He blew out a breath, and when he spoke again his voice was gentler, and he patted her hand as if she were a child who needed soothing. “Yes, that would be best.”
He tried to hide his relief as they began the walk back to the house, but Iris saw it, and her chest flooded with misery and humiliation.
What had just happened? Had she done something awful? Violet hadn’t seemed to think a kiss between a betrothed couple was so scandalous, but they’d been raised in Surrey, not among theton. Lady Honora had been hesitant, but even she’d admitted Lord Harley had kissed her. But Lord Huntington…
He seemed angry, as if she’d done something inexcusable.
Iris darted a glance at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze was focused straight ahead, as if he’d forgotten she was there at all. When they neared the house, he paused. “You’re quiet, Miss Somerset. I’m afraid you’re fatigued, after all.”
Iris looked up into his handsome face. He smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes, and she could see he only waited for the moment when he could escape her company. “Yes, I—I believe I am.”
“Come, then. I’ll escort you to the terrace.”
“No, thank you, my lord.” She withdrew her arm from his and took a step away from him. The sun was warm, but Iris rubbed her hands over her arms to chase away a sudden chill. “That is, I’ll come after I fetch my wrap from the house.”
“I’ll fetch it for you. Where is it?”
Her shoulders moved in a listless shrug. “I don’t remember. The drawing room, perhaps, or—”
“Never mind. I’ll find it.” He hesitated, then to Iris’s surprise he reached forward and slid his warm fingers under her elbow, cupping it briefly. “I’ll join you on the terrace in a moment.”
He bowed and turned toward the house.
A large party of young people were arranged on the terrace, where Lady Fairchild was serving tea, and Violet and Lady Honora looked up hopefully when Iris joined them, but the moment they saw her expression, both their faces fell.
“There you are, Miss Somerset.” Honora’s mother, Lady Fairchild, gave her a gracious smile. “Tea?”
“Yes, thank you, my lady.” Iris accepted the teacup, but her hands shook, and the teacup rattled in its saucer. She took care not to look at Violet or Honora, but she could feel their sympathetic gazes, and her face burned with shame.
“What’s become of the rest of the party, I wonder?” Lady Fairchild set her teacup aside. “Lord Wrexley’s been gone for an age. Have you seen your cousin, Honora?”
Iris glanced toward the door that led out onto the terrace, and panic made her throat close. Lord Huntington would be back at any moment, and she’d have to sit here and pretend he hadn’t just dashed her every hope—
“No, Mama, but I suppose he’s in the garden somewhere, with the rest of the gentlemen.”
“Well, bother. We won’t wait for them, will we? How did you all do with the scavenger hunt? Come, let’s see what you’ve brought back for me.”
Iris lurched to her feet with a jerk that made her tea slosh over the rim of her cup. “Oh, dear. I’ve lost my rosebuds, and I forgot the red petals. I’ll just run back to the garden and fetch them, shall I, Lady Fairchild?”
“Yes, all right, dear. Do hurry back.”
“Yes, I will, my lady.”
Iris stumbled toward the garden, half-afraid she’d run into Lord Huntington on her way, but she made it to the rose arbor without encountering a soul and sank onto the bench. She’d just gather herself together before she had to face Lord Huntington again. She’d only stay a few moments, just long enough for her knees to stop shaking, then she’d paste a pleasant smile on her face and do her best to keep it there until this wretched afternoon was over, and—
“Good afternoon, my lady. What are you doing here?”
For a single moment Iris thought she’d imagined his voice, but only one gentleman had such a low, slightly mocking drawl. What was Lord Huntington doing in the garden? She’d seen him walk into the house not ten minutes ago.
“Oh, Huntington!”
Iris froze. The second voice was high, feminine, and ringing with despair.
Lord Huntington wasn’t in the house anymore. He was here, in the garden, on the other side of the arbor, and he wasn’t alone.
Iris staggered to her feet. Every instinct urged her to flee before she heard anything more, but she was already moving, her slippers silent on the gravel pathway. There was a gap between the thick, thorny rose branches, just large enough for her to peer through. She pressed her face to it, and glimpsed the folds of a dark red gown fluttering in the breeze, and long, black curls resting against delicate white shoulders.
Lady Beaumont.
