Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(59)

Iris sat in the duchess’s chambers, which, oddly, appeared to have an Elysian fields theme. The walls were painted with murals of vaguely Grecian people lounging about in meadows strewn with flowers.

Well, it could be worse. She supposed she should be grateful the walls weren’t painted with Sisyphus rolling his boulder up a mountain in Tartarus.

She’d had a lovely bath and was wearing a clean chemise borrowed from Bessy until she could get her own clothing. After this last fortnight she vowed to never, ever take clean clothes for granted again. Her hair was brushed out and falling around her shoulders, a small indulgence.

The wine-red chair she was curled in was large and the cushions soft, and she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open as she stared into the fire, but keep them open she must.

Because she was waiting to talk to her husband.

There were questions she should’ve asked days ago.

Ah, there it was.

Boot heels in the hall outside. The opening and shutting of the door in the duke’s room next to hers. A murmur of voices. Quiet again.

She stood and went to the connecting door and opened it.

Raphael looked up. He was in his shirtsleeves and was just taking off his boots. “Iris. How may I help you?”

His voice was as cold as hoarfrost, his eyes empty as glass. She hadn’t seen this Raphael for days, and for a moment she thought about stepping back.

She didn’t understand this side of her husband—was he sad or angry or in despair? Or was he simply bored? She couldn’t tell, and really it was beginning to alarm her. Wasn’t a wife supposed to be her husband’s confidant?

Except James had never been that emotionally close to her. He’d made sure to hold her apart from himself.

She didn’t want another marriage like that.

That decided the matter. She walked into Raphael’s room and closed the door behind her.

She’d expected paintings on the walls or ceiling of his room, but there weren’t any. Instead they were painted a dark red, the color of dried blood. Gold was etched along the panels and into the pilasters lining the walls. The ceiling was entirely gold, in swirls and intricate patterns, like something from an Ottoman’s palace.

“Iris?” He was still watching her, waiting for her to say something.

Perhaps to explain why she’d invaded his territory.

She walked to a chair in front of the fireplace and sat. “Where did you go tonight?”

The good side of his mouth turned down, giving him an oddly lopsided appearance. “I went to talk to Lord Royce. He wasn’t home, however, so I settled for speaking with Andrew.”

He set his boots outside the door and returned without saying anything else.

Iris frowned in irritation. “And?”

He sat, unbuckling the knees of his breeches to reach the tops of his stockings. “And I asked him about Dockery.”

He didn’t look at her as he threw his stockings aside.

She glanced at his feet. They were big, with long toes. Generally one didn’t think of a man’s feet as handsome, but his were.

He huffed. “What do you want, Iris?”

Her gaze snapped to his face. “I want to know why you’ve suddenly grown cold.”

He was in profile to her, and she saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. He clasped his hands between his knees, bowing his head. “Andrew … I knew Andrew when we were boys.”

Her brows knit. How was that …?

Then her eyes widened in sudden realization. “Did your father draw him?”

“What?” He turned to look at her, and now there was an expression on his face: puzzlement. “No, of course n—” He cut off his own speech and twisted his mouth and made a sort of cawing sound.

He was … Oh, dear God, that was a laugh. Iris recoiled in horror.

But he wasn’t paying attention. “Maybe. Yes. No. I don’t know. My father could have indeed sketched Andrew. He was …” He shook his head helplessly and then closed his eyes. “You should go. I’m no fit company tonight.”

She inhaled. If she left now she had the feeling that they would stay the same—he would keep her at arm’s length always.

She couldn’t let that happen.

Iris folded her hands in her lap, straightened her back, and looked him in the eye. “Who scarred you, Raphael?”

His head jerked back as if she’d slapped him. “No.”

She surged to her feet. “Yes. How … how do you expect us to live together, to make a life together, if you won’t share what you are with me?”

He was shaking his head as he stood and strode to a chest of drawers. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do,” she said, following him across the room. “Please.”

He turned, catching her in his arms, thrusting his face into hers. “Why not simply listen to the gossip? Choose one: A duel because I besmirched a lady’s honor. My father cut me because he could not stand the sight of me. The Dyemores are cursed from birth. Are the tales—the endless rumors—not enough for your curiosity? Enough to assuage your need to know?”

She reached up and pulled his head down to hers. Placed her lips against the top of the scar, where it split his eyebrow, and, kissing, trailed downward, over his eyelid, over the ridge of his cheekbone, over the edge of his permanently curled lip, to the divot in his chin.