Page 28 of The Scoundrel and the Lady

“Quite true,” Iris added. She listened to Harriet as she continued, and then realized with clarity that her head had stopped pounding. Vinegar. Who would have expected such a thing? She’d have to remember to thank Lord Ashby when she saw him next.

“Agnes’s story is rather different from mine,” Harriet said.

“Only because your brother is not nearly so overbearing,” Agnes said. Then she smiled warmly at Lucy. “My brother, Christopher, is rather protective. So, my coming out year, and since, to be honest, men have been rather careful about approaching me to dance or even converse.”

“Is Lord Ashby protective of you, Lucy?” Iris asked.

Lucy frowned, then recognition lit her expression, and she smiled. “Goodness, but I forget sometimes that Merritt is Lord Ashby.”

“It has only been a year since he inherited the title, isn’t that right?” Agnes asked.

“A little less than a year. We already lived in London, and we kept the townhome that Merritt owned because it was larger than the previous lord’s address,” Lucy said. “He has done quite well for himself, and me, with his newspaper. Worked his way all the way to the top as owner and publisher, and he started at the very bottom, delivering them.” Pride emanated from the girl, radiating off her.

Pride. It was what had gotten Iris into this entire situation. But on Lucy the sentiment was more respectful, less arrogant than she’d seen in Lord Ashby himself. Perhaps because it stemmed from how she felt about her brother rather than a self-congratulatory notion.

“To answer your question, though—yes, I suppose he is rather protective of me. He’s been reluctant to allow me to enter Society. I believe he fears I’ll make a fool of him,” Lucy said.

Iris recognized that Merritt was more concerned with how the matrons in Society would treat Lucy rather than how she’d affect him.

“But he knows how important this is to me,” Lucy said. “Perhaps once I’m actually accepted into Society, if I am, then he shall allow me to dance with would-be suitors.” She smiled wistfully. “I do hope I’ll have suitors.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” Iris said.

“Do all of you have many? Oh, are you betrothed already?” Lucy asked.

Iris exchanged glances with Agnes and Harriet. The truth was that very few of the women in the Ladies of Virtue were married. They had decided it was because they were busy with other, more important and pressing matters than securing a good match. But that was probably not the entirety of it. Agnes always said that Lady Somersby only recruited the most intelligent women for her group, and men were often uninterested in a woman who had opinions of her own.

“No, not yet, but there are plenty of eligible men in London,” Harriet said.

Ever the optimist, Iris mused. She did not share her friend’s rosy outlook of her own future; she’d already resigned herself to spinsterhood. She’d had far too checkered an introduction into Society to warrant a marriage. Things had been set for her from the beginning. She wasn’t destined for love. It was just as well, since she had much to do with the Ladies of Virtue and keeping Jasper in line. Once she had him married off, she could pursue her travels and live her own life.

“And you? What was your coming out like?” Lucy asked Iris.

“I didn’t exactly have a typical coming out. Much like yours will be, mine was an introduction.” She waved her hand. “It is a long tedious story, but suffice it to say I did eventually make it into Society, just as you will.” Iris stood. “Now then, I shall go and see about our tea and cakes. Meet me in the gardens in a few minutes.” She should have known Lucy would inquire about her own entry into Society, but she’d hoped that Harriet and Agnes’s stories would suffice.

It was not a tale Iris enjoyed telling. She hated the pitying glances she received when she numbered the years her debut had been delayed and the reasons for it. That when she’d finally entered Society, she’d merely arrived at a ball one evening, and that had been that. She hated even more that after all these years, the entire ordeal still pricked her with emotion. Steadying herself against the corridor wall, she took several deep breaths. She had to pull herself together before she was in Lucy’s presence again. The entire reason she’d asked Harriet and Agnes to tell their debut stories was to alleviate some of Lucy’s fears. Iris’s story would likely cause the poor girl anxiety.

She pushed herself off the wall and headed for the kitchen. Iris still remembered the day she’d found out that her dad’s death also meant the death of her girlish dreams of balls and handsome suitors. Two days after his funeral, her mother’s modiste had come to their house and measured Iris for all of her mourning gowns, while Iris’s lady’s maid had carefully packed up all of the pretty new dresses purchased for her debut. Her mother had donated them to a charity, since she wouldn’t be needing them that year. She’d explained that the following year, after they were out of mourning, they’d buy her new ones. But everything had changed that day. Something in her mother had broken, and she’d never returned to them. Then she’d died nearly a year later, and Iris had been fitted again for mourning clothes.

One would think that after all this time, the lack of a proper debut would not still bother her, yet here she was with tears burning her eyes. Foolish.

It was not her lot. Not meant for her. She could accept that. She only wished she’d cease wanting that which she could not have. Jasper was more important than any fantasy of being whisked away and wooed by a handsome stranger, especially one with haunting blue eyes and a wicked kiss. Besides, she’d quickly realized that passion would fade, but heartache could last for the duration of one’s life.

…

Lucy had come home yesterday all smiles and giggles, with so many things to tell him. Her enthusiasm would have been infectious if he didn’t know that nothing but disappointment awaited her in those ballrooms. But there was no talking sense into her, so he indulged her.

Today, though, he would undertake his part of this wager. The clothes he’d ordered for Iris’s charade had arrived, and he’d sent her a note earlier that day requesting her presence.

He’d had the screen from one of the dressing rooms upstairs brought down to his study, and he currently sat behind his desk while Iris hid behind the screen and fought with the trousers.

“Do they fit?” he asked.

“It is difficult to tell with all the layers in my skirts,” she said, her voice labored and her breathing winded. There was a pause, and then she said, “I believe I need to take it off.”

“The trousers?”

“No, my dress.”

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