“What happened to your arm?” He tugged her closer, so close the arm he held brushed against his chest. “Your sleeve is torn.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I—”
“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. You’re bleeding.”
His voice emerged in a low growl, and Iris froze, too surprised to say a word. What was he so agitated about? She raised her gaze to his face, but as soon as she saw his eyes, she wished she hadn’t. They’d gone so dark with fury they’d turned a rather terrifying black.
He was…dear God, he was frantic. Whatever was the matter with him? It wasn’t an amputation, for goodness’ sake. It was a scratch, nothing more.
“Tell me what happened.”
The injury was so inconsequential Iris didn’t even recall how it had happened, but his voice was strained, and every muscle in his body coiled with tension, and she saw at once this was no time to trifle with him. “I—I was hurrying, and—”
“Why were you hurrying? Were you running away from someone?”
Yes. You.
But she couldn’t say that. Even if she’d wanted to she couldn’t, because his gaze was fixed on her face with such furious intensity she couldn’t say a word, and had to look away from him.
What was happening?
“Miss Somerset? Did Lord Wrexley touch you?”
“No! Of course not.”
He grasped her chin between his long, firm fingers and tipped her head up so he could look into her face. “Then why is your sleeve torn? It looks as if someone grabbed you.”
His eyes were still flashing with fury, and she had to drag in a breath to calm her thrashing heart. “No, my lord. No one grabbed me. I was hurrying, and not paying attention to where I was going. I caught my sleeve on a sharp branch, and when I tore it loose, I scratched my arm.”
He searched her face, then let out a long, slow breath. After a moment he gathered her wrap and tucked it around her elbow, careful not to brush against the scratch on her arm as he did, but even as he took care to touch her gently, his next words sliced into her like a whip.
“Your carelessness in guarding your safety perplexes me, and that’s to say nothing of your reputation. I trust you’ll be more vigilant in the future.”
For a moment Iris was sure she’d misunderstood him, but as his words sank in she could only stare at him, shocked into speechlessness. Not two hours ago he’d left her on the terrace so he could rush off to meet his mistress in the garden, and yet he dared to stand here and calmly accuseherof improprieties?
“I can see I’ve distressed you. May I call on you tomorrow, to offer my apologies? You’re to become my marchioness in a few weeks, and I don’t like for us to be at odds.”
Iris tried to say something, to offer a polite smile, but all she could manage was a stiff nod. How ironic he should speak of her as his marchioness now, when all her anticipation over their betrothal had hardened into cold dread.
“May I escort you back to the house? Your sister has been waiting for you on the terrace for quite some time, and I’m sure she’s concerned.”
He held out his arm, like a proper gentleman.
She took it, like a proper lady. The belle of her season.
You’ll lose interest in her within a fortnight, Huntington.
Phineas Knight, the Marquess of Huntington. An honorable gentleman. Admirable. Praiseworthy. Utter perfection. Wasn’t that how she’d thought of him?
What would she think, Huntington, if she knew what you hid under those gentlemanly manners of yours?
A dull little laugh escaped her.
Only a child would think that now.
Chapter Four
“More tea, Lord Huntington?”
