Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(65)

“Henry Radcliffe.” Iris’s brother tilted a pugnacious chin. He looked to be nearly forty, and a head shorter than Raphael, yet he wasn’t backing down.

Raphael couldn’t help but approve.

“I’m pleased to meet you, then, but perhaps we should confer in private? I don’t particularly enjoy discussing my affairs in front of an audience.” He tilted his head to the gathering crowd whispering among themselves.

Radcliffe’s eyes widened when he noticed their watchers. “Very well. Would you and Iris care to join me in my carriage?”

He waved to the carriage standing behind Zia Lina’s vehicle.

“Thank you.” Raphael turned to Zia Lina. “Do you mind journeying home alone?”

“Naturally not.” She sniffed as if the entire episode were beneath her and, after giving Radcliffe one more glare and saying her farewells to Iris, turned and stepped into her carriage with Valente’s help.

Raphael nodded to the men to accompany his aunt home and then turned to Iris. “Shall we?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, though her voice trembled a bit.

Raphael’s lips tightened. Had her brother been bullying her?

He handed Iris into the carriage and sat beside her, his hand still on her arm.

Radcliffe followed them in and sat on the opposite seat. Although the other man pointedly stared at Raphael’s hand on Iris, he said nothing.

The carriage ride was made in silence, and Raphael could feel Iris growing more and more tense as the journey went on.

Five minutes later they rolled up in front of a neat but unassuming town house.

Raphael stepped out of the carriage and assessed the street and house.

They were not impressive.

He helped Iris down from the carriage and waited for Radcliffe to descend. They followed Radcliffe up the front steps, where a young maid opened the door.

She goggled at his scar.

“Please stop gawking, Sarah,” Iris said to the maid.

Radcliffe cleared his throat. “Bring a tray of tea to the study.” He turned to Raphael. “This way.”

Radcliffe’s study turned out to be on the upper level in a far corner, a rather cramped room stuffed with ledgers, papers, and books. Unlike many an aristocratic study, this one was obviously used for business, and Raphael remembered that Iris had mentioned something about her brother’s remaking their family fortune.

He looked at Radcliffe with a bit more respect.

“Please. Have a seat,” Radcliffe said gruffly, motioning to two chairs before his desk.

Raphael saw Iris settled in her chair before he took one.

“Is it true?” Radcliffe demanded, staring at his sister. He waved what appeared to be a letter. “I thought this letter was a forgery when I received it last night. Are you bamming me, Iris?”

“Hardly,” she replied, her chin lifted stubbornly. “As I told you in the letter and again on Bond Street, Raphael and I married only a week ago.”

“When, precisely, were you going to inform me of that fact?”

Raphael cleared his throat. “I planned to bring Iris to visit you today so that she could explain the matter to you. That was why I arrived on Bond Street when I did.”

“Humph.” Radcliffe frowned and looked at his sister again. “What about Hugh? There’s rumors all over town that he married some nobody.”

“The nobody’s name is Alf,” Iris replied drily. “They had a lovely wedding. And I thought you knew I never intended to marry Hugh when I left London.”

She might have not intended to marry the Duke of Kyle, but her voice softened each time she said his name. The thought made him want to punch something. Perhaps Kyle.

“Good Lord,” Radcliffe muttered, rubbing his jaw. “You know I only want to see you happy, Iris.”

“Oh,” Iris said in a little voice, almost as if she hadn’t known.

Raphael sighed. “Radcliffe. I’m honored that Iris agreed to marry me.”

Radcliffe clasped his hands in front of him, his brow wrinkled. “Your Grace … I … Ah, this is unexpected.”

He looked very grateful when the maid interrupted with the tea.

Five minutes later a corner of his desk had been cleared for the tea service and Radcliffe was looking a little more relaxed.

Iris poured a cup of tea and handed it to her brother. “It’s not very complicated,” she said with amazing aplomb, and proceeded to tell Radcliffe the fairy tale they’d conceived together on the journey from Dyemore Abbey.

Raphael noticed that she’d made several embellishments since.

He watched his new brother-in-law’s skeptical expression. Radcliffe knew something was amiss with the story—he appeared to be a smart man. He sipped his tea and listened to his sister and once in a while darted a shrewd glance at Raphael.

At the end of Iris’s recitation there was a silence.

Iris had handed Raphael a teacup, but he hadn’t bothered drinking. He met the other man’s eyes, waiting.

Radcliffe inhaled. “Well, it seems that the marriage is a fait accompli.” He looked at Raphael. “Might I know your sentiments toward my sister, Your Grace?”

Raphael nodded. “I hold Iris in the highest regard. There is no other reason I would make her my wife.”

The other man waited, but when Raphael said nothing else he sighed. “Then I hope you have a long and happy marriage, Iris. I’ll inform Harriet. I’ve no doubt she’ll want to have a soiree or musicale or some such to celebrate your nuptials, however abrupt.”