Iris used the penknife on the desk to slit the ribbons on the other three boxes, and opened them one by one.
“Oh, Clonmere, you clever, determined fellow you.” Three identical tiaras glittered in the three boxes. “As long as I went first, I’d find a tiara even if the labels somehow got confused.”
“Because I could not trust Falmouth to leave well enough alone, and I suspect your siblings might have been tempted to meddle as well. Hattie warned me to plan for every contingency.”
“And you did.”
She hugged him, because she could, because she had to.
“I have a new dearest wish, Lady Iris.” His voice had dropped to a register Puck’s purr approximated when the cat was exceedingly content.
“Do you?” Iris nuzzled Clonmere’s throat. “This is an interesting coincidence, because my own dearest wishes are growing in number. One of them involves a special license.”
“One of mine involves a very slow coach ride over to Ludgate, where we’ll find a jeweler who can fashion you an engagement ring.”
Oh, he smelled wonderful, of flowers and excellent ideas. “A very slow coach, Your Grace?”
“Very slow and comfortable.” He gathered up all four boxes. “How soon can you be ready to leave?”
“Five minutes.”
She and Clonmere were out the door in two minutes, and though His Grace did get a special license, he also spent the next month making every one of Iris’s dearest wishes come true, and far more than a mere dozen times.
FROM GRACE BURROWES
Greetings, Dear Readers!
I hope you enjoyed Henning and Iris’s story. The inspiration was a family incident recounted by my Aunt Sharon, about somebody (who shall remain nameless) purposely switching the tags on Christmas presents. Does every family have such a story?
If you’re looking for a full-length Grace Burrowes Regency, I just released
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Happy reading!
Grace Burrowes
From
“I am embroiled in a situation that has consequences at the highest levels, Mr. Wentworth,” Matilda said. “If I share with you what I know, you will find yourself embroiled along with me.”
She’d expressed a wish to study their chess game, but now she was taking pieces off the board, lining them up in order of rank. Her white pawns, Duncan’s black pawns. Her bishop, knight, rook, and queen, her king.
“Matilda,” Duncan said, getting to his feet. “Please calm yourself. You have made a minor slip by letting Stephen see your prayer book. He will carry your identity to his grave if need be, as will I. I’d rather not. I’d rather see you free of the burdens you carry, else I shall never have an opportunity to properly court you.”
She went still, Duncan’s king in her hand. “Did I hear you, aright, Mr. Wentworth?”
“My name is Duncan. Your hearing is excellent.”
She set the king down slowly, next to the white queen. “You seek to court me?”
“I most assuredly do.”
Based on the lady’s expression, this disclosure astonished her almost as much as it surprised Duncan.
Order your copy of
LOVE LETTERS FROM A DUKE
MAY
GINA CONKLE
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1
ENGLAND’S best and brightest young ladies flittered about his lawn, each one as colorful as macaroons of mint green, pale orange, and fragile pink. Sun drenched their stiffly curled hair. Meringue-white smiles dazzled the eye. A delectable assembly to be sure. The women preened and played (croquet as it were). One
A contretemps by the refreshment table highlighted the stakes. Another game of greater consequence was afoot—the competition for Richland Hall’s next duchess.
