Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(45)

“I don't want your jewelry,” Tasia said, mortified.

The wheedling note left Iris's voice. “You're an intelligent girl, I see. You want more, and you've decided that Emma is the key. Gain the affection of his daughter, and that will lead Luke to a romantic interest in you. You may be right. But don't fool yourself into thinking the affair will last longer than a matter of weeks. Your youth may hold his attention for a little while, but you don't have what it takes to keep him.”

“What makes you so certain?” Tasia was appalled to hear herself ask. Instantly she bit her lip. The words had rushed out before she could stop them.

“Ah,” Iris said softly. “Now the truth is out. You do want him. And you actually harbor hopes of keeping him. It should annoy me…but instead I pity you.”

The words were derisive, but Tasia sensed the deep unhappiness beneath them. Her heart softened with sympathy. This woman had known Lord Stokehurst intimately, had thrilled to his kisses and his smiles, had spun dreams of becoming his wife, and now she was fighting for the chance to keep him. Tasia tried to think of words to reassure her. After all, Lady Harcourt wanted her to do what she was already planning to do—leave. She couldn't stay even if she wanted to. “Lady Harcourt, please believe you have nothing to fear. I won't—”

“Fear?” Iris said defensively. “Of course I don't fear you—a governess with no dowry, no family, and no figure to speak of!”

“I'm trying to explain—”

“Don't waste your long-suffering gaze on me, child. I've said my piece. All I ask is that you think about it.” Before Tasia could say another word, Iris walked away. She stepped through the doorway, her gown shimmering. “What a splendid sight the two of you make,” she called with a wide smile. “Emma, you dance like an angel. My lord, after this waltz you must return to the ball with me. You are the host, after all.”

The dancing was interrupted by a midnight feast that lasted for two hours, followed by more music, more waltzes, more of everything, until the night waned and the horizon began to glow with the approach of the morning sun. Sated and drunk, the crowd dispersed, the floors creaking as scores of sore feet trod across them in search of soft beds. The guests slept for most of the day, taking breakfast in the afternoon. Some left early Sunday evening, while others preferred to travel on Monday. Iris was one of the Sunday departures. She had come to Luke's room to inform him, barging in while he dressed.

“I'm leaving for London within the hour,” she said, watching as Biddle fastened the right cuff of Luke's shirt.

Raising his brows at her quiet intensity, Luke shrugged into a claret-colored coat. He took his time about replying, first glancing at the selection of narrow cravats Biddle displayed, then deciding not to wear one. He ordered the valet out of the room and turned to Iris. “Why so soon?” he asked evenly. “You seemed to enjoy yourself last evening.”

“I refuse to spend another night waiting in vain for the sound of your footsteps! Why didn't you come to me after the ball?”

“You banished me from your bed, remember?”

“I told you not to visit me if you couldn't get that Billings girl out of your head. It's clear that you can't. Every time you look at me, you wish I was she. It's been going on for weeks. I'm trying to fight it, but I don't know how!”

Iris held her breath as she saw Luke's expression change, the remoteness fading. For a moment she tensed with impossible hope. Then his regretful voice doused the flicker of happiness. “Iris, there's something I should tell you—”

“Not now,” she said grimly, backing away. “Not now.” She left with determined strides, her hands clenched.

Dutifully Luke attended the after-dinner gathering, making conversation, smiling at light quips, applauding as several guests performed skits, recited poetry, and did their best at the piano. His impatience grew, finding outlet only in the monotonous tapping of his foot. When he couldn't bear to sit still any longer, he excused himself with a quiet murmur.

He wandered through the house with the appearance of aimlessness. He wanted no one and nothing but her, even if it was just to sit in silence and stare at her. It was a hunger he had never known before. She was the only one in his life who saw him, and knew him, for who and what he was.

Iris thought she understood him. Most women prided themselves on thinking they had superior knowledge of the male mind, and therefore could manipulate men to their advantage. But Iris had never known what it was like to have her life destroyed, and what it took to rebuild; the pain and rage, the will to survive…and the isolation it imposed. Tasia understood all too well. That was the bond between them, the basis for unspoken but mutual respect, the inner recognition that had tormented him since the first moment they met. They were exactly alike, in the only way that mattered.

As he walked along a first-floor hallway, Mrs. Knaggs passed with an armload of fresh linen. The housekeeper paused to nod respectfully. “Good evening, my lord.”

“Mrs. Knaggs, where is—”

“Upstairs, sir. With Emma, in the green sitting room.”

Luke frowned. “How did you know what I was going to ask?”

The housekeeper smiled smugly. “After all these years working for the Stokehursts? There's hardly anything that Seymour, Biddle, and I don't know, my lord.”