A/N: TWO updates in one go! I had a bit of a block with these last 2 chapters, so apologies for the delay! As always, Lady Whistledown bloc text is in italics and lastly, I only own Iris and her interactions with the wonderful characters of the ton.
There will forever be just two words that come to this author's mind the morning after any good party,"shock" and "delight."
Well, dear reader, the scandalous accounts from last night's soiree at Vauxhall are quite shocking and delightful indeed.
Emerging, phoenix-likefrom the ashes of irrelevance, is one Miss Daphne Bridgerton.
The illustrious debutante was seen dancing not once, but twice with the season's most eligible and most uncatchable rake, the Duke of Hastings, while the softly blooming Iris Edgehill managed to enrapture Lord Bridgerton himself for a dance or two, or three, or four!
Perhaps Miss Bridgerton and Miss Edgehill have come to an understanding between them.
The morning following the party, Iris spent hidden away in the pavilion. She had kindly asked Henry, a footman, to move her harp into the small space, and had sequestered herself away.
The war brewing between Anthony and Daphne grew, and Lady Whistledown was also not helping the matter, with yet another rag being delivered to the square that very morning, and Iris was not impressed by any of the edition.
Following Daphne's almost too public declaration against any pending match between herself and Lord Berbrooke, Anthony had dragged Iris to the floor for the next set of dances, his grip bordering painful on both her wrist and her waist. Indeed, the following morning, she found her pearly skin marred by the harsh grip of her protector and sadly conceived to avoid him that day, if only for peace from the headache currently blossoming across her forehead and the ache in her wrist and hip.
Daphne's behaviour, though understandable, had been just shy of ladylike, and Iris had cared for Daphne's poor, bruised knuckles, allowing Daphne to explain Lord Berbrooke's abhorrent behaviour the evening prior. Iris could then understand how the Duke came upon them and Daphne shyly confided in Iris the true nature of her deal with the Duke.
Thin-lipped, she had not passed comment on the situation, but her facial expression showed Daphne how unimpressed she found it. She did, however, promise to hold her situation a secret. "You must promise to guard your heart closely, dearest," she had implored Daphne, "for acting in love, one might accidentally fall."
And so, Iris contentedly passed her morning in ignorant bliss, plucking at her harp strings, enjoying the soft melodies they created.
A gentle tap on the window disturbed Iris and she stopped her playing. Turning to look at the intruder, her eyes widened as she gazed upon the simpering face of Lord Berbrooke.
"Why, Miss Edgehill, how beautifully you play!" he exclaimed, opening the door and attempting to enter. Iris stood immediately, taking in his brow, seeping with sweat, his yellowing teeth and his eyes, darting all over the place. Iris stood, quickly and approached him. She dipped a quick curtsey, and gestured to the gardens, desperate to not be stuck alone in this space with the man.
"Lord Berbrooke, how...lovely to see you again," she began, edging to the door and gesturing the garden, "I hadn't realised how late it was, I simply must see the garden before I return to the parlour for my morning meal," she turned to pull the door behind her, when his hand shot out to grab her upper hand.
Iris froze, and followed his hand, which held her solidly, all the way up to his sneering face. "I find," he whispered, running his eyes all over her face, "that you are here to tempt me. It won't work, as Lord Bridgerton assures me, that Daphne will be mine," he sneered at her, squeezing her arm. Iris gasped and tried to remove him from her, eyes wild as she searched for a safer exit around him. Iris took a deep breath and returned her hazel-eyed gaze to him, arching a golden eyebrow, "I wonder, my Lord, how Lord Bridgerton would take your proximity to a Lady, who merely wishes to return to the safety of her home?" she asked.
Blessedly, she heard Benedict call her name, and spied him hurrying over. "My dear Lord Berbrooke, as glad as we are for your visit, would you release Miss Edgehill at once!" he fumed, face pinking with fury. Reluctantly, Lord Berbrooke released her arm, and Iris found herself being led away by Colin, whom she hadn't spotted approaching, while Benedict led Lord Berbrooke to the front of the house, meeting Anthony as he stepped out of his carriage.
"Colin," Iris breathed, halting and turning to face him. Colin stared at her, his brown eyes serious, mouth set in a firm line of distaste, "thank you," Iris cried, tears filling her eyes. Now that the danger had passed, she felt her body relax and the worry of what could have happened hit her.
Not only was Lord Berbrooke improper, but her entire reputation was at stake – she could have been ruined if they had remained undisturbed, and it would likely have ended with her being cast away from Bridgerton House. The enormity of the situation overwhelmed her and she began sobbing into the lapels of Colin's waistcoat. He gently comforted her trembling as she cried, hidden from view of the parlour.
Benedict soon arrived, and Colin seamlessly transferred Iris into the comforting arms of her very best friend. They were so close in age, and had enjoyed a long friendship over her years with the family.
"Come, now Iris," Benedict remarked softly, rubbing her arms comfortingly, "there is no need to be upset. Colin and I have frightened away the beast!" Iris offered him a watery smile.
Benedict provided her a handkerchief, one she had embroidered his initials onto for his last birthday, for her to dry her eyes. Colin arrived at her side again and offered her a tulip from the Bridgerton gardens. She smiled softly and took it from him, a more genuine smile gracing her fair features. Benedict offered her an arm, before guiding her into the house.
That afternoon, Iris cornered Daphne and dragged her into her room, almost pushing Daphne onto the chaise in the corner. Iris's room was bedecked in a soft heather, with cushions and upholstery of plum and violet dotted about jovially. Daphne rearranged her mussed skirts, in an effort to allow Iris to calm herself as she paced the rug, her hands grasping into fists periodically, breath ejecting in harsh pants.
"Iris, whatever has happened?" Daphne questioned, her eyes following her friend to and fro, in worry. "You seem most out of sorts today."
Iris shook her head, glancing at Daphne, before kneeling next to her on the chaise. "Daphne, dearest," she began, licking her lips, as though determining how to phrase whatever was to come next, "Rose has appraised me of what happened this morning between you and Anthony...I must implore you, you must not allow a betrothal between yourself and Lord Berbrooke!" Iris exclaimed, eyes flashing to the door to ensure their conversation was still private.
Quietly, Iris explained what had transpired that morning, tearfully, as Daphne grapsed her hands, a determined look crossing her delicate features.