thalia not with suspicion but something closer to recognition.
“This place you’ve built—it is not a rebellion. It is a correction. You have made room for what didn’t fit elsewhere. That is not immoral, dear girl. That is visionary.”
Thalia blinked. “You surprise me, my lady.”
“I surpriseeveryone.That’s how one survives society without allowing it to devour you.”
Chapter Twelve
It was later that evening, and the fire in Jasper’s chamber had burned low, casting long flickers across the room’s deep wainscoting. A hush had settled over Seacliff Retreat, the earlier tension subdued by music, conversation, and the diplomatic brilliance of Lady Thornfield, who now sat imperiously by the hearth in a tall-backed chair
“She’ll do,” Aunt Iris announced, swirling her second brandy with the authority of a woman who had once dismissed a duke for being boring. Cassandra, nestled on a velvet cushion nearby, gave a contented flutter of feathers.
Jasper looked up from the letter he was pretending to read. “She—Thalia?”
“Yes. Sensible. Dry wit. Excellent bone structure. No patience for nonsense. She’ll hold her ground and keep your ego in check, which, darling, let’s be honest, needs occasional pruning.”
Jasper closed the letter. “And yet I seem to recall you arrived determined to investigate.”
“I investigated,” she said, waving a hand. “I observed. I poked. I offered Cassandra the chance to disapprove. She did not.”
He chuckled, then quieted.
“You like her,” Iris said, not as a question.
“Yes,” Jasper admitted. “At first, it was a strategy. Now, it’s—something else.”
“Falling?” she asked, arching one silver brow.
He hesitated. “Perhaps already fallen.”
Iris’s smile was slow and unexpectedly warm. “Then let us no longer pretend this is mere fiction. Only do try not to ruin it with your usual combination of charm and ill timing.”
