Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(69)

She picked up the puppy, which wriggled in Iris’s hands until she held the small animal against her chest. The puppy promptly began licking Iris’s chin with a tiny pink tongue.

Iris looked up at Raphael through her tears. “What is her name?”

He shook his head. “She has none that I know of. You must give her one.”

Iris stood, cradling the still-squirming puppy carefully, and went to her husband. “Thank you.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips, trying to convey all she’d said before. All he’d pushed aside.

Stay. Stay. Stay.

Raphael took her arms gently and kissed her, angling his face over hers. He embraced her as if she were a lifeline.

As if he wished to remain with her forever.

The puppy yelped and he took a step back, breaking their kiss.

Drawing away from her without effort.

He walked out of the bedroom.

Iris closed her eyes to keep her sorrow and tears in. She kissed the top of the puppy’s silky head and whispered in her ear, “Tansy.”





Chapter Fourteen




So Ann set off with El’s heart fire carefully cradled in her hands. She walked through the barren wastelands for three days and three nights until at last she came once again to her father’s hut.

El lay still, gray, and cold, only a whisper of breath leaving her lungs, but when Ann held the stone cage near her, the heart fire flew from the rock walls and disappeared into El’s chest.

At once she took a deep breath.…

—From The Rock King





The night of the Bartons’ ball, Iris stepped carefully into the carriage with the help of her husband and settled back onto the squabs. Her peach watered silk gown had turned out beautifully. It was a robe à la fran?aise with cascades of white lace at the wrists and pinked rosette ruffles down the skirt front.

She watched Raphael opposite her in the carriage. He seemed as cold and aloof as when she had first met him at that ball so many months ago, but she could see beneath that mask now. He was focused, his eyes on his prey, intent on the hunt.

She shivered and turned to the window. She understood now why he was so obsessed with the Lords of Chaos, but her understanding didn’t make her any happier.

In fact it frightened her—that he would give up so much in pursuit of justice. Why did he have to be the sacrifice?

She watched lantern lights pass outside.

They had only slept together last night—nothing more. And while Iris was glad that she hadn’t had to make love with Raphael while she was angry with him, a part of her missed their closeness.

It was hard to sleep with a man and not become … attached to him. Her friend Katherine had moved from lover to lover, as free as a butterfly, but it seemed Iris was not made of the same essential material.

Or perhaps it was simply she and Raphael. The volatility of their combination.

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of a new town house made of white stone.

“Come,” Raphael said, helping her down.

There was the usual crowd outside—the carriages dropping off guests, ladies and gentlemen trying to make their way to the door, and liveried footmen jostling each other.

Inside, the crush continued up the narrow stairs to the ballroom.

They were announced, and for a moment it seemed as if everyone in the room was silent.

Iris looked out over the brightly colored crowd and took a deep breath to steady herself. This was her first public event as the new Duchess of Dyemore. She could see people whispering together throughout the ballroom and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was she they were gossiping about. Just today she’d found out that the news of her wedding had spread throughout London.

Apparently she and Raphael were the scandal of the season.

She swallowed and pasted a serene smile on her face as they strolled into the ballroom.

Iris nodded to a trio of ladies she knew vaguely and smiled at Honoria Hartwicke, a friend of Katherine’s. Honoria gave her a wink, and Iris began to relax. This was just like any other ball, after all. The important point was to parade about, showing off one’s finery, and be sure to nod to the correct people.

She’d done this innumerable times.

“Shall I find you a glass of punch?” Raphael murmured in her ear after ten minutes or so of perambulating the hot room.

“That would be delightful,” she said gratefully.

“Perhaps you’d care to take a seat?” He indicated a group of chairs in a small window alcove.

She nodded gratefully—she wouldn’t mind a moment to herself before braving the eyes of the crowd again. Raphael seated her before he left.

Almost immediately her hopes of a respite were dashed when a pair of ladies strolled over. Iris knew one of the ladies very slightly—Mrs. Whitehall was a matron and staple of society events.

Iris rose when it became apparent that they meant to converse with her.

“Your Grace,” Mrs. Whitehall exclaimed, “may I present Miss Mary Jones-Thymes? Miss Mary Jones-Thymes, Her Grace the Duchess of Dyemore.”

Iris inclined her head as Miss Jones-Thymes, a lady of middling years with suspiciously red hair, curtsied.

“The news of your marriage is quite the talk of the town, Your Grace,” Miss Jones-Thymes said carefully.