Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(13)

Her gaze dropped to the right side of his mouth, to the corner of his lip that was permanently pulled into a slight snarl by the edge of the angry scar, and then to the other side of his mouth, to the sensuous curve of his lips. She raised her hand, reaching out to touch that perfect curl. She stilled, her hand hovering, as the sunlight glinted off the ruby ring on her finger. It was a pretty little ring, delicate and made for a woman. In any other circumstances she would’ve worn it with happiness.

Here, though.… Well it was almost a mark of possession, wasn’t it?

Iris inhaled and jerked her hand back before she made contact. This man might be her husband now—courtesy of a series of terrible events and his own stubbornness, but he was still a stranger.

A stranger she wasn’t even sure she could entirely trust.

She shook her head and rose from the huge bed.

Hugh and Alf must be insane with worry. Iris had been taken from her carriage, but Parks, her lady’s maid, the driver, and her footmen had been left behind. They would’ve notified Hugh of her kidnapping. There was also her elder brother, Henry, to consider.

Iris lived with Henry and his wife, Harriet, in their London house. Though she hadn’t given them a specific date for her return from Hugh and Alf’s wedding, surely Henry would be concerned over her continued absence by now. Hugh might even have ridden to London and raised the alarm over her disappearance.

She had to send word to them that she was still alive.

Dyemore had said the previous night that she couldn’t be seen in the nearby village, but perhaps she could convince one of his men to ride with a note to Hugh or Henry.

Iris turned from the bed and froze.

At one side of the room a huge medieval fireplace took up most of the wall, blood-red marble veined in ivory framing the hearth.

Above the mantel was a portrait of a woman.

She was dark haired, wearing the rounded neck and long waistline of several decades before. Her complexion was so fair the artist had tinged it faintly green in parts. She was hauntingly beautiful, but it was the tragedy in the lady’s light-gray eyes that made Iris stare.

Her eyes were the same gray as Dyemore’s eyes.

Dyemore, however, never expressed such deep emotion—or any emotion at all save for anger. At least Iris had never seen him do so.

His eyes were as cold as winter ice at midnight.

The woman in the portrait must be Dyemore’s mother. Iris thought, but she couldn’t remember hearing anything about her.

She glanced around. Besides the massive bed, the room was almost stark. There were a dainty chest of drawers standing on gilded legs in the corner, two trunks sitting on the floor beside it, a few low velvet chairs before that enormous fireplace, and the screen in the corner, hiding the commode.

She cast a worried look at the bed, but Dyemore slept on, so she hastily relieved her bladder and felt much better afterward. Unfortunately, now she could think about other matters—such as the state of her clothes and her person.

She needed a bath and to send word to Hugh, and Dyemore needed someone to nurse him.

Time to go in search of the Corsicans.

She opened the door as quietly as possible so as not to wake the duke, and ventured into the corridor. It was completely deserted, but she could hear the faint murmur of voices from below.

Iris strode down the corridor to the staircase. In the light of day, the abbey was better maintained than she’d thought from her impressions of the night before, but it still had an air of neglect. As she descended she noticed that the stairs were carpeted, but dust was matted in the corners of the treads. The paintings that hung on the walls, too, needed dusting, and motes danced in the sunlight that weakly struggled in from the few windows. There should be more candles lit, the marble banister should be polished, and the chandelier hung high above in the entry hall should be taken down and cleaned.

It was as if this house had been shut up and forgotten.

She frowned, following the voices back through the abbey into the servants’ quarters. The hall became narrow and dark, and she followed a short set of servants’ stairs leading down. She emerged into the kitchen, a large lowceilinged room.

Ubertino, Nicoletta, and three other servants were sitting around the central table.

“Good morning,” Iris greeted them as she entered.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Ubertino replied, rising and bowing.

He turned to the other manservants and said something sharp. They immediately rose as well, and Ubertino introduced them.

“This is Valente and Bardo, who brought the English priest last night.”

The first was a gangly youth with thick black hair untidily clubbed back. He looked at her shyly from under extravagant eyelashes. The second was a scowling man in his thirties with silver threading his copper-colored hair. He wore a bright-red waistcoat that made his blue eyes seem almost unnaturally bright.

“And this is Ivo,” Ubertino ended.

Ivo was the manservant who had brought her into the abbey last night. He was tall and rawboned and flushed blotchily at her attention.

“I’m pleased to discover your names,” Iris said.

“They do not know the English,” Ubertino replied apologetically. “But if you will, I can convey your words to them?”

“Of course,” Iris said.

Ubertino murmured to the other servants in Corsican.

Only Valente—who smiled at her—changed expression.