Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(34)

But no. The daffodils weren’t in soldierly rows. They bloomed in drifts and clumps. They must be wild.

She drew in her breath in wonder. How amazing that such beautiful ephemeral things could bloom here in this house of death and decay.

But perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the abbey wasn’t dying.

Perhaps it merely waited, sleeping, for joy and life to return to it.

She bent forward to inhale from a blossom. “Iris!”

She startled badly at Raphael’s shout.

Before she could respond, rough hands grasped her and pulled her to her feet.

She turned and oh, his face was hard and cold, his scar a red brand, and for once she could read the expression on his face.

He was furious.

“Have you no sense?” he snarled. “I tell you that you are in danger and to stay inside the abbey, and that causes you to go tripping about the countryside?”

She tried to step back. “I merely—”

“No.” He yanked her into his chest, his face within inches of hers, his breath hot on her lips. “No explanations, no excuses. I’ve had enough of your carelessness, madam.”

Her eyes widened and for a second she was almost afraid.

Something in Raphael’s face twisted and changed. “What you do to me—”

He slammed his mouth onto hers, forcing her lips apart and thrusting in his tongue.

She mewled helplessly as he bent her back over his arm. Her senses were filled with the taste of coffee and the scent of cloves and she couldn’t think.

He lifted his mouth from hers so abruptly she could only stare up at him, dazed.

Then she heard the sound of wheels on gravel.

A carriage jolted down the drive at a fast clip and halted in front of the house.

Raphael swung her to the side and partially behind him, his grip on her arm still firm.

A half-dozen Corsicans stood on the front steps and for a moment Iris felt embarrassed at the idea that they’d seen their master reprimand her and then embrace her so savagely.

Then the carriage door opened and three gentlemen emerged: two who might be brothers, they looked so alike, and a third, slightly shorter man.

There was a stunned moment while she and Raphael stared at them, and they stared back.

Then one of the brothers swept her a low bow before saying, “Lady Jordan. How … surprising to find you here.”

Iris felt her breath catch in fear even as Raphael went rigid beside her. These men were strangers to her, and yet here, far from London, they knew who she was.

Which could mean only one thing.

They were members of the Lords of Chaos.

Raphael stared at the intruders on his land, only his iron self-control keeping him from herding Iris into the abbey.

He could feel fine trembles shake her hand.

How dare these worthless cowards invade his territory?

Frighten his wife.

“Oh dear, did we arrive at an inauspicious time?” Hector Leland—the man who had been Raphael’s first contact with the Lords of Chaos—mockingly drawled the words. Leland was a short man with unpowdered reddish brown hair clubbed back at his neck.

“Ubertino,” Raphael called without taking his eyes from the three men.

The Corsican hurried to his side.

Raphael made sure his voice was clear and loud. “Escort my duchess to her room, please.”

Ubertino bowed and extended an arm, indicating to Iris to precede him.

Raphael was taking a chance, of course. She might decide to disobey him at this crucial moment. He had, after all, been berating her when the men arrived.

But it seemed that his wife had at last understood the danger she was in. Without a word she walked into the abbey. Ubertino followed with Valente and Ivo on his heels, and Raphael was glad he had such loyal men.

They would protect her.

He turned to his unwelcome guests.

They looked quite harmless and were all of nondescript countenance. They might be any group of aristocrats gathered at a coffeehouse or salon.

Save for the fact that all three were members of the Lords of Chaos.

Raphael prowled toward them.

Gerald Grant, Viscount Royce, the eldest of the invaders, cleared his throat. “Dyemore. I had no idea you were contemplating marriage. We came to—”

He cut himself off as Raphael kept walking and all three men were forced to back up a step.

Raphael halted and stared at them. “Why are you on my lands?”

“We come on the orders of a mutual friend,” Royce said with significance.

The Dionysus had sent them—most probably to find out if Raphael had killed Iris. He should have expected this. It was simply bad luck that Iris had been outside when they arrived. If she hadn’t been, Raphael might’ve been able to stay the news that she was still alive for another couple of days—time enough to fully heal.

But it was no use mourning what might have been. If nothing else, this would be a good opportunity to question these men about the Dionysus.

Having made up his mind, Raphael jerked his head toward the abbey. “Come inside.”

Andrew Grant, the younger brother of Lord Royce, swallowed with an audible clicking sound and said carefully, “Most kind, Your Grace.”

Raphael turned without comment and walked to the steps of the abbey.

“Luigi,” he said to one of the men on the steps, and addressed him in Corsican. “Tell Nicoletta to bring a tray of tea and whatever food she might have to the sitting room.”