Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(55)

She should have known better. Raphael was obsessed with the Lords. He let nothing stand in the way of his revenge.

“Really, Raphael?” Donna Pieri tutted. “Why, you’ve just arrived. You haven’t even taken off your cloak. Your poor wife must think you a savage. At least stay long enough for supper.”

“I’m sorry, but my business cannot wait.” Raphael’s gaze flickered to Iris’s, confirming to her that his meeting had to be about the Lords of Chaos. “If the hour is not too late when I return, I shall join you. If not, I shall see you again in the morn. Ladies, farewell.”

And with that he strode out of the room.

Iris fought to keep a pleasant expression on her face.

“Tch.” Donna Pieri shook her head as she gathered her embroidery silks into a little box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She took off her gold spectacles and hooked them onto a fine chain at her waist. “He has terrible manners, my nephew. But then I suppose it is my own fault. After all, I raised him after his mother died. The poor boy was only ten years old.”

“I hadn’t realized his mother died so young,” Iris murmured.

“Oh yes.” The older woman looked up at Iris, her tea-brown eyes inquisitive. “My sister was delicate both in health and in mind. But come. You must be tired and famished from your journey. Let us sup and you can tell me how you met my nephew and how you came to be married to him in such a scandalously short time. Would you like to be shown to your rooms first to wash?”

“Yes, my lady, that would be lovely,” Iris said with real gratitude. They’d stopped for luncheon, but that had been hours ago. She felt rumpled and not a little grimy.

“Of course.” Donna Pieri picked up a small bell on the table by her golden chair and rang it.

A maid appeared at the door almost at once. “My lady?”

“Bessy, please take Her Grace to the ducal chambers.” Donna Pieri turned, her brows knit. “I hope that meets your approval? I can have the duchess’s rooms aired during dinner.”

“Thank you, but I prefer the ducal chamber.” Iris smiled and followed Bessy out into the hall.

They climbed the stairs to the third level of the mansion, the maid leading her down a wide hall lined with ornate mirrors and more portraits. At the end was a set of double doors.

The maid opened one and curtsied. “His Grace’s rooms, Your Grace.”

Iris walked in, gazing about curiously. The bedroom was wide, with several windows that must overlook a back garden, though they were covered now by long dark-gold curtains. A tall four-poster stood in the center of the room, draped in heavy black textured velvet. The walls were paneled in carved dark wood, as was the massive fireplace. Several chairs sat before the hearth, upholstered in red velvet, their arms and legs gilded. Under one window was a beautiful table, the top a deep bloodred marble with cream veins running throughout.

She turned and nearly started. On the wall by the door was another portrait of Raphael’s father. In this one he wore a pale blue suit. His hand was raised, gesturing to a scene in the background. It looked like the ruined cathedral at Dyemore Abbey.

Iris shuddered and looked away.

By the bed, on the wall, hung a small framed sketch.

Iris wandered over to peer at it, thinking it might be one of Raphael’s drawings. She caught her breath, however, when she looked closer. The sketch was done in red chalk and showed the head of a woman in profile, her features strong and classic, her eyes downcast, her hair merely a few strokes and the hint of a wrap about her head. The small artwork was obviously a preliminary sketch for a painting—and also obviously the work of a master.

It occurred to her suddenly that this was her new home. She was the duchess here.

It was an odd thought—that the grandeur was the right and proper setting for her.

“There’s fresh water on the stand, Your Grace.” Bessy’s voice came from behind her. Iris turned to see the maid readying a washbasin. “I can act as your lady’s maid if it’s your wish.”

Iris cleared her throat, smiling. “Thank you, that would be lovely.” She had a lady’s maid, of course—left behind in the carriage when Iris had been kidnapped—but Parks never dressed as grandly as Bessy.

Iris took off the cloak she’d found in Raphael’s mother’s trunk. Bessy was well trained—she didn’t even blink at the state of the new duchess’s clothes, but helped her to wash her face and neck and comb out her hair and then gather it into a loose chignon.

“Might I have some writing materials?” Iris asked when she was dressed.

“Certainly, Your Grace.” Bessy showed her how a small table inlaid with multicolored wood unfolded into a desk with paper, quills, ink, and sand.

“Thank you,” Iris said. “If you wait a minute, can you take my letters to a footman to be delivered?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Iris sat and thought a moment before writing short notes to both Henry and Hugh with an identical story of how she came to be married to Dyemore. The story differed from the truth in several key points, but it would have to do for now. Iris was aware that neither man would be content until she could see him herself and explain where she had been for a fortnight.

She folded, sealed, and addressed both notes before rising and handing them to Bessy.

“Shall I show you the small dining room, Your Grace, before I give these to the footmen?” Bessy asked.