Dukes By the Dozen полностью

The clock ticked. Nobody so much as breathed, though Iris wanted to kiss Clonmere for that little speech alone. Falmouth was turning pink. Cousin Hattie was positively beaming.

“But,” Falmouth sputtered, “Iris is not even…”

“Falmouth, have a care.” Clonmere spoke softly. “You never once consulted your daughters about their wishes regarding this scheme of yours. If I insist on a modicum of convention regarding the order in which the gifts are opened, you will accommodate me.”

“Not well done of you, my lord,” Everhart said, looking much like his ducal cousin. “Your daughters are intelligent young women, and marriage is a very serious matter.”

Falmouth looked like Puck just before that cat disrespected a carpet. “Iris, open your box.”

Clonmere passed her the box, the first time he’d looked directly at her. He winked, though his expression remained so grave, so very dignified, Iris doubted the evidence of her eyes.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Holly had scooted to the very edge of her chair, Hyacinth was holding Holly’s hand. Mr. Everhart stood behind Lily’s chair. They made a handsome couple, and they deserved a chance to be a couple. Holly and Hyacinth shouldn’t have to adjust to one of them marrying into an exalted station. This whole blasted month had been wrong for all concerned.

Iris had formed the intention to refuse to open her box when Clonmere spoke.

“My lady, you keep us all in suspense. Won’t you please unwrap my gift? My dearest wish is that you open that box.”

His dearest wish had been a woman who’d entrust her heart to him. Iris’s heart thumped against her ribs like a kettledrum, but Clonmere’s regard was so steady, so trust-worthy, she tugged on the purple ribbon encircling her box.

“As you wish, Your Grace.” She wanted to preserve the lovely paper, and she wanted to tear it to shreds. Cousin Hattie took the ribbon, Lily leaned closer, and Iris gently slid a finger beneath the paper.

“Do hurry, Iris,” Holly muttered.

Iris lifted the lid of the box, but could not make her gaze drop to the contents.

“Oh, my,” Hyacinth said.

“Well, what’s in it?” Falmouth barked.

“A tiara,” Cousin Hattie said. “A lovely, sparkly, antique tiara that the duchesses of Clonmere have worn since the days of Good Queen Bess.”

Falmouth’s harrumphing was drowned out by Lily, Hyacinth, and Holly’s squealing and the applause of the three gentlemen.

“That’s decided then,” Clonmere said, taking Iris’s hand and bowing over it, “assuming you’ll have me?”

He was asking, he was sincerely, honestly asking, and for that Iris fell in love with him all over again.

“Court me for a month,” she said, “court me, save your waltzes for me, introduce me to your family, make my dearest wish come true at least a dozen times over, and then I’ll give you my answer.”

Clonmere kissed her knuckles. “Only a dozen?”

Somebody sighed, certainly not Iris, for she was too busy admiring her prospective husband.

“Let’s move to the formal parlor, shall we?” Cousin Hattie said. “A toast is in order. Falmouth, bestir yourself to order the champagne brought up, and somebody have the coach brought around. We have trousseaus to shop for.”

Falmouth scowled at the three unopened boxes. “Trousseaus, plural? Harriet, do you know something I don’t?”

“I know much that exceeds your grasp, my lord, but even you must recall that a couple embarking on a courtship is entitled to some privacy.”

“That they are,” Everhart said.

“’Deed,” Amherst added. “A fine tradition.”

Falmouth looked like he wanted to rattle the remaining boxes,or perhaps even sniff them. Dersham gave the earl a little shove toward the door. “Champagne, my lord. Along with cakes, some chocolates. Amherst and I have a few matters we’d like to discuss with you.”

“As do I,” Everhart said, offering Lily his arm.

The lot of them trooped out, leaving Iris alone with her duke. “I am most exceedingly relieved to have found the Clonmere tiara in my box.”

She was so relieved, she had to kiss him… and kiss him, and kiss him. Clonmere was apparently relieved as well, because he gave as good as he got, until Iris was perched on the desk with a duke wedged between her legs.

A heavily breathing duke whose hair was awry, and whose cravat was off center.

“What if the tiara hadn’t been in my box?” Iris panted, holding him close. “What if… I can’t bear to think of the fussing and carrying on and harrumphing.”

“Neither could I,” Clonmere replied, “which is why the ancestral tiara wasn’t in your box. That little bauble is paste.”

His heart was cantering along at a marvelous clip. Iris pressed her ear to his chest for the pleasure of feeling his heart beat. Though what had he said about…?

“Paste? Because a fortune of jewels shouldn’t be carted all over Mayfair? Very prudent of you, Clonmere.”

He took her hand and helped her down from the desk. “Not prudent, desperate. Open the other boxes.”

He was looking both sheepish and proud, also a little disheveled. Kissably disheveled.