When was the last time I felt like myself?
Several years, ever since she’d left Surrey for London. Or had it been longer than that? Long enough to lose the girl she used to be, when she’d raced across the countryside on Typhon, with her father by her side shouting his encouragement, the wind teasing his fair hair, and his eyes, so like her own, alight with pride and love, and that joy he’d always known how to coax out of life, like coaxing a tender green shoot in the ground to blossom into a flower.
It was the same kind of joy she felt now, but more poignant, and more beautiful, somehow, from the loss of him. Grief was strange that way, like a violent storm that was both terrible and exquisite at once.
A single tear leaked from the corner of Iris’s eye, but she didn’t bother to wipe it away, and the wind took it before it could stain her cheek.
That had been another lifetime, hadn’t it? A time before her parents died, before she’d become a London belle and let herself be wrapped so tightly in yards of pink silk she hadn’t known how to fight her way free of it. How had she drawn breath, with the weight of so many expectations upon her?
Despite her vow to banish him, an image of Lord Huntington as he’d looked in the drawing room last night crept into her thoughts. He’d been so still and perfect as he’d listened to Honora play, his face arranged into a proper attitude of attentive appreciation, but otherwise expressionless—nothing at all like the man who’d watched her with burning eyes as she’d traced her fingers over his lips.
Did he struggle against the same smothering weight of expectation she did? If he could heave it away with one mighty shove and crawl free of it, what kind of man would he be underneath? That man with the gentle voice, and the world of longing in his soft hazel eyes?
I could love that man—
“I see the summerhouse just ahead. Do try to keep up, Miss Somerset!”
Lord Wrexley grinned over his shoulder at her just before he shot forward with a triumphant shout. Iris shook the confusing thoughts of Lord Huntington from her head and charged after him, heading for the tiny summerhouse at the crest of the hill in front of them.
She reached it just before him, and Lord Wrexley gave her an admiring look as he drew his horse to a halt beside her. “Ah, very good. Shall we rest here for a bit? Spectacular view. I can see why Lady Hadley enjoys it.”
“The property seems to go on forever.” Iris shaded her eyes and gazed down at the panorama spread out below them. “I daresay we could ride for hours and never reach the boundary.”
“I hope you aren’t suggesting we ride for hours.” Lord Wrexley gave her a sly grin. “No, no, it wouldn’t be at all proper. We’ll have to return before the rest of our party rises for breakfast as we planned, or I might find Lord Huntington’s pistol pointed at my heart at dawn tomorrow.”
Iris knew better than to encourage his nonsense, but he’d twisted his face into such a comical look of despair she couldn’t resist a laugh. He glowed with good-humor, and his cheeks were ruddy from the wind and exercise. He was so handsome and charming, it would be easy to dismiss Lord Huntington’s warnings about him.
But charm could hide any number of sins, just as the lack of it could hide a heart overflowing with tenderness.
“You’re rather hard on Lord Huntington. Why is that, my lord? You’re not still angry about that wager you lost, are you?”
Lord Wrexley went still, and a long, tense silence fell between them. Iris patted her gloved palm with her riding crop and waited.
“You mean the wager over…”
“The one between you, Lord Harley, and Lord Huntington, over which of you would offer for me, and which for Lady Honora.”
Lord Wrexley shot her an apprehensive glance, saw at once he was caught, and to his credit, he didn’t try and deny it, but gave her a sheepish grin. “Well, I did wager foryou, you know.”
Ah, so it was true, then. Now Lord Wrexley had confessed it, Iris was surprised to find she’d believed Lord Huntington all along. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t asked Lord Wrexley about it sooner—she’d already known the truth.
“How very flattering, my lord. Though I suppose one could argue Lady Honora is rather like a sister to you.”
He shrugged. “First cousins often marry, as you know, but I never considered offering for Honora.”
“You weren’t reconciled to your loss, I think, or else you would have honored the terms of the wager, instead of resorting to that trick with Lady Beaumont.”
Another long silence followed. Iris held her breath as it stretched between them, but even before Lord Wrexley turned to her with guilt written plainly over his handsome features, she knew it was true.
“I’d reconciled myself to the courtship, but I suppose I never thought you’d accept him. Once you became betrothed, well…I didn’t think you’d be happy with Huntington.”
He didn’t say anything more, or explain himself further, and Iris didn’t ask him to. She knew very well he’d been motivated by her fortune, but then many gentlemen married for money. It didn’t disqualify him as a husband, any more than Lord Huntington’s mistress disqualified him. Lord Wrexley was selfish, yes, and careless, but he’d been one of her first friends in London, and in his own way, he cared for her.
He simply cared for himself more.
Sadly, that also didn’t disqualify him as a husband, especially in her present circumstances.
“Well, what do you plan to do then, my lord? About Lord Huntington’s pistol, I mean. Perhaps you’d better have an excuse in mind, in case our scandalous secret ride this morning is discovered.”
