The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast.

“I could not wait any longer,” he murmured, coming to his feet.

“I—I don’t—” She wet her lips. She’d found her voice, but she still could not manage a complete sentence.

He brought her fingers to his lips, but instead of kissing the back of her hand, he turned it gently over and laid a featherlight kiss on the inside of her wrist.

“Be mine, Iris,” he said, his voice husky with what she thought might be desire. He kissed her again, allowing his lips to brush along her tender skin. “Be mine,” he whispered, “and I will be yours.”

She couldn’t think. How could she think when he was staring at her as if they were the only two souls left on earth? His midnight eyes were warm—no, hot, and they made her want to melt into him, to throw over everything she knew, all good sense. Her body quivered, and her breath quickened, and she could not look away from his mouth as he kissed her yet again, this time moving to her palm.

Something tightened within her. Something she was sure it was not proper to feel. Not here in her aunt’s hallway, not with a man she’d only just met.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

No. Something was wrong. It was too soon. It did not make sense that he would love her so quickly.

But he did not love her. He had not said he loved her. And yet, the way he looked at her . . .

Why did he want to marry her? Why could she not trust him?

“Iris?” he murmured. “My darling?”

And she finally found her voice.

“I need time.”

DAMN IT.

This was exactly what he had thought would happen. She wasn’t going to agree to marry him after only a weeklong courtship. She was far too sensible for that.

The irony just killed him. If she weren’t the intelligent, sensible creature she was, he wouldn’t have chosen her.

He should have stuck to his original plan. He’d come here tonight with every intention of compromising her. Nothing extreme; it would be the worst sort of hypocrisy if he stole anything more than a kiss.

But a kiss was all he needed. One witnessed kiss, and she was as good as his.

But no, she’d mentioned the word wedding, and then he’d felt guilty, and he knew he damn well should feel guilty. A romantic proposal was his way of making it up to her, not that she knew there was anything for which he must atone.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. “I spoke too soon. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, stumbling on the words. “It was just so surprising, and I hadn’t considered, and you’ve only met my father just once, and in passing at that.”

“I will, of course, ask his permission,” Richard said. It wasn’t exactly a falsehood. If he could get Iris to say yes in the next few minutes, he would happily seek a private audience with her father and do things in the proper manner.

“May I have a few days?” she asked, her expression hesitant. “There are so many things I don’t know about you. And at least as much you do not know about me.”

He let his eyes burn hot into hers. “I know enough to know that I shall never find a more worthy bride.”

Her lips parted, and he knew that his compliments were well aimed. If he only had had more time, he could have wooed her the way a bride ought to be wooed.

He took both of her hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze. “You are so precious to me.”

She appeared not to know what to say.

He touched her cheek, stalling for time as he tried to figure out how to salvage this. He needed to marry her, and he could not afford a delay.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement. The door to the drawing room was still open. He was at an odd angle to it; he could see only a sliver of the interior. But he had a feeling that Lady Pleinsworth would exit at any moment, and—

“I must kiss you!” he cried out, and he pulled Iris roughly into his arms. He heard her gasp with shock, and it tore painfully through him, but he had no choice. He had to go back to his original plan. He kissed her mouth, her jaw, her lovely exposed neck, and then—

“Iris Smythe-Smith!”

He jumped back. Strangely, he did not have to feign surprise.

Lady Pleinsworth rushed over. “What in the name of God is happening here?”

“Aunt Charlotte!” Iris stumbled back, trembling like a frightened deer. Richard saw her eyes go from her aunt to someone behind her, and with an increasing sense of dread he realized that the Ladies Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances had also come into the hall and were staring at them with openmouthed shock.

Dear God, now he was responsible for the corrupting of children.

“Get your hands off my niece!” Lady Pleinsworth thundered.

Richard thought it best not to point out that he had already done so.

“Harriet,” Lady Pleinsworth said, never taking her eyes off Richard. “Go fetch your aunt Maria.”

Harriet gave a jerky nod and did her bidding.

“Elizabeth, summon a footman. Frances, go to your room.”

“I can help,” Frances protested.

“Your room, Frances. Now!”

Poor Frances, who was still wearing her horn, had to hold it with both hands as she ran off.

When Lady Pleinsworth spoke again, her voice was deadly. “Both of you, in the drawing room. This instant.”

Richard stepped aside to allow Iris to pass. He had not thought she could possibly look more pale than normal, but her skin was positively bloodless.

Her hands were shaking. He hated that her hands were shaking.