The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

“I was in the middle of a marriage proposal.”

“May I assume you have not yet requested a private meeting with Mr. Smythe-Smith to obtain his consent?”

“I thought to do your daughter the honor of asking her, first.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith’s mouth pressed together in an angry line, but she did not respond. Instead she looked vaguely in Iris’s direction and let out a frustrated “Oh, where is your father?”

“I’m sure he will be here soon, Mama,” Iris replied quietly.

Richard prepared himself to jump to Iris’s defense again, but her mother held her tongue. Finally, after several more minutes passed, the door to the drawing room opened, and Iris’s father walked in.

Edward Smythe-Smith was not an exceptionally tall man, but he carried himself well, and Richard imagined that he had been quite athletic when he was younger. Certainly, he was still strong enough to damage a man’s face, should he decide violence was appropriate.

“Maria?” he said, looking to his wife as he entered. “What the devil is going on? I received an urgent summons from Charlotte.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith wordlessly motioned to the two other inhabitants of the room.

“Sir,” Richard said.

Iris looked at her hands.

Mr. Smythe-Smith did not speak.

Richard cleared his throat. “I would very much like to marry your daughter.”

“If I am reading this situation correctly,” Mr. Smythe-Smith said with devastating calm, “you don’t have much choice in the matter.”

“Nevertheless, it is what I desire.”

Mr. Smythe-Smith tipped his head toward his daughter but did not look at her. “Iris?”

“He did ask me, Father.” She cleared her throat. “Before . . .”

“Before what?”

“Before Aunt Charlotte . . . saw . . .”

Richard took a breath, trying to hold himself back. Iris was miserable; she could not even finish her sentence. Couldn’t her father see this? She did not deserve such an interrogation, and yet Richard instinctively knew that if he were to intercede, he would only make it worse.

But he could not do nothing. “Iris,” he said softly, hoping she would hear his support in his voice. If she needed him, he would take over.

“Sir Richard asked me to marry him,” Iris said resolutely. But she didn’t look at him. She did not even flick her eyes in his direction.

“And what,” her father asked, “was your reply?”

“I—I had not yet made one.”

“What was your reply going to be?”

Iris swallowed, clearly uncomfortable with all eyes on her. “I would have said yes.”

Richard felt his head jerk. Why was she lying? She had told him she needed more time.

“Then it is settled,” Mr. Smythe-Smith said. “It is not how I would have liked to have seen it come about, but she is of age, she wants to marry you, and indeed, she must.” He looked to his wife. “I assume we will need a speedy wedding.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith nodded, letting out a relieved breath. “It is perhaps not so dire. I believe Charlotte has the gossip under control.”

“Gossip is never under control.”

Richard could only agree with that.

“Still,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith persisted, “it is not as dire as it could be. We can still give her a proper wedding. It will look better if it is not so rushed.”

“Very well.” Mr. Smythe-Smith turned to Richard. “You may marry her in two months’ time.”

Two months? No. That would not do.

“Sir, I cannot wait two months,” Richard said quickly.

Iris’s father’s brows slowly rose.

“I am needed back at my estate.”

“You should have considered this before you compromised my daughter.”

Richard wracked his brain for the best excuse, the one that would most likely give Mr. Smythe-Smith reason to relent. “I am the sole guardian of my two younger sisters, sir. I would be remiss if I did not soon return.”

“I believe you spent several seasons in town a few years back,” Mr. Smythe-Smith countered. “Who had charge of your sisters, then?”

“They lived with our aunt. I lacked the maturity to properly fulfill my duties.”

“Forgive me if I doubt your maturity now.”

Richard forced himself to hold silent. If he had a daughter, he would be just as livid. He thought of his own father, wondered what he would think of this night’s work. Bernard Kenworthy had loved his family—Richard had never doubted that—but his approach to fatherhood could best be described as benign neglect. If he were alive, what would he have done? Anything?

But Richard was not his father. He could not tolerate inaction.

“Two months will be perfectly acceptable,” Iris’s mother said. “There is no reason you cannot go to your estate and then return for the wedding. To be honest, I would prefer it that way.”

“I wouldn’t,” Iris said.

Her parents looked at her in shock.

“Well, I wouldn’t.” She swallowed, and Richard’s heart ached at the tension he saw in her small frame. “If the decision is made,” she said, “I would rather move forward.”

Her mother took a step toward her. “Your reputation—”

“—might very well already be in tatters. If that’s the case, I would much rather be in Yorkshire where I don’t know anyone.”

“Nonsense,” her mother said dismissively. “We will wait to see what happens.”