13. Chapter 13

Chapter thirteen

July, 1920

No one had spoken to Rowland in forty-five minutes.

Hugh obviously felt some obligation to send an invitation, and therefore to greet him when he arrived at Buckland Hall. Since then, the earl had been mingling with his aristocratic guests, none of whom seemed to notice Rowland was there in the corner of the entrance hall. Not even the ones he recognized. Iris was nowhere to be found. No doubt still getting ready, as she was the guest of honor.

He was desperate to speak to her. After what happened, he decided to give her some space, but it had been long enough now he thought she might have some answers for him. If she still wanted to kiss him now, perhaps they had a shot at something special. If not…well, he didn’t want to think about that.

Her kiss had lingered on him for days. He had dreams about the soft moan he drew from the back of her throat. Even now, his hands itched with the ghost of her in his embrace. He cleared his throat. He had to speak to her, and soon.

As if on cue, Hugh clinked a spoon against his glass, bringing all conversations to a swift end and drawing all eyes to him. Iris stood beside him, absolutely radiant in a gold dress that shimmered with her every motion. It hung loose on her body, but he could barely make out the curve of her backside as she turned to Mr. Oliver and accepted a glass of champagne from him.

“Everyone, if I could have your attention, please,” Hugh began, but Rowland did not take his eyes off Iris. “I’d like to wish a very happy birthday to my sister, Iris. I don’t say it as often as I should, but I am quite proud of her, especially with what she’s accomplished in the last few years. As you all saw on your invitation, she has asked that you not bring gifts, and instead, donate to her new charity project. I’ll let her tell you about it.”

She thanked her brother with a smile and nod. “As my brother said, I’m asking that your gift to me not be something for myself. You see, not being married leaves a person with a great deal of free time, so I’ve decided to put mine to use.” A chuckle went through the crowd, but Rowland still watched Iris’s face. He swore he detected a trace of hurt there.

“I’ve recently acquired the old York schoolhouse and am turning it into a shelter. A shelter especially for women being mistreated by their husbands or family members or…anyone, honestly. It will provide food, clothing, and a place to stay for women in need, and hopefully give them a place to start to improve their lives with the proper resources and support. But first I will need to make it into a place that’s habitable, which is what the money raised tonight is for. I’ve decided to call my project The Rose Garden. I hope you will all join me in helping it bloom, and for your donations, thank you in advance. Cheers.”

She raised her glass, and everyone in the room followed suit. The crisp, bubbly liquid slid down Rowland’s throat easily, and as it did, Iris finally turned toward him. He caught her eye, but only for a split second. She cut her gaze as quickly as pink seeped into her cheeks, then turned her back to him and took off toward the library. Rowland abandoned his champagne on an end table and shoved his way through the crowd to reach her.

“Iris!” he said, catching her by the arm.

She yanked it away. “ Lady Iris.”

Her scowl told him he wasn’t off to a great start.

“Lady Iris,” he said gently. “I think we need to talk.”

“I disagree. I think you made your feelings quite clear the last time we met.”

He blinked as if she’d slapped him. “Sorry?”

She stepped closer, and he caught a whiff of her sweet perfume. In a low voice, she said, “Look. You talked and joked about winning me over, but when the moment came, you—”

The arrival of an older woman cut her off. She placed a gloved hand on Iris’s arm, and Iris forced a smile. Rowland bit back a groan.

“I think it’s lovely what you’re doing, dear,” the woman said. “You can count on our support.”

“Thank you, Countess,” Iris replied, with surprising grace considering the tension in her jaw. “You have always been most generous.”

“We all must do what we can, dear. And it’s so good to see you thriving after…well, everything.”

“Yes, we all must carry on.”

They shared a humorless chuckle, and then the countess bid her farewell, noticeably not acknowledging Rowland. Iris also neglected to introduce him. He pushed down the sting of it. Especially when her sour look returned, and she aimed it at him.

“I think you misinterpreted what happened,” he said quickly, before she could admonish him again. “I was giving you the opportunity to decide with a clear head. Not clouded by a confrontation with your ex-husband.”

“It was still a rejection!” she snapped through a hiss.

“That’s what this is, then? I embarrassed you?”

“Of course!”

He softened. “I’m sorry.”

She blinked and finally met his gaze. “What?”

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you. That wasn’t my intent. And I’ll do my best to not let it happen again.”

Her brows began a slow retreat back up her forehead. He could see the wheels turning in her head, and it made him wonder how many times she’d gotten an honest apology in her life. She was clearly unused to them.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice almost inaudible in its softness. She straightened her spine and raised her chin. “As it is, though, you don’t have to worry about it happening again. I’m not going to give you the opportunity.”

That hit him harder than a punch in the gut. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I—”

Another distraction appeared, this time a much gruffer looking older woman, who walked with a cane. Her graying hair was wound into a dignified coif at the back of her head, and she wore a gown that went to the floor. With her was a young man, dressed the same as every other man in the room—white tie and tails. His blond hair was slicked back, and he donned a handsome smile.

“Iris,” the woman said. “I want to introduce you to Viscount Darrington. He’s visiting from his family’s estate in Hertfordshire, and he was most excited to meet you tonight.”

Darrington’s smile widened as he offered Iris his hand. “Your aunt speaks true, Lady Iris.”

Iris gave him her hand and let him kiss it. Rowland glowered, snuffing out a molten desire to protect her again.

“Pleasure,” Iris said, casting a sideways glance at her aunt.

“He is also recently widowed,” her aunt said with a gleam in her eye.

Rowland wanted to scream.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Iris said, and it sounded sincere. “How did she pass?”

“In the most honorable way a woman can, giving birth to our son,” Darrington answered. Rowland rolled his eyes so hard he should have been able to see his brain. “I’ve been in mourning the last year, but am quite ready to return to society now.”

“That’s good. How was your journey to Yorkshire?”

“Quite pleasant. More pleasant now that I’ve seen you in person.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Rowland said before he could stop himself.

Finally, Darrington and the aunt noticed him, the former with narrowed eyes. “I beg your pardon?”

Rowland squared his shoulders. “Bad hearing, eh?”

Darrington bristled.

“Iris, who is this man?” her aunt demanded with a stamp of her cane.

“Aunt Violet, Viscount, this is Mr. Rowland Sinclair of Liverpool,” Iris said. “He works in textiles and has some business with Hugh.”

“What business?” Violet pressed.

“My bookies take his bets at racetracks and boxing rings,” Rowland told her, sharp as a knife. “I’m also a joint founder of The Rose Garden.”

“Well, my advice, Mr. Sinclair, if you are going to mingle with the English upper class, is that you learn some manners. Foul language in front of ladies, honestly!”

He said nothing, he only reached into his inside pocket for his cigarettes. His nerves called for one as his anger brewed. After lighting it, he took his first drag and blew the smoke out into Darrington’s face. The viscount wrinkled his nose.

“Lady Violet is right, sir,” he said.

“No one asked for your opinion, did they?” Rowland shot back. “Now, I believe I told you to fuck off. Lady Iris and I were in the middle of a conversation. And she hates being interrupted.”

“I won’t stand here and be insulted,” Darrington said, straightening his jacket. “Lady Iris, if you wish to continue our conversation, we may do so in more pleasant company.”

He turned on his heel and left. Violet looked like she was going to spit.

“Iris, you better fix this,” she hissed. “You could be a viscountess.”

“More importantly, we could have used a donation,” Iris said, rounding on Rowland.

“We weren’t getting a donation from a man who thinks women dying in childbirth is honorable,” he scoffed. “There is no honor in death. It’s just death.”

The faces of the men he served with in France swam before him, but he blinked them back. They only proved his point—no amount of pomp and circumstance would bring them back. He took another drag of his cigarette to close his thoughts of them away for good.

Violet stormed off muttering about making amends and a spring wedding, but Rowland only had eyes for Iris, who heaved a sigh.

“I wish she would take me seriously when I say I don’t want to be married again,” she said. “Which brings me back to our conversation.”

His stomach dropped. “Does it?”

She nodded. “I think it’s best if we keep our relationship strictly professional.”

“Best for who?”

“Everyone.”

He shifted on his feet. “How’s that?”

“I believe I was caught up in emotions when I kissed you,” she said, lowering her voice on the word kiss . “Lewis was being so nasty, and for a moment…I suppose…you were my knight in shining armor.”

He had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. No one had ever called him that before.

“But I am serious about never marrying again,” she went on. “And now that you’ve met Lewis, I hope you can understand why. To that end, I believe we should be only business partners.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been kissed like that by a business partner before, but I suppose I can accept that.”

A hint of a smile flashed over her lips, and he told himself it was fine. He would take business partners over nothing. If scraps from her table were all she could give him, he would take them as happily a dog with a wagging tail. It didn’t mean he couldn’t sit by her feet and wait for more.

“I will still be flirting with you, you know,” he said.

“I would expect nothing less,” she replied.

He wanted to say something more, but yet another person arrived. This time a tall man, with swooping dark curls, ocean blue eyes, and a dimpled smile. He put a hand on Iris’s arm, and when she turned and offered him a delighted grin, Rowland’s heart squeezed in on itself.

“Charlie!” she gasped.

“Happy birthday, Iris!” he replied with equal enthusiasm and bent to kiss her cheek.

A shard of envy plunged itself between Rowland’s ribs. Who was this man who she was so happy to see? Who had the privilege of kissing her cheek and calling her by her first name only?

“Where’s Sybil?” Iris asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“She’s saying hello downstairs, she’ll be along in a moment,” Charlie answered. “I wanted to apologize for being so late. Little Effie was not pleased about not being able to come along, so there was a lot of comforting we had to do before we felt like we could leave.”

Rowland connected the dots. This was Sybil’s husband, Captain Charles Percy. But if he was Sybil’s husband, why was he gazing at Iris with such fondness? Why was he taking her hand as he apologized? As she explained the charity, he held eye contact with thoughtful interest. There had to be something between them.

“Oh, and this is one of my investors, Mr. Rowland Sinclair,” Iris said. “Mr. Sinclair, this is Captain Charles Percy.”

Rowland shook his hand. “Pleasure to put a face with the name.”

“Likewise,” Charles replied.

“You’ve heard of me?”

“I sail almost all my ships out of Liverpool. You don’t work on those docks without hearing that name.”

The knowing look in Charles’s eyes set Rowland on edge. Clearly, Charles knew about more than the textiles. And perhaps it was for Iris’s sake he wasn’t saying anything.

He cleared his throat and faced Iris again. “I’m off to find some champagne for me and Sybil. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m fine, Charlie, thank you,” she said.

He nodded and was gone. Rowland put out his cigarette in the ashtray on the end table.

“I’m sorry for Sybil,” he said.

“Why?” Iris asked, brow arched.

“Her husband is clearly attracted to her best friend.”

“Oh, please. Charlie and I are just good friends.”

“I know men, and they aren’t that kind to a woman they aren’t interested in taking to bed,” he said.

“That’s simply not true,” Iris replied indignantly. “Charlie is happily married.”

“That’s stopped very few men.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I don’t have to.”

Iris rolled her eyes and pointed to Sybil entering the room. “There’s Sybil now. Watch.”

Rowland observed. Charles turned, as if on a string attached to Sybil, and he beamed at her. With a tender warmth in his eyes, he wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head. She grinned back, her eyes falling closed to his touch. Charles looked at her like she was the world.

“I stand corrected,” Rowland said, lighting a fresh cigarette and taking a drag. “You couldn’t get that man if you wanted him.”

Iris snorted. She clapped a hand over her face to stifle the sound, but it was too late. Several pairs of eyes turned on her. She cleared her throat and shot them all sticky sweet smiles.

“Nice recovery,” Rowland said.

“How dare you make me make that sound,” she hissed, with a smack to his arm for good measure.

Charles and Sybil were back over to them before Rowland could issue a retort about the other sounds he was certain he could get out of her.

“Mr. Sinclair, how nice to see you again,” Sybil said.

Rowland held back a snicker at the surprise on Charles’s face. “You as well, Mrs. Percy. How are the children?”

“Wonderful, thank you.” Her brow furrowed, and she pointed behind him. “Do you know that man, Mr. Sinclair? He’s glaring quite hard at you.”

“What man?” Rowland frowned.

He was certain the only people he knew at this party were Iris and her brother. Now, Sybil, as well. He turned. Indeed, there was a man in an ill-fitting suit, standing off to the side, not speaking to anyone, hands behind his back. His hostile eyes were fixed on Rowland. Upon locking gazes, he moved with purpose.

“To hell with you, Fenian bastard!”

Rowland knew the gun was coming before he saw it. His heart lurched as the muzzle appeared, directed at him. He shoved Iris clear out of the way. He heard her and Sybil scream as a shot rang out, and something white hot pierced his chest.