More or Less a Marchioness

by Anna Bradley

  “Of course not, my lady.” Lord Wrexley’s tone was polite, but he gave Iris one last lingering glance, his mouth turning down in a frown when Lord Huntington took the seat opposite her.

  Lady Honora turned to Lord Huntington with a smile. “What time shall we ride tomorrow, my lord?”

  Lord Huntington had been studying Iris’s flushed cheeks with a puzzled expression, but now he jerked his gaze to Lady Honora. “Whenever you like, my lady. Do you fancy a long ride? If so, we should leave early to avoid the heat of the day.”

  So, Lord Huntington was taking Lady Honora riding tomorrow? Well, how lovely of him. But then he might do as he wished. It was nothing to Iris. Still, he’d been quite devoted to Lady Honora since they arrived at Hadley House. No doubt he’d given up on his mad plan to marry her and had chosen instead to initiate a courtship with Lady Honora before the season started, and she was surrounded by eager suitors.

  Not that any other gentleman could compete with Lord Huntington.

  Well, she wouldn’t pay him the least bit of attention. She certainly wouldn’t study the way his smooth, tight breeches hugged the long, lean line of his legs, or scrutinize the buttons of his falls, just peeking out from the bottom edge of his waistcoat.

  A clever invention, falls. She’d never realized quite how clever until she reached page eight of her book, but just a quick twist of a button, and—

  “I’m afraid you do look rather unwell, after all, Miss Somerset. The flush seems to be getting worse.” Lady Annabel raised her gaze from her cards, and nodded at Lord Huntington. “My lord, won’t you escort Miss Somerset upstairs? I don’t like her to go by herself, in case she swoons.”

  Lord Wrexley leapt up from his chair. “I’d be happy to escort her—”

  “No, no. We’re in the middle of a game.” Lady Annabel motioned for him to sit back down. “Lord Huntington isn’t occupied. He can take her.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lord Huntington rose and bowed to Lady Honora. “I beg your pardon, my lady.”

  “Do you fancy a game of chess, Lady Honora?” Lord Derrick gestured to the chess board on the other side of the room. “I warn you, though. I’m a hopeless strategist.”

  Lady Honora looked surprised he’d asked, but pleased. “Why, I’d be delighted, my lord. Shall we see what happens when two hopeless strategists have a game?”

  She crossed the room, and soon their heads were bent together over the chess board.

  “Miss Somerset?” Lord Huntington was standing beside the settee, his arm held out to Iris. “May I take you up?”

  She stood on unsteady legs. “Thank you.”

  Touching Lord Huntington didn’t seem a wise thing to do at the moment—not when she was so preoccupied with his falls—but she didn’t have much choice, and it was only his arm, after all. Surely she could touch him there with no difficulty.

  Her fingertips just grazed his coat, but the minute they did a bolt of heat raced over her skin, as if she’d shoved her arm into the fire.

  Lord Huntington gave her a quizzical look, and drew her arm more firmly through his. “You’re shivering. I’m afraid you’re ill, Miss Somerset.”

  “No, I’m quite all right.” But Iris could hear the note of uncertainty in her own voice, and she knew Lord Huntington heard it too by the way his arm stiffened under her fingers.

  Neither of them said another word as he led her up the stairs, but when they reached the landing, she attempted to pull her arm free. “Thank you for your escort, my lord. I can make my way to my bedchamber on my own.”

  He didn’t argue, but he didn’t let her go, either—not until they stood in front of her bedchamber door, and even then he lingered, staring down at her with an expression that made Iris’s heart thunder in her chest.

  Why did one look from Lord Huntington make her pulse skip, and her breath come short? She didn’t even like him much, and she certainly didn’t trust him, so it wasn’t possible she could…want him, was it?

  Hard fingers touched her chin and tipped her face up to his. “Such a pretty flush,” he murmured in a hoarse voice. “But I don’t think you’re ill, after all.” His gaze drifted over her face, and then, without warning, he dragged his fingertips down her cheek, his hazel eyes flaring with heat as her flush deepened in the wake of those seeking fingers.

  Or…was it possible he wanted her?

  What would he do if she touched him? Philander and Horatio, the heroes of her book, had fallen into fits of wild passion on every page, sighing and gasping over their ladies’ every touch. If she touched her fingers to his lips, would Lord Huntington lose control, as they had done?

  You’re rather intense when you’re aroused…I’ve never know a more insatiable man…not many women could satisfy you.

  If Iris could trust what she’d overheard Lady Beaumont say, it took very little to unleash the fierce passion Lord Huntington hid under his cool, stiff manners.

  The part of Iris that was still wounded over his first rejection shrank back with fear at the idea of touching him, but the other part—the part that whispered this time it would be different—reached up slowly, so slowly, and touched a fingertip to his bottom lip.

  He sucked in a harsh breath, and his lips parted on a quiet moan.

  The desperate sound made heat surge into Iris’s lower belly, so she did it again—her fingertip brushed gently across his warm lips, her touch so light she might have wondered if he felt it at all if his eyelids hadn’t dropped half-closed over eyes gone black.

  He felt it.

  He didn’t touch her, but his hot gaze traced every line of her face, lingering on her lips, and Iris could do nothing but stare back at him, mesmerized by the wild desire she saw in his eyes. His entire body had gone rigid as he strained to hold it back, but if he should let it go, unleash it…

  Dear God.

  Iris was innocent, yes, but even she understood the desire Lord Huntington now held so ruthlessly in check would sweep all before it.

  Her heart gave a panicked leap in her chest, and she jerked her hand away from his face.

  “No.” He grasped her hand in his and brought her fingers back to his lips. “Touch me again.”

  Iris did as he bade her, because as much as she feared that powerful desire, she also wanted to drown in it. He held her hand as she did what he demanded and dragged her fingertip over his lips again. His eyes drifted closed, but he seemed to know what she would do without looking, because just as she drew her hand away, he opened his lips and pressed a tiny, damp kiss on her fingertip.

  Neither of them moved, but stood there staring at each other, their panting breaths the only sound in the silent hallway, until at last he released her hand, and stepped away.

  “Goodnight, Miss Somerset.”

  Iris watched him go, but long minutes after he’d disappeared around the corner, she still stood frozen by her bedchamber door.

  She wanted him. There was no mistaking the way her breath caught when he looked at her, or the way her belly filled with liquid heat when he touched her.

  She’d jilted him. Her entire future—and her sisters’ futures—rested on her ability to convince another gentleman of her affections.

  And still, she wanted Lord Huntington.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Well, Miss Somerset, what’s it to be this morning? Slow and gentle, or swift and rough? Choose your pleasure, and we’ll begin at once.”

  Iris’s lips pressed together, and her fingers tightened on her riding crop. Lord Wrexley had invited her to take a ride with him this morning after breakfast, and he’d politely escorted her to the stable to help her choose her mount, but despite his gentlemanly attentions, she didn’t miss the note of amusement under his polite tone, or the tiny smirk flirting at the corners of his lips.

  As little as a day ago, she would have admired his easy manners, and returned his
charming smile with a flirtatious one of her own, but today it was as if Lord Huntington were a devil perched on her shoulder, whispering in her ear.

  He isn’t a man you can trust. Stay away from him.

  “That’s quite a ferocious grimace, Miss Somerset.” Lord Wrexley’s smirk widened into a smile that was both angelic and suggestive at once. “I’m referring to horses, of course, and riding. But perhaps you thought I meant something else?”

  Iris wasn’t sophisticated—or, she hadn’t been before she began her reading lessons with Lady Annabel—but she also wasn’t an utter half-wit. She knew precisely what Lord Wrexley was insinuating, and her lips turned down in a stern frown. “You’re not as subtle as you imagine, my lord. Indeed, you’re rather wicked, I think.”

  He threw his head back in a hearty laugh. “And you’re far more charming than you imagine, particularly when you scold. You get the most fetching little furrow, right here.” He dragged a finger lightly between her eyebrows.

  “Violet said the same thing, but she didn’t think it was at all fetching.” Iris touched her forehead, her fingers brushing his away, but she tried to shake off her uneasiness with him. It wasn’t proper of him to tease an innocent young lady, but surely he couldn’t be as bad as Lord Huntington made him out to be? Lord Wrexley wasn’t licentious or debauched—only high-spirited.

  “She’s quite wrong. But come, we’ll start over here.” He took her arm and led her to one end of Captain West’s enormous stables, stopping at the first stall. “This mare is a sweet, slow, gentle sort, and I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a prettier horse. She’s a perfect mount for a lady.”

  Iris ran her hand down the nose of the chestnut mare inside the stall. “She’s beautiful, yes, and perfect for a certain kind of lady.”

  “But not for you?”

  Iris shook her head. She should be in fits of ecstasy over such a lovely horse, but the mare wasn’t any better suited to her than the pink gowns were. “No. Not for me.”

  “All right, then.” Lord Wrexley led her to the next stall. “Another mare. Perhaps a bit livelier than the first, but still gentle and easy. She’s the kind of horse a lady might ride on the promenade in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour.”

  Iris reached out to pat the horse’s smooth neck and tried to hide her disappointment from Lord Wrexley.

  “You must enjoy riding on the promenade?”

  “I—” Iris began, but this time the lie she’d been telling all season lodged in her throat.

  Much like gentle mares and pink gowns, the promenade was another thing she should enjoy, but secretly despised. She loathed mincing along with scores of simpering, tedious aristocrats. She couldn’t say that, of course, because all fashionable ladies adored the promenade, and a gentleman like Lord Wrexley would expect her to adore it, too.

  But her father had been a devoted horseman, and Iris had been riding from the time she was old enough to toddle to the stables. She’d ridden every day in Surrey, was exceptionally skilled with a horse, and preferred a challenging mount.

  At least, she used to. Since she’d come to London she didn’t ride much anymore. There never seemed to be time for it. She was forever at her modiste’s for a fitting, or occupied with her dancing master, or practicing her music. When she did manage to steal an hour or so, her rambles were confined to Hyde Park during the fashionable hour, and always on a gentle mare like this one.

  Iris watched the dust motes dance in the shaft of sunlight pouring through the open stable doors, and a heaviness that had become familiar to her since she came to London squeezed at her chest. Somehow, what she should want had become much more important than what she did want. How long would it be before she couldn’t distinguish one from the other?

  Despite her efforts to hide it, Lord Wrexley noticed her disappointment. “Not this mare, I think.” He led her to the next stall, and then the next, pausing at each one to tell her about the occupant. Iris listened, and stroked her hand over one velvety nose after another, but by the time they’d made it halfway across the stables, she was still frozen with indecision.

  The wisest course of action was to choose one of the mounts Lord Wrexley suggested. It was a compliment to his judgment, and it wouldn’t do to irritate her potential betrothed by dismissing his recommendation.

  “Perhaps you could tell me what kind of mount you prefer?”

  Yes, one would think she’d be able to tell him that much. It was a simple enough thing to choose a horse for a day’s ride, particularly in Captain West’s stables, where each stall contained an animal more beautiful than the last. And yet all Iris seemed able to do was stare dumbly at one horse after another, her mind in turmoil.

  Over a horse. A horse, for goodness’ sake.

  “Why don’t I choose one for you?” There was a slight edge to Lord Wrexley’s tone now, as if he’d grown impatient with her. “If the horse doesn’t suit, we’ll choose a different one tomorrow.”

  “Yes, all right.” It was either that, or stand around the stables all day, gaping at horses like a half-witted child dithering over a tray of sweets.

  “Very good. I think the chestnut mare, then, the one in the first stall. She’s—”

  “Good morning! Are you off on a ride?”

  Iris turned at Lady Honora’s voice, her smile stiffening on her lips as she watched her friend approach on Lord Huntington’s arm.

  Iris’s gaze darted at once to his lips, her face flushing at the memory of their firm warmth before she jerked her gaze away. Dash it, why did the man have to show up now? She’d lain awake half the night thinking about how he’d pressed that tiny kiss on her fingertip. She’d finally managed to banish him from her thoughts and turn her attention to Lord Wrexley this morning, and now here he was again, his lips more distracting than ever.

  It was too much. She couldn’t even manage to choose a horse, never mind attract a new betrothed while the one she’d jilted stood there scowling at her, his brows lowered over his hazel eyes.

  “Good morning, cousin. Huntington.” Lord Wrexley tapped his riding crop against his boot. “We’re off, yes. Miss Somerset had some difficulty choosing a mount, but I think we’ve settled on one.”

  “You don’t know what kind of mount you prefer, Miss Somerset?” A mocking smile curled at the corners of Lord Huntington’s lips. “I’m surprised to find you so indecisive. Indeed, I’ve known you to make crucial decisions on nothing more than the merest whim.”

  “Don’t tease, my lord.” Lady Honora gave him a chastising look, then smiled at Iris. “Miss Somerset spent most of her childhood in Surrey on the back of a horse, cousin. I daresay she can manage any mount in the stables.”

  “Indeed? I had no idea you were such an accomplished rider.” Lord Wrexley’s gaze sharpened as he turned to Iris.

  “Any mount in the stables? Surely you exaggerate, Lady Honora.” But Lord Huntington wasn’t looking at Lady Honora. His eyes were a clear gray color this morning, and they were assessing Iris with cool disdain. “I don’t believe I’ve seen Miss Somerset on the promenade more than once or twice this season.”

  Iris managed a sweet smile, but her blood began to heat with temper. “Surely you don’t mean to suggest prancing about the promenade in the latest fashions is a measure of equestrian skill, my lord?”

  His eyes darkened to slate, and Iris watched them with a strange mix of fascination and anger. Such a troublesome color, hazel—nothing like Lord Wrexley’s pale blue. A lady might look into a pair of hazel eyes, and see nothing of the man behind the shifting colors, from a clear green to russet brown, and, when he was angry, to a forest green so dark it was nearly black. Why, a gentleman could hide anything behind such changeable eyes.

  Any secrets and any sins, and Lord Huntington had plenty of both.

  “The promenade is an adequate measure of horsemanship for a lady, yes.”

  “
You underestimate the ladies, my lord. Ladies of an equestrienne turn prefer a hard ride in Richmond Park to a measured amble on the promenade, but then I suppose fashionable marquesses don’t trouble themselves much with such unpredictable ladies, do they?”

  Lord Huntington’s jaw tightened, and Iris couldn’t quite contain her satisfied smile. Not very ladylike, that smile, but it was difficult to care.

  Both Lady Honora and her cousin were quiet during this exchange, but now Lord Wrexley cleared his throat. “What kind of horse did you ride when you lived in Surrey, Miss Somerset? It might help me to choose your mount today if I know.”

  “An enormous coal-black stallion with hooves nearly as big as my head.” Iris laughed, thinking of her first horse. He’d been a heathenish creature, quite the worst-tempered horse she’d ever encountered, but she’d loved him with a fierce affection. “I christened him Typhon, in honor of his relentless bad temper, and his tendency to send riders hurtling to the ground.”

  “Typhon?” Lord Huntington frowned. “What, you named him after that deadly creature with the hundred dragon heads?”

  “Yes, from the Greek mythology. He was stubborn and irascible, but I adored him nonetheless.”

  “My goodness.” Lady Honora clutched at Lord Huntington’s arm, her eyes wide. “He sounds quite menacing. How did you end up with a horse like that?”

  “My father.” Iris laughed at Honora’s horrified expression. “He was a former cavalry officer, you see, and mad about horses, rather like Captain West. He gave Typhon to me when I was eight years old. Flying across the Surrey countryside on horseback with my father are some of my fondest memories of him.”

  Lord Wrexley leaned a hip against the stall door, his curious gaze fixed on her. “If you could ride a horse like that, then of course the mare won’t do for you. What happened to Typhon?”

  Iris bit her lip against the familiar ache that pressed behind her eyes whenever she thought of Typhon. It was foolish to cry over him after all these years had passed, but there were some wounds even a lifetime couldn’t heal. For all his flaws, Typhon was the most perfect of animals to her, and she’d never since had a horse to equal him. “He escaped from the barn one night during a storm. He was running wild, and he fell and broke his leg. He had to be shot.”