Though why shouldn’t a spinster notice a fine specimen of manhood when he was also willing to leave a situation that required a woman’s touch in a woman’s hands?
The second aspect of the gentleman Iris had noticed was the sound of his walk. His bootheels had struck the cobbles loudly enough to warn of his approach, and to reinforce the perception of his sheer size. Had the fidgety blacks calmed because Iris had pet one of them, or because a presence of such clear authority waited not three yards from the arguing parties?
“Do you expect to be home before your sisters?” Hattie asked. “On such a fine day, the park will be thronged.”
“Exactly, we’ll creep along, and if Clonmere is among the mob, I’ll have a chance to take his measure. One can tell a great deal by the company a man keeps and the cattle in his mews.”
“You sound like Peter.”
“Peter sounds like me. The earl says our heir is not doing well at university.”
“Peter misses his siblings, or perhaps he got wind that his lordship has hatched a mad scheme to marry one of you to a duke.”
Iris pretended to focus on cutting across the intersection to enter the park, but in truth, Hattie’s words hurt. The pain was small, but times a thousand, such pains tempted Iris to self-pity.
“Not
The Fashionable Hour had not yet begun, and yet there was traffic aplenty beneath the maples. Rosie knew her way, and the outing should have been pleasant.
“You might consider dragging Clonmere into that linen closet,” Hattie muttered. Over the clatter of wheels and hooves, the groom on the back perch wouldn’t hear her, not that he’d peach. Falmouth’s staff took his coin, but their loyalty had been to the late countess. Because she had championed Iris’s situation, the staff was now loyal to Iris.
“I barely fit into some linen closets myself,” Iris replied. “I’ve heard the duke is not petite.”
Hattie’s silence reproved, and she was not by nature reserved with her opinions.
“I’m not spying on him,” Iris said. “I’ve never laid eyes on the man, but Papa has said that coaxing the duke into marriage with one of my sisters is my responsibility. He’ll banish me to Devonshire if I fail.”
“And you, daft creature, will be happy to go. I’d go with you, but then, who will be chaperone and companion to the featherbrains?”
Iris drew the mare to a halt to allow another carriage to pull forward from the verge. “They are not featherbrains, Cousin. My sisters are exactly what they’ve been trained to be—pleasant, pretty, and marriageable. If they’d been taught some math, some logic, some literature…”
Iris had a pair of maternal uncles who’d shamed the earl into providing her a decent education. The uncles were gone, and they too had left her a tidy sum. The more valuable legacy was the ability to read a ledger, manage a budget, discuss a poem, and comprehend political issues.
“Your sisters will do well enough,” Hattie said. “The twins will likely marry into the same family, and Lily will make a fine hostess for some younger son.”
Rosie could move no faster than a walk, because somewhere up the line, somebody had decided that the park could be enjoyed at only a placid pace. Iris was anxious to return home before her sisters, but she was also anxious to catch a glimpse of the duke.
“You think Clonmere will disregard his father’s promise?” That would simplify matters, though it would leave all three sisters devastated and the earl furious.
“He’s said he will honor the letter, and a man’s word is his bond, if he’s a gentleman.”
A title was no guarantee of gentlemanly deportment, witness Falmouth’s indifferent parenting of Iris herself.
“Holly is my choice for the duke,” Iris said. “She’s overshadowed by the other two, smarter than she lets on, and she’d be kind to her siblings if she became a duchess.”
Iris nodded to a pair of dandies on horseback. The one on the right—Horatius Threadneedle—looked like he was interested in a chat, which would not do. Mr. Threadneedle was an agreeable fellow of modest tastes but Iris had a duke to inspect.
“Clonmere might not be here,” Hattie said. “Or if he is on parade, we won’t be able to find him in this crush because—”
She fell silent while a blond young lady driving a phaeton came up on Iris’s shoulder. The way was narrow, the young woman was flirting madly with the man laughing beside her on the bench. Rosie switched her tail at the matched chestnuts pulling the phaeton, and then…
Both vehicles lurched to a stop.
“Oh, dear,” the blond said. “You seem to have locked wheels with us.”
“Give me the reins, darling,” the gentleman drawled, though his on-side leader had started to prop in the traces.
A pang of sympathy for Mr. Amherst tempted Iris to shout, “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” but a lady did not shout.
