But he didn’t say any of this, and when he spoke, his voice was cold. “It doesn’t matter what either of us wants anymore.”
Finn got one final glance at her pale face in the weak sunlight coming through the door before she stepped into the deep shadows of the stables and hurried down the row of stalls, the skirts of her dark blue riding habit dragging across the floor.
He leaned down to pick up his riding crop, and when he straightened again, she was gone.
Chapter Thirteen
“If you must spend the entire evening gaping at Lord Huntington, Iris, the least you can do is stop nibbling on your lip. You look as if you wish you could take a bite out of him.”
Violet, who was seated next to Iris on the settee, nodded subtly toward the other side of the drawing room where Lord Huntington sat, his rapt gaze fixed on Lady Honora, who was playing the pianoforte for the assembled company.
I already bit him, and he’s delicious.
Iris’s body flooded with unwelcome heat at the memory, and she gave her pink silk skirts an irritated twitch. “I haven’t the least intention of biting Lord Huntington, Violet. I just had dinner.”
That is, she’d beenserveddinner. Halfway through the meal she’d abandoned her plate in favor of her wine glass. Had the wine been unusually good tonight? Iris frowned, trying to recall.
Yes, yes. It must have been. Otherwise she wouldn’t have had so much of it. Perhaps a trifle too much, but if she had overindulged, it had nothing to do with Lord Huntington.
Or his kiss.
Especially not his kiss, no matter if her blood was still humming with pleasure, and her knees were still weak, hours later. “But if Iweregoing to bite Lord Huntington, it would be nothing less than he deserved.”
Violet had forgotten Iris entirely in favor of gaping at Lord Derrick, who was seated next to Lord Huntington, his face aglow with pleasure as he watched Lady Honora, but now she turned her attention back to her sister, her brow creased with a frown. “What’s Lord Huntington done to you this time?”
He’s kissed me, and now I can’t stop thinking about his mouth.
“Not a thing, it’s just…well, he isn’t as perfect as he pretends to be.”
She sounded like a fretful child, but Iris didn’t dare tell Violet about Lord Huntington’s kiss. It would lead to all sorts of awkward questions, none of which she could answer unless she also told her sister he’d “rejected her dismissal” and was demanding she go forward with the marriage.
“Well, he’s been a perfect gentleman tonight.”
Yes, he had, hadn’t he? His fashionable dress, his manners, his air of polite attention as Honora played—it was all impeccable. He was every inch the exalted Marquess of Huntington tonight. Looking at him now, Iris could almost believe that wild, passionate kiss in the stables had never happened.
“My goodness, he looks handsome in his blue coat, doesn’t he?”
Iris darted a sour look at him. He looked handsome in every color coat, or no coat, come to that, but the effect was spoiled by his captivated expression as he gazed at Lady Honora. Indeed, both Lord Huntington and Lord Derrick seemed unable to look away from her, as if they’d forgotten anyone other than Lady Honora was in the room.
“Certainly, if you think cold, stiff gentlemen are handsome. He hasn’t so much as twitched since we entered the drawing room. Why, just look at him! He looks as if he’s sitting for a painting.”
“Well, what do you expect him to do? Dance a jig? He’s listening to the music.” Violet stared hard at Lord Derrick for a moment, as if she could will him into looking at her, but he appeared transfixed by Honora, and his gaze never wavered.
Violet sighed. “Honora plays wonderfully well, doesn’t she?”
She did, and she looked lovely, her cheeks flushed with pleasure as her elegant fingers flew over the keys. “She does. She does everything beautifully.”
Iris glanced down at her pink skirts with a sigh. Honora was wearing a pink gown tonight too, one nearly the same color as Iris’s pink gown, and as soon as Honora finished playing, Iris would be called upon to play. She played well—quite as well as Honora—and her pink gown flattered her, just as Honora’s pink gown did.
Pink perfection, as far as the eye could see.
A lie, swathed in layers of expensive silk.
You’re not the quiet, docile lady you pretended to be.
Iris squirmed against the settee, but no amount of squirming or denial would change the fact Lord Huntington was right. She’d been pretending to be someone she wasn’t, just as he had, and if she hadn’t quite realized how far she’d taken it until he said it aloud, it didn’t make her any less guilty.
That cursed wager—her blood boiled every time she thought about it, not only because Lord Huntington had chosen Honora over her, though that was enough to offend any lady. No, what truly galled her was he’d thought she and Honora were interchangeable, as if it hardly mattered if he lost one lady on the turn of a card, since the other lady would do just as well.
