The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (33 page)

“I am hoping,” he said quietly, “that it will not feel like such a sacrifice once the babe is in my arms.”

Iris swallowed. “I am hoping the same.”

He leaned forward quite suddenly, resting his forearms on his knees. The motion brought his head lower than hers, and he looked up at her through his thick, dark lashes. “I really am sorry, you know.”

She didn't say anything.

“For what you've been forced to do,” he needlessly clarified. “It probably won't matter, but I dreaded telling you.”

“I should think so,” she retorted before she could think to temper her tone. Of course he would dread it. Who on earth would enjoy such a thing?

“No, I mean, I knew you would hate me.” He closed his eyes. “It wasn't the telling that I dreaded. I didn't really even think about the actual telling. I just didn't want you to hate me.”

She sighed. “I don't hate you.”

He looked up. “You should.”

“Well, I did. For a few days, at least.”

He nodded. “That's good.”

Iris couldn't help but smile.

“It would be rather churlish of me to deny you that,” he said wryly.

“My anger?”

He held up his glass. A salute? Maybe. “You deserve it,” he said.

Iris nodded slowly, then thought,
what the hell,
and raised her glass a little, too.

“What are we toasting?” he asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Fair enough.” He cocked his head. “To your health, then.”

“My health,” Iris said with a choked laugh. Good heavens, what a thing.

“It shall surely be the least dangerous pregnancy in history,” she remarked.

His eyes met hers with a flash of surprise, and then his lips curved into a half smile. “No childbirth fever for you,” he agreed.

She took a gulp of her whiskey. “I shall regain my figure with supernatural speed.”

“The other ladies will be envious,” he said solemnly.

Iris laughed, her eyes closing briefly with mirth before returning to Richard's face. He was watching her, studying her almost, and his expression . . . it wasn't amorous or lustful, it was just . . .

Grateful.

She looked down, wondering why gratitude seemed so disappointing. He
should
be grateful for all she was doing, and yet . . .

It didn't feel right.

It didn't feel like enough.

She swirled her whiskey. There wasn't much left.

Richard's voice, when she heard it, was soft and sad in the darkness. “What shall we do, Iris?”

“Do?”

“We have a lifetime of marriage ahead of us.”

Iris stared at her drink. Was he asking her to forgive him? She wasn't sure she was ready to do that. And yet, somehow she knew she would. Was that what it meant to fall in love? That she would forgive the unforgivable? If such a thing had happened to one of her sisters or cousins, Iris would have never forgiven the husband, never.

But this was Richard. And she loved him. In the end, that was all that would matter.

In the end.

But maybe not yet.

She let out a little snort. How like her that was. To know that she
would
forgive him but to refuse to do it just yet. It wasn't about making him suffer, though. It wasn't even about holding a grudge. She just wasn't ready. He'd said she deserved her anger, and he was right.

She looked up. He was watching her patiently.

“It will be all right,” she said. That was all she could give him. She hoped he would understand.

He nodded, then rose to his feet and held out his hand. “May I walk you to your room?”

Part of her longed for the warmth of his body near hers, even just the touch of her hand on his arm. But she didn't want to fall more in love with him. At least, not tonight. She gave him a regretful smile as she stood. “I'm not sure that would be such a good idea.”

“Then may I walk you to the door?”

Iris's lips parted as she stared up at his face. The door was barely three yards away. It was as unnecessary a gesture as she could imagine, and yet she could not resist. She placed her hand in his.

He gave it a little squeeze and then lifted it a few inches, as if he were going to bring her fingers to his lips. But then he seemed to change his mind, and instead he twined their hands and led her to the door.

“Good night,” he said, but he didn't release her hand.

“Good night,” she said, but she didn't try to pull away.

“Iris . . .”

She looked up. He was going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes, hot and heavy with need.

“Iris,” he said again, and she did not say no.

His warm fingers touched her jaw, tipping her face toward his. Still, he waited, and finally she could do nothing else but dip her chin, barely a nod, really, but he felt it.

Slowly, so slowly she was certain the world had time to turn twice on its axis, his face moved toward hers. Their lips met, the touch soft and electric. He brushed against her, the light friction sending ripples of sensation to the very center of her being.

“Richard,” she whispered, and maybe he could hear the love in her voice. Maybe in that moment she didn't care.

Her lips parted, but he did not deepen the kiss. Instead he rested his forehead on hers.

“You should go,” he said.

She allowed herself one more moment, then stepped back.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, placing her hand on the doorframe as she moved around him.

Thank you
, he'd said.

Something in her heart shifted.
Soon,
she thought. Soon she would be ready to forgive.

R
ICHARD WATCHED HER GO
.

He watched her glide down the hall and disappear around the corner to the stairs. There was little to light the darkened hallway, but what there was seemed to catch on her pale hair like spun starlight.

She was such a contradiction. So ethereal in looks and so pragmatic in mind. He loved that about her, the way she was so relentlessly sensible. He wondered if perhaps that was part of what had initially drawn him to her. Had he thought that her innate rationality would allow her to get over the fundamental insult of their marriage? That she'd just shrug and say,
Quite right, that makes sense
.

What a fool he'd been.

Even if she did forgive him, and he was beginning to think that she might, he could never forgive himself.

He had wounded her deeply. He had chosen her for his wife for the most reprehensible of reasons. It was only fitting that now he should love her so ardently.

So hopelessly.

He did not see how she could ever love him, not after what he'd done. But he had to try. And maybe it would be enough that he loved her.

Maybe.

The following morning

“I
RIS
? I
RIS
?”

Iris pried open an eye. Just one, mind you; the other was firmly closed and pressed hard into her pillow.

“Oh, good, you're awake!”

Marie-Claire
, Iris thought with her usual morning-induced irritability. Good Lord, what time was it, and why was she in Iris's room?

Iris closed her eye.

“It's half ten,” Marie-Claire said cheerily, “and it's uncommonly warm out.”

Iris could not imagine what this might have to do with her.

“I thought we might go for a walk.”

Ah.

The mattress dipped under Marie-Claire's weight as she perched on the end. “We really haven't had a chance to get to know each other.”

Iris let out a sigh, the sort that would have been accompanied by the closing of eyes if she weren't already facedown in her pillow. She had been thinking this very thing the night before. She just hadn't meant to do anything about it before noon.

“Shall we?” Marie-Claire asked, just bursting with annoyingly chippy energy.

“Mmphghrglick.”

A very small silence, and then—“I beg your pardon?”

Iris growled into her pillow. She really didn't know how she could have been more clear.

“Iris? Are you unwell?”

Iris finally rolled her body over and forced herself to enunciate as she said, “I am not at my best in the morning.”

Marie-Claire just stared at her.

Iris rubbed her eye. “Perhaps if we depart—what?” The last bit was not much more than a snap, really.

“Ehrm . . .” One corner of Marie-Claire's mouth stretched out in a bizarre approximation of a grimace. “Your cheek.”

Iris let out an aggrieved sigh. “Pillow crease?”

“Oh. Is that what that is?” Asked with enough perkiness to make Iris want to reach for a weapon.

“Have you never seen one before?” she asked instead.

“No.” Marie-Claire frowned. “I always sleep on my back. I suppose Fleur does, too.”

“I sleep in many positions,” Iris grumbled, “but mostly . . . I sleep late.”

“I see.” Marie-Claire swallowed, but that was her only sign of awkwardness before she added, “Well, you're awake now, so you might as well get up and meet the day. I don't think there is any breakfast left in the dining room, but I'm sure Mrs. Hopkins can put together a cold collation. You can bring it with you.”

Iris looked longingly at her bed. She imagined this bed, tidy and sweet with a breakfast tray on it. But Marie-Claire had made a friendly gesture, and Iris knew she must accept. “Thank you,” she said, hoping her face did not belie the effort required to pry the words from her mouth. “That would be lovely.”

“Wonderful!” Marie-Claire beamed. “Shall I meet you in the drive, say in about ten minutes?”

Iris was about to bargain for fifteen, or better yet twenty, but then she thought—she was already awake. In for a penny, in for a pound. Ten minutes. Good Lord.

To Marie- Claire, she said, “Why not?”

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
Iris and Marie-Claire were trudging across the western fields of Maycliffe. Iris still wasn't entirely certain where they were going; Marie-Claire had said something about picking berries, but it seemed far too early in the year for that. Either way, Iris didn't much care. She had a warm, buttery scone in her hands, and she was fairly certain it was the best thing she had ever eaten. Someone in the kitchens
had
to be from Scotland. It seemed the only explanation.

They didn't say much as they made their way down the hill. Iris was busy savoring her breakfast, and Marie-Claire seemed happy enough swinging her basket as she skipped along. But once they reached the bottom and turned onto a well-worn path, Marie-Claire cleared her throat, and said, “I don't know if anyone has properly thanked you.”

Iris went still, forgetting for a moment even to chew. She had not the pleasure of many conversations with Marie-Claire, and this . . . Well, frankly it surprised her.

“For . . .” Marie-Claire motioned toward Iris's midsection, her hand making an awkward little circle in the air. “For that.”

Iris returned her eyes to the walking path. Richard had thanked her. It had taken him three days, but in all fairness, she had not given him the opportunity to do so before their conversation the night before. And even if he had tried, if he had banged her door down and insisted that she listen to him, it wouldn't have mattered. She would not have heard anything he said. She had not been ready to allow him a true conversation.

“Iris?”

“You're welcome,” Iris said, pretending to be absorbed in extracting a currant from her scone. She really didn't feel like talking about this with Marie-Claire.

But the younger girl had other ideas. “I know Fleur seems ungrateful,” she persisted, “but she will come around. Eventually.”

“I'm afraid I cannot agree with your assessment,” Iris said. She still had no idea how Richard thought he was going to pull this off without Fleur's cooperation.

“She's not stupid, no matter how she might be acting right now. In fact, most of the time she's not this—well, not
quite
this emotional.” Marie-Claire's lips came together, pursing into a thoughtful frown. “She was very close to our mother, you know, more so than either Richard or me.”

Iris hadn't known that. Richard had not said much of his mother to her, just that she'd died, and he missed her.

“Perhaps that made Fleur more motherly,” Marie-Claire continued. She looked over at Iris and gave a little shrug. “Perhaps that's why she feels so attached to the baby.”

“Perhaps,” Iris said. She sighed, glancing down at her own belly. She was going to have to start padding herself soon. The only reason she had not yet done so were the three hundred miles between Yorkshire and London. Ladies were not quite so relentlessly fashionable here, and she could get away with wearing last year's frocks. Waistlines were dropping in the capital; the forgiving billows of the Regency style were giving way to something far more structured and uncomfortable. By 1840, Iris predicted, women would be corseted into nothingness.

They walked on for a few quiet moments, then Marie-Claire said, “Well,
I'm
thanking you.”

“You're welcome,” Iris said again, this time turning to Marie-Claire with a small, rueful smile. The younger girl was trying. The least she could do was be gracious.

“I know that Fleur says she wants to be a mother,” Marie-Claire went on blithely, “but it's really quite selfish of her. Do you know she has not apologized to me even once?”

“To you?” Iris murmured. Because really, she rather thought
she
deserved one first.

“She'll ruin me,” Marie-Claire said. “You know she will. If you weren't doing what you're doing—”

Doing what you're doing
, Iris thought.
What a lovely euphemism
.