His hair was not in its usual nest on his head but a tousled mess. There was little he could do about that. Iris did not know him or what he’d become—not really. Not all of it anyway, so he told himself she wouldn’t notice his changed appearance.
Reaching the parlor, he exhaled slowly and then entered.
She stood with her back to him, looking out the window at the gardens below. This was his haven, the place that kept him sane. Here he could be and do as he wished. He walked in his gardens and let the sun warm his body when it was sunny—this was England, after all, and the weather was notoriously fickle.
Iris was invading his haven, and that worried him a great deal.
“My lady,” he said. She turned, and he bowed.
She wasn’t overly tall. He’d noticed that last night. Iris had once told him she would be a great height one day. That had not happened. She wore a long mint green coat over an ivory dress. Her bonnet was also mint.
His childhood friend had grown into a beautiful woman, who he told himself he felt nothing for, and never would. There was no jolt of awareness or aching need to get close to her again.
He was lying.
“What has you here, Lady Challoner?”
Her posture was erect, brown eyes cool. Sharp ridges rode her cheekbones, and her nose was a gentle curve. Dark brows and lashes. Monty’s eyes skimmed her body, but he could see little beneath the coat. But he’d briefly felt those curves last night.
“Lord Montgomery.” She sank into a curtsy.
“Lord Plunge.”
“That is not your name,” she said slowly as if she was teaching him something he didn’t already know.
They’d once been close enough that he knew her favorite color was lemon, and that she loathed jelly of any description. He knew she’d hated it when her father patted her on the head, as she was the shortest member of their family.
“Please allow me to offer you my condolences for the loss of your husband, my lady. I did not do so at the Raine ball.” Monty realized he was using his home voice, which was hardly surprising, as that’s what he did here, but he needed to be careful. Iris was nobody’s fool at ten years of age. He doubted that had changed. He may have fooled society for years, but she would smell a rat if he gave her a reason to.
“Thank you.”
“What has you here, my lady?”
“It is a delicate matter, Lord Montgomery.”
He nodded for her to continue.
“When my husband died, I was left to go through his things. Henry and I.” He watched as she spoke. She didn’t move or look away from him. Her hands didn’t twist around the strap of the small bag she held. Iris stood statue still.
“I did not do so for a year. When the mourning period was complete, we tried to get into the study, but the door was locked and we could not find the key,” she added.
“I understand you were grieving, and to go through his things, even if you had the key, would have been painful,” Monty said.
“Yes, of course.” That dismissive tone suggested the opposite, and that, in fact, she did not grieve the loss of her husband.
What kind of marriage did she have with Challoner?It was true Monty had loathed both him and Renton, but there were many who had liked the man. He’d always felt it odd that Iris had not entered society, and now more so when clearly, she was in good health, unlike what her husband had told everyone.
“Henry?” Monty asked instead of prying into her marriage. She’d mentioned that name at the ball.
“My son. He is eight years of age.”
He’d never considered she had a child, but of course he should have.
“I’m glad you had your son at your side so you could grieve together when your husband passed, my lady,” he said.
Something passed across her face and was gone in seconds before Monty could identify it.
“My son is now and always will be my main concern.”
