But there was nothing for it. It had all been agreed, and they would be staying for at least another month. And if Iris was being honest, she did not mind. The balls, parties, dinners and picnics remaining on this Season’s social calendar no longer held any appeal, so she might as well stay in the country and make the best of things.
And, if she was being really honest with herself, the fact was she did not want to return to London, knowing it would possibly mean never seeing the Earl again. And what would be the point in participating in the rest of the Season? She had no interest in any other man, had never had the slightest interest in any man, until she met the Earl. And now that he had kissed her, she was certain no other man would interest her ever again.
It was a cruel trick of fate. After having rejected so many men over the last five Seasons, she had fallen in love with a man who did not want her.
And what was worse, she had been given a taste of what the Earl could offer, had sampled his kisses, and then it had all been taken away from her.
Even thinking about that kiss was torture enough, albeit an exquisite torture. It had been unlike anything she had ever experienced, and he was unlike any other man she had ever met. It hadn’t been her first kiss, but it was certainly the first time she had been affected so completely.
Many a man had stolen a quick kiss, and the most it had elicited from her was a giggle. None had caused a tempest to erupt deep within her, an insatiable, burning desire to consume her, leaving her demanding more, much more, and none had left her with such a desperate sense of loss.
Was it simply because his kiss had been unlike those quick, passionless pecks she had experienced in the past? There had been no playfulness to his kiss, not even any gentleness. He had kissed her with such force it had overwhelmed her, swept her off her feet and left her defenceless. Was that a good sign or a bad one? Iris had no way of knowing. She wanted to ask someone, but most certainly was not going to ask her mother. She suspected her mother would know the answer, but it would be far too embarrassing to talk to her about such things. She could ask her married sister, Hazel, but that would mean writing a letter and Iris wasn’t sure how to put her confusion into written words. And even less sure if she wanted to commit such thoughts to paper. What if the letter fell into the wrong hands? That too would be more mortifying than she could imagine.
So Iris was left wondering about that kiss, wondering about the Earl, and wondering about her mother’s determination that Iris and the Earl would soon be marrying. Her mother had promised that she would be subtle and the Earl would not feel as if his hand had been forced, but when her mother announced that the Earl would be hosting a county fête, she had to suspect some not so subtle hand-forcing had come into it.
Her mother had convinced Lady Walberton that a village fête should be held in the next few weeks, that it should have a medieval theme, and that, as the Earl of Greystone’s home still contained parts of the original castle, it would make a simply splendid backdrop.
Lady Walberton could only agree and commend Iris’s mother for such a clever idea. Then she busily gathered all the local ladies to form an organising committee.
Somehow, Iris doubted the Earl had seen the idea as either commendable or clever, but according to her mother he had agreed immediately.
Iris suspected her mother was now telling her own white lies. When she questioned her mother about this, Iris had been horrified by the answer.
‘My dear, when it comes to the Earl, he will do exactly what I ask.’ She had sent Iris a knowing smile. ‘He is not a stupid man. He kissed my daughter and will know that I am quite within my rights to demand a lot more of him than hosting a local fête. This will be a very small price to pay for the liberties he has taken.’
‘You mean, you blackmailed him?’ Iris asked. Her mother was constantly surprising her, and not in a good way.
‘No, not blackmail, dear. All I did was politely ask him to host a fête that will be of benefit to everyone in the county and he graciously accepted.’
Graciously? Iris doubted that very much.
‘So you have nothing to worry about,’ her mother added, then left the room, humming the ‘Wedding March’ to herself.
Iris watched her leave, suspecting she actually did have a great deal to worry about.
* * *
On the day of the fête, it was as if he had been caught up in a storm, one far worse than the one that had blown Lady Iris into his life. This storm was called Lady Springfeld and was creating havoc in his life and in his house.
Only a few short weeks ago he had lived alone, just him and Max, and had hardly seen his neighbours in years. Now it was as if the entire county had congregated on his grounds and were making themselves entirely at home.
It was most definitely not what he had wanted, but Lady Springfeld had given him no choice. That joyful, sunny lady had a dark side and was a master in the nefarious art of blackmail. When suggesting that he host a fête she had managed to casually drop in a series of threatening words, such as ‘kisses’, ‘impropriety’, ‘reputations’ and even that fateful word ‘marriage’. She may not have said it outright, but she made it clear that she knew what had happened between him and Lady Iris and that she had every right to demand that he marry her daughter. And on that point, unfortunately, Theo knew her to be right. Lady Springfeld now had him at her mercy.
He supposed he should be grateful that she was not completely outraged on behalf of her daughter, but instead of being completely incensed she seemed rather pleased about it. They really were a rather peculiar family.
If she had insisted that he marry Lady Iris he would have consented—after all, it was no less than would be expected in the circumstances. His behaviour had been unacceptable. If he’d been forced to justify what he had done, he would have said that he had never expected her to actually allow him to kiss her. But that really was no justification at all. A gentleman should never have behaved in the way he had towards a lady unless he was prepared to accept the consequences.
And for him the consequences would at least be a fête, not a marriage—a small price to pay for a kiss that, he had to admit, had left him reeling. Not only had he not expected her to allow him to kiss her, but neither had he expected her to kiss him back, and to do so with such ferocity. That had most certainly taken him by surprise and continued to take his breath away, every time he thought about it. And, unfortunately, he was thinking about it rather more than he wanted to. Despite his determination to put Lady Iris out of his mind, he kept remembering her soft lips on his, the feel of her satin-like skin, and those glorious, full breasts filling his hands.
He shook his head, as if to physically drive out that thought. It was the last thing he should be thinking of, particularly when the mother was somewhere in the vicinity and his estate was full of milling hordes.
He settled down in his chair and scratched Max’s head. But at least nothing more was expected of him than letting the county loose on his grounds. He could hide away in his drawing room until it was all over, and life returned to normal.
He rang his bell so he could ask Charles to inform him of all that was going on at this infernal fête. Charles entered and the ringing continued, even though the bell had been returned to the table. Most odd.
‘What’s that noise?’ he asked, moving his head from side to side to try to find the source of the continued tinkling.
‘I’m afraid it’s me, my lord,’ Charles said just as the ringing stopped. ‘It’s the bell pads round my shins. You did say we were to do whatever the organising committee required of us, and when they found out about my little hobby they insisted I dress in costume for the entire day.’
‘Your little hobby?’ What on earth was the man talking about?
‘Yes, my lord. I’m a Morris dancer, and the committee has asked me and my fellow Morris dancers to put on a performance at the end of the day.�
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Theo turned his head in the direction of his butler. Charles was a secret Morris dancer—who would have thought it? He’d known the man for more years than he could remember but never knew that about him. This must be what comes from having servants with not enough to do, he decided. They take up unusual little hobbies.
He closed his mouth, which had fallen open in surprise. ‘I see,’ he said, not sure he really understood at all. ‘And do the organisers of the fête have everything they need?’ Please say yes, he silently implored his butler. The last thing he wanted was to be bullied around by the ladies of the committee, who over the last few weeks had acted as if they were organising a military campaign and not a simple county fair.
‘Yes, the ladies appear to have everything under control. It’s quite a spectacle, really. They’ve organised court jesters, jugglers, acrobats and men dressed as knights to entertain the crowds, along with Morris dancers, of course. We’re going to provide the grand finale.’
Theo could hear excitement starting to rise in his butler’s usually emotionless voice.
‘There are stalls selling everything you can think of,’ Charles continued. ‘Herbal concoctions, ale, elderberry wine, flowers, vegetables, baking. And, if I do say so myself, our servants have done us proud. The gardeners’ flowers and vegetables are among the best on show, and no one can beat Cook’s gooseberry pie. That’s sure to win a prize.’
Now the man was getting rather more animated than was seemly for a butler.
‘In that case, you had better take the rest of the day off so you can join them and do your dancing or whatever it is you do.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ he said, the ringing of bells presumably signalling a bow. ‘But Lady Springfeld would like a word with you. Shall I show her in?’
Theo suppressed an annoyed sigh. Being left alone inside his own home would have been too much to hope for. ‘Yes, show her in, then go off and enjoy yourself.’
‘Very good, my lord,’ Charles said, and jingled his way out of the room.
Lady Springfeld burst in the moment Charles departed. ‘Lord Greystone, this simply won’t do. You must go outside and circulate. It’s expected of the host.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I know you want to do what’s right.’ There it was again, that veiled threat.
He heard another woman enter the room, somewhat less boisterously. Lady Iris. He’d recognise her scent anywhere, and the way she moved. It was that youthful yet gracious swish of her skirts that gave her away.
He bowed to the two women. ‘If you insist, Lady Springfeld,’ he said, reminding himself that it was at least a better option than being dragged up the aisle.
‘Oh, good,’ the mother trilled, as if she had given him a choice. ‘You can take Iris’s arm and she can escort you. I’m far too busy with the organising.’
‘Delighted,’ he said, offering his arm and feeling anything but delight at what was expected of him. He would do a quick circuit then retreat and leave the rest of them to their merriment.
‘Oh, and we will expect you to present the prizes, so do not disappear, will you?’ Lady Springfeld said as she bustled off, no doubt to boss around some other poor, helpless dupe.
Theo stifled a sigh and with resignation escorted Lady Iris out of the room. Not that he had any reservations about touching her again or having her close beside him. After all, that had been something he had been thinking about constantly, but when he had fantasised about having her in his arms again it had most certainly not been under circumstances such as these.
‘I’m sorry about all this,’ she said as they walked down the hallway, followed by Max, who, once they reached the front entrance to the house, skittered past them and out through the door, excited by the prospect of so many people and so much activity.
‘None of this was my idea. It was all my mother’s doing,’ she added.
‘I do not doubt it.’ The mother was a force of nature and he’d already suspected that when she got an idea in her head nothing could stop her.
They walked outside and he was hit by a cacophony of sounds. Laughter, loud talking, shouts from conjurers and men trying to interest passers-by in the stalls, people spinning a tombola and balls being thrown at the coconut shy, along with the sounds of children at play, and more of those jingling Morris dancers’ bells.
They entered the nearest tent and he heard Tom, his head gardener, loudly declaring that the secret to growing successful vegetables was the right combination of horse manure and straw, followed by a murmur of approval, presumably from the other gardeners.
The conversation came to a halt.
‘Please, carry on,’ he said. ‘We’re just here because Lady Iris really wants to see the vegetables.’
‘Oh, yes, I do, indeed,’ she said, following his lead. ‘And I’m particularly keen to see the turnips, which I hear were a bumper crop this year.’
That was enough to start all the gardeners talking at once and giving their opinion on how to grow the biggest and the tastiest turnips.
Lady Iris made the appropriate responses, then nudged him lightly as a signal that they could now move on. A good idea, as the gardeners had gone back to arguing over which manure was the best and how thickly it should be spread.
They entered another tent, causing conversation to once again come to an abrupt halt. The shuffle of cotton fabric suggested that numerous women had just curtsied.
‘My lord, Lady Iris, it is so good to see you,’ his cook said.
‘So, I hear you’re in line to win a prize for the best gooseberry pie,’ Lady Iris said.
‘Thank you, m’lady. I do hope so.’ Theo could hear the justified pride in her voice.
‘And the best scones,’ the kitchen maid added.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Lottie,’ the cook replied with false modesty. ‘There’s going to be a lot of competition from the cook at the Walberton estate.’
‘Oh, you’re too kind,’ a woman said, presumably the Walbertons’ cook.
‘And then there’s Polly Smith from the Redcliffe estate...’ She halted and there was much shuffling of feet. ‘Polly’s a fine cook as well,’ she added quickly. ‘Although I’m not too sure I agree with the temperature she has her oven and she does add a little too much fruit.’
‘Nonsense,’ another cook shot back. ‘The higher the temperature the better and you can never have too much fruit.’
‘Well, good luck to you all,’ Theo said, leading Lady Iris out of the tent. Did everyone at this fête know about him and Estelle and were they all feeling sorry for him? Even the servants? Was it any surprise that he did not want to mix with his neighbours when they were all discussing his misfortunes?
At the next tent they were hit by the scent of flowers. They were introduced to the competitors, all of whom had their own ideas on the best way to grow the perfect blooms, and how to create the most attractive arrangements.
And so it went. Lady Iris led him into tent after tent, where he was greeted with enthusiasm as if he were some long-lost traveller finally returning home. Apart from their sometimes uncomfortable attempts to avoid mentioning Lord or Lady Redcliffe, he had to admit their kind wishes and cheerful greetings were somewhat heartening, and despite himself, as the day wore on, he was starting to slowly relax.
And having Lady Iris on his arm was certainly adding to the cheerful nature of the afternoon. For once her happy disposition was an asset rather than an annoyance as she conversed with all the locals and accepted their constant offers of cups of tea with a natural graciousness.
As she continued to chat away, he could hear their voices turn from polite and guarded, as one would expect when talking to an earl’s daughter, to comfortable and natural as she put them at ease with her genuine interest in what they were saying and with her happy disposition.
And, he had to admit, she was also putting him at his eas
e. He had expected there to be a certain awkwardness between them, after what had happened, but there was nothing awkward about Lady Iris.
Yes, she was making today quite tolerable—more than tolerable—but that did not mean he wanted her, or anyone else, in his life. Once the fête was over, once these tents were packed up and gone, it would be back to his old life as if none of this had ever happened.
A pain hit him, like a punch to his stomach. Back to his own life, of being alone. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. What was wrong with him? That was the life he had chosen for himself, and the one he would continue to live, the one he wanted.
‘Are you all right?’ Lady Iris asked, concern in her voice.
‘Perfectly all right,’ he shot back.
She didn’t answer and he could tell she was staring at him with concern, but what could he say, when he didn’t know himself what had caused that strange reaction?
‘Oh, there you are,’ Lady Springfeld said, interrupting his thoughts.
As if he would be anywhere other than exactly where she had insisted he be.
‘Don’t wander off or disappear, will you?’ she added, her voice cheerful, even though Theo knew it was bound to contain some threat or other. ‘Remember you’re still going to have to present the prizes.’
‘No, I hadn’t forgotten,’ Theo responded, trying and failing not to sound annoyed.
‘It could be worse,’ Lady Iris said with a smile in her voice. ‘At least all you have to do is present the prizes. It would be so much worse if you had to be one of the judges. I suspect they’ll have to make a hasty retreat once the results are announced.’
Theo smiled, remembering the animated discussion on manure in the gardeners’ tent. By the time he and Lady Iris had crept away they were almost coming to blows over the merits of horse manure versus cow manure.
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