The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

Iris met her mother’s eyes with a remarkably steely gaze. “Have I no say in the matter?”

Her mother’s lips trembled, and she looked to her husband.

“It shall be as she wishes,” he said after a pause. “I can see no reason to force her to wait. The Lord knows she and Daisy will be at each other’s throats the entire time.” Mr. Smythe-Smith turned to Richard. “Iris is not pleasant to live with when she is in ill humor.”

“Father!”

He ignored her. “And Daisy is not pleasant to live with when she is in good humor. The planning of a wedding will make this one”—he jerked his head toward Iris—“miserable and the other one ecstatic. I should have to move to France.”

Richard did not so much as smile. Mr. Smythe-Smith’s humor was of the bitterest sort and did not want laughter.

“Iris,” the older gentleman said. “Maria.”

They followed him to the door.

“I shall see you in two days’ time,” Iris’s father said to Richard. “I expect you will have a special license and settlements prepared.”

“I would do no less, sir.”

As she left the room, Iris looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met.

Why? she seemed to ask him. Why?

In that moment, he realized she knew. She knew that he had not been overcome with passion, that this forced marriage had been—albeit poorly—orchestrated.

Richard had never felt so ashamed.

Chapter Eight

The following week

IRIS WOKE UP to thunder on the morning of her wedding, and by the time her maid arrived with breakfast, London was awash with rain.

She walked to her window and peered out, letting her forehead rest against the cool glass. Her wedding was in three hours. Maybe the weather would clear by then. There was an odd little patch of blue off in the distant sky. It looked lonely. Out of place.

But hopeful.

It didn’t really matter, she supposed. She wasn’t going to get wet. The ceremony was to be held by special license in her family’s drawing room. Her journey to marriage consisted of two corridors and a flight of stairs.

She did hope that the roads would not be washed-out. She and Sir Richard were due to depart for Yorkshire that very afternoon. And while Iris was understandably nervous about leaving her home and all that was familiar to her, she’d heard enough of wedding nights to know that she did not wish to spend hers under her parents’ roof.

Sir Richard did not maintain a home in London, she had discovered, and his rented apartments were not suitable for a new bride. He wanted to take her home, to Maycliffe Park, where she would meet his sisters.

A nervous laugh bubbled through her throat. Sisters. It figured he’d have sisters. If there was one thing in her life that had never been lacking, it was sisters.

A knock on her door jolted her from her thoughts, and after Iris bid her enter, her mother came into the room.

“Did you sleep well?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith asked.

“Not really.”

“I would be surprised if you had. It does not matter how well she knows her groom. A bride is always apprehensive.”

Iris rather thought that it did matter how well a bride knew her groom. Certainly she’d be less nervous—or at least nervous in a different way—if she’d known her intended for more than a fortnight.

But she did not say this to her mother, because she and her mother did not talk about such things. They spoke of minutiae and the events of the day, of music and sometimes of books, and most of all, of her sisters and cousins and all their babies. But they did not speak of feelings. That was not their way.

And yet Iris knew she was loved. Her mother might not be the sort to say the words or visit her room with a cup of tea and a smile, but she loved her children with all the fierceness in her heart. Iris had never doubted that, not for a moment.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith sat on the end of Iris’s bed and motioned for her to come over. “I do wish you had a lady’s maid for your journey,” she said. “It’s not at all how it should be.”

Iris stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all. After everything that had happened in the past week, it was the lack of a lady’s maid that was not how it should be?

“You’ve never been good with hair,” her mother said. “To have to dress it yourself . . .”

“I will be just fine, Mama,” Iris said. She and Daisy shared a lady’s maid, and when given the choice, the young woman had opted to remain in London. Iris thought it prudent to wait to hire a new maid in Yorkshire. It would make her seem less of an outsider in her new home. Hopefully it would make her feel less of an outsider, too.

She climbed back onto her bed and leaned against the pillows. She felt very young, sitting here like this. She could not recall the last time her mother had come into her bedchamber and sat upon her bed.

“I have taught you everything you need to know to properly manage a house,” her mother said.

Iris nodded.

“You will be in the country, so that will be a change, but the principles of management will be the same. Your relationship with the housekeeper will be of the utmost importance. If she does not respect you, no one will. She need not fear you—”

Iris glanced down at her lap, hiding her somewhat panicked amusement. The thought of anyone’s fearing her was ludicrous.

“—but she must respect your authority,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith concluded. “Iris? Are you listening?”

Iris looked up. “Of course. I’m sorry.” She managed a small smile. “I don’t think Maycliffe Park is terribly grand. Sir Richard has described it to me. I’m sure there will be much to learn, but I believe I will be up to the task.”