“You have.” No blush, no smile, no quarter of any kind.

“I have a dream too. I dream of a woman whose trust is precious, a woman of surpassing sense and generosity of spirit, one who has soldiered on without companionship for too long. I dream of that lady entrusting her heart to me. I want—I yearn—for such a lady to take her place at my side, not because I’m a duke, not because I am a competent kisser, not because I can damned waltz by the hour, but because I have earned her tender, lasting regard.”

Lady Iris cupped his cheek against her palm. “You deserve such a lady. I dearly hope you find her.”

She left him by the fountain, half-aroused, half-bewildered, all in love. She would doubtless sit among the dowagers or wall flowers at supper, then dance with the shy bachelors and friendly widowers. She’d keep an eye on her sisters, she’d leave as soon as Cousin Hattie showed signs of tiring.

“But who looks after Iris?” Clonmere asked the darkened garden.

“I was hoping you would.” Cousin Hattie stepped out from behind a lilac bush that had yet to bloom. “The job is getting to be rather too much for me.”

She came up to about Clonmere’s ribs, but in a fair fight, his money would be on her. “Were you spying on us?”

“How droll. You are attempting to look intimidating.”

“Is it working?”

She went up on her toes and batted at Clonmere’s hair. “I heard that last speech, Your Grace, the one about winning the lady’s tender regard. I nearly swooned, and I haven’t swooned since Noah set sail. What Iris says about Falmouth is the sorry truth.” She left off smacking at his hair and stepped back. “You are a handsome devil. You’ll age nicely too.”

“Would you care to count my teeth?”

“Not if I’d like to remain in possession of all ten fingers. I wasn’t spying. I was standing guard.”

“Thank you. I have the matter in hand, or nearly so.”

“Mr. Everhart will do for Lily, Amherst for Holly, Dersham for Hyacinth. Cleverly done, but what will you do about Falmouth? He can keep Iris’s brothers from ever seeing her again, he can refuse to dower her sisters, he can—”

“I’ll dower the lot of them.”

“And how will you prevent Falmouth from denying Iris access to her brothers? They show every sign of turning into wild young nincompoops, and Iris is their only hope of salvation.”

Clonmere sank onto the edge of the fountain. “I thought I had matters sorted out. I hadn’t known Falmouth would be so dastardly. Iris would blame herself if her brothers went astray, though they are probably hellbent on that very objective, regardless of her influence.”

“They aren’t bad boys—yet.”

More people were spilling onto the terrace, some of them carrying plates, all of them laughing and chattering. The newspaper would declare the gathering a sad crush, while for Clonmere, victory was turning to defeat.

“Falmouth wants me to choose my bride as if I were drawing lots. As if any one of his three youngest would make me a suitable wife.”

Cousin Hattie bent to sniff the potted daffodils. “They would.”

“No, they would not. They would all three look very fetching in the Clonmere tiaras, they would be gracious and loyal duchesses, but the only one suited to becoming my wife is Lady Iris.”

She snapped off a yellow trumpet. “You could elope. Scotland is lovely in spring.”

“Falmouth would cut her. Iris has spent too much time dodging his poison arrows to hand him victory at this stage.”

“So what will you do?”

The answer popped into Clonmere’s head just as ladies Lily, Holly, and Hyacinth emerged onto the terrace with their respective swains.

“Falmouth wants me to choose my duchess by lot, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

The rest of the week was a fog of conflicting emotions for Iris. She was alternately pleased with herself for having kissed Clonmere—really, truly kissed him, and he’d kissed her right back—and despairing, because he’d asked for her trust, but presented no solution to the conundrum Falmouth posed.

Time was running out, the earl’s disposition had deteriorated from grumpy to vile, and Hattie had begun to pack for a remove to Surrey.

“Iris, you must come too!” Lily stood at the door to Iris’s sitting room, waving a hand toward the corridor. “This instant, you must come. Papa said.”

“Come where?”

“To the parlor. A footman in Clonmere’s livery has brought a box.”

Iris rose, though hope and despair weighted her equally. “A box of chocolates?”

“Not chocolates, it’s too big for that, and another footman came with him, which means the box wasn’t full of mere sweets.”

Iris nearly tripped over Puck, curled on the hearth rug. “An engagement ring, then?”

“Much bigger than that. Will you please bestir yourself to move?”

Lily said little all the way down to the family parlor, where Holly, Hyacinth, and Cousin Hattie were already waiting.

“There are four boxes,” Holly said. “One for—”

“Each of us,” Hyacinth added. “They are all wrapped in printed paper—bouquets of flowers, from our four names—and there are labels on each box.”

“Four,” Cousin Hattie said, very firmly.

The Earl of Falmouth stepped out of his study across the corridor. “You should hear this,” he said to Iris. “One of my daughters is about to marry a lunatic. Too bad it won’t be you.”

“John, that is enough,” Hattie snapped.

The three younger sisters all goggled at their cousin. Iris hugged her. “I would happily wed His Grace, but as far as I know, he hasn’t offered for any of us.”

“The lot of you sit down,” the earl said, waving them into the family parlor. “Clonmere is a duke, so allowances must be made, though this is a very queer start indeed.”

Iris remained standing while her sisters chose seats, arranged their skirts, and looked worried.

“Clonmere sent me a note,” Falmouth said, brandishing a piece of embossed stationery. “He has decided that every one of my daughters is fit to become his duchess, and thus he sought his mother’s counsel. One of those four boxes contains the Clonmere tiara. Each box bears one of your names, the labels affixed by the current duchess. Clonmere will stop by after breakfast tomorrow, and you will open your boxes. Whoever has the box with the tiara in it will become the next duchess.”

He set the paper on the mantel. “Damnedest thing I ever heard.”

“No more peculiar than forcing a duke to choose a wife on the basis of correspondence written decades ago,” Hattie said.

Falmouth scowled at the boxes wrapped in a repeating bouquet of pink, purple, green, and white flowers. “Not now, Hattie. One of my daughters shall marry a duke. I don’t care if the other three packages contain necklaces of shark teeth, so long as my son-in-law is a duke.”

Holly and Hyacinth exchanged a look that included Lily. Something was afoot with the three of them, something that excluded Iris.

“He truly doesn’t care which of us he marries?” Lily asked.

He cared. Iris was certain he cared.

“Why should he?” Falmouth said. “You’re equally well born, none of you is ugly. You can all make babies.”

Maybe Puck’s company won’t be so bad. “I have embroidery to work on for Holly’s carriage dress,” Iris said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”

“I have an aria to learn,” Lily said. “Mr. Everhart wrote it specifically for me.”

“I’m working on my French,” Hyacinth said.

“So am I,” Holly added.

They followed Iris into the corridor, none of them looking very pleased.

“I don’t care for this,” Lily said. “I’m not a Maypole partner, to be chosen by lot.”

“I liked Clonmere well enough,” Holly said, glancing at the parlor door. “I don’t like that he can’t distinguish a favorite among us. Taking a wife ought to be something a man feels strongly about, not something he leaves—”

“For his mama to do,” Hyacinth said. “Though I suppose there’s some comfort in knowing that whichever of us must become his duchess, at least the dowager will look kindly upon her daughter-in-law.”

“Any one of you would make a wonderful duchess,” Iris said. “But I agree, when it comes to marriage, one should feel something for one’s intended.”

Trust, for example. Attraction, tender regard.

“I’m off to bed,” Lily said. “At this time tomorrow, one of us will have a ducal suitor.”

“Or be engaged.” Holly made that sound like a dismal prospect.

“But not married,” Hyacinth said. “Not married yet.”

Iris waited until she and her sisters were out of earshot of the parlor. “You do not sound like young women thrilled to be in contention for a tiara.”

That same look passed among the three of them. “Clonmere’s a fine fellow,” Holly said. “But he’s not my choice.”

“Nor mine,” Hyacinth said.

“Nor mine,” Lily said. “But who can turn down a duke? If I’m chosen, and I refuse his suit, will he send three boxes next time? Papa would have an apoplexy, the dowager duchess would be insulted, talk would ensue.”

“I have a megrim in truth,” Holly said.

“My digestion is growing tentative,” Hyacinth added. “I’m for bed.”

They all three slipped off to their respective bedrooms, leaving Iris alone and hopeful, and also worried. Very, very worried.




CHAPTER 6




“I’M SORRY,” Lily whispered to the darkened room. “I cannot be married to a man who prefers the music of a Scottish farmer to the delights of Italian opera. I cannot. Iris, forgive me.”

She carefully peeled the labels on two of the pretty boxes free, then affixed Iris’s label to Lily’s box, and her own label to Iris’s box. Mr. Everhart had been very, very certain that Clonmere would choose Lily, and had regaled Lily with a long list of attributes that made her the best suited to become a duchess.