Despicable, of course, except for one small thing.
He wasn’t entirely wrong. That is, he was only right in a miniscule, shallow, and insignificant way, but still—he wasn’t entirely wrong. She and Honora might be nothing alike in character or temperament, but they were so alike in their manners, their dress, and their accomplishments, it was a wonder anyone could tell them apart.
If all of London thought her a pale shadow of Honora, then it was her own fault. Somehow, over the course of the season, between the suitors, the balls, and the flirtatious flutters of her fan, Iris had realized plain Iris Somerset, the simple country miss from Surrey, wasn’t going to be good enough for fashionable London society.
So she became Lady Honora instead.
Not consciously, of course, but now, looking back on it, Iris could see how it had happened. It made perfect sense, really. Her grandmother wanted a match with Lord Huntington, and Lord Huntington wanted Lady Honora. Well, Lady Honora, or Lady Beaumont. Iris wasn’t sure which, but it hardly mattered, because she wasn’t either of them.
The truth was, if he’d known what she hid under those layers of pink silk, he never would have offered for her at all.
Iris sighed and wished for another glass of wine.
“My goodness,” Violet murmured as Lady Honora neared the end of her piece with a dramatic display of ringing notes. “How awful it would be to have to play after Honora does. You play beautifully, of course, so you’ll have no trouble, but think how it would be for any lady less skilled than you are, Iris. I’d be quite terrified.”
Iris snorted. “Yes, well, nothing motivates a young lady more effectively than terror. Why practice the pianoforte at all other than the threat of humiliation? It’s no wonder the gentlemen expect such docile, predictable wives. Thetonterrorizes us into compliance, and then marries us off.”
“My, that’s cynical.”
Cynical, but true nonetheless, and young ladies who didn’t comply—well, they had every reason to be terrified, didn’t they?
The moment she’d jilted Lord Huntington, Iris had ceased to be compliant.
Her gaze wandered back to him, and her breath caught. He was so handsome, so perfect, with his snowy white cravat and that charming dimple in his chin. He’d transformed effortlessly from the fiercely passionate man who’d kissed her in the stables this afternoon to the flawless Marquess of Huntington this evening.
He could be both of them, it seemed.
But I can’t.
She couldn’t pretend anymore. The pink gowns, the perfect quadrille, the pianoforte—it wasn’t who she was. She was the lady who hiked her skirts to her knees and ran races, the lady who wanted to tear across the countryside on a half-wild horse, with her hair streaming out behind her. All the things she wanted to do, like kiss a gentleman in a garden, or wear a royal blue gown, or ride Chaos—every single one had been denied her, and she could no longer pretend it didn’t matter.
She could never be the perfect marchioness Lord Huntington wanted, and all the knee-weakening kisses in the world didn’t change that. This afternoon, in the stables, she’d told him Lord Wrexley was her only choice, and it was still true. Lord Huntington’s kisses, that hint of vulnerability in his hazel eyes—they would distract her from her goal, and then what would become of her and her sisters?
It wasn’t the time or place to get into a panic, but within seconds Iris’s heart was thrashing and her hands were trembling with it, and just then Lady Honora’s fingers crashed down on the keys, and the music rose to an emotional crescendo, and Iris’s head jerked toward the pianoforte, and all the fear in her chest tightened into a cold, hard ball of dread and lodged in the back of her throat.
Iris stared at the despised pianoforte. “I don’t want to play.”
Violet gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean, you don’t want to play? Everyone expects it. You have to play.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.”
“But…but then they’ll askmeto play!” Violet was far from shy and retiring, but her one fear was public musical performances, and it was such a deep and abiding one it teetered on the irrational.
“Refuse, then.” Iris gave her sister’s hand a distracted pat as she glanced around the drawing room for a possible escape route. Now she’d made up her mind not to play, she couldn’t bear to sit here another minute.
Violet was wringing her hands. “But I can’t refuse. Can I?”
“Why not? I am.”
Violet continued to mutter and fret to herself, but Iris didn’t have the energy tonight to soothe her, and as it happened, she didn’t have to. A movement in the hallway outside the drawing room caught her eye, and her gaze met Lord Wrexley’s.
He’d been mysteriously absent at dinner this evening, and he seemed to prefer to stay hidden now. He’d positioned himself so he could see her, but he was just out of sight of the rest of the party. When she met his gaze he gave a beckoning tilt of his head, and an inviting smile drifted over his handsome face.
Iris didn’t think about how rude it was to leave the drawing room while Honora was still playing. She didn’t think about how she was abandoning her sister, or the impropriety of wandering off alone with Lord Wrexley.
She was thinking about pink gowns, and pianofortes, and Lord Huntington’s hot mouth on hers, his commanding voice telling her she couldn’t ride Chaos and ordering her to choose another horse.
It doesn’t matter what either of us want. Not anymore.
