The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

He was still such a mystery. He had continued to court her during the brief time between her compromise and the wedding, and she could not say that he was anything but charming. But she still could not bring herself to trust in him without reservation.

She did like him. She liked him very much. He had a wicked sense of humor, ideally matched to her own, and if pressed, she would have said that she believed him to be a man of good moral fiber and principles.

But it wasn’t so much of a belief as it was a supposition, or in truth, just a hope. Her gut told her all would be well, but she didn’t really like to trust her gut. She was far too practical for that. She preferred tangibility; she desired proof.

Their courtship had not made sense. She simply could not get past that.

“We must make our farewells,” her husband—her husband!—said to her shortly after the wedding breakfast. The celebration, like the ceremony, had been simple, although not precisely small. The size of Iris’s family had made that impossible.

Iris had passed through the events of the day in a daze, nodding and smiling at what she hoped were the correct moments. Cousin after cousin stepped forth to congratulate her, but with every kiss on the cheek and pat on the hand, she could only think that she was one moment closer to stepping into Sir Richard’s carriage and riding away.

Now that time had come.

He handed her up, and she took a seat facing front. It was a nice carriage, well-appointed and comfortable. She hoped it was well sprung; according to her husband it was a four-day journey to Maycliffe Park.

A moment after she was settled, Sir Richard entered the carriage. He gave her a smile, then sat opposite her.

Iris peeked out the window at her family, gathered together in front of her home. No, not her home. Not any longer. She felt the mortifying prick of tears in her eyes and dug hastily in her beaded reticule for a handkerchief. She barely had her bag open, however, before Sir Richard leaned forward, proffering his own.

There was no point in denying her tearfulness, Iris supposed as she took the handkerchief. He could see her well enough. “I’m sorry,” she said as she dabbed her eyes. Brides weren’t meant to cry on their wedding days. Surely it could not portend anything good.

“You have nothing for which to apologize,” Sir Richard said kindly. “I know this has all been quite an upheaval.”

She gave him the best smile she could manage, which wasn’t much of one, really. “I was just thinking . . .” She motioned to the window. The carriage had not yet begun to move, and if she tilted her head just so, she could see what had once been her bedroom window. “It’s no longer my home.”

“I hope you will like Maycliffe.”

“I’m sure I will. Your descriptions are lovely.” He had told her of the grand staircase and secret passageways. A room where King James I had slept. There was an herb garden near the kitchen and an orangery in the back. It wasn’t attached to the house, though, and he’d told her that he’d long thought of connecting them.

“I shall do my best to make you happy,” he said.

She appreciated that he said that here, where they had no audience. “As shall I.”

The carriage began to move, its pace slow in the congested streets of London.

“How long shall we travel today?” Iris asked.

“About six hours in total, if the roads were not too affected by this morning’s rain.”

“Not such a long day.”

He smiled in agreement. “This close to town there are plenty of opportunities to take a rest, should you need one.”

“Thank you.”

It was by far the most polite, proper, and boring conversation they had ever had. Ironic, that.

“Do you mind if I read?” Iris asked, reaching into her reticule for a book.

“Not at all. I envy you, as a matter of fact. I am wholly unable to read in a moving carriage.”

“Even when you are facing forward?” She bit her lip. Good heavens, what was she saying? He would construe that to mean she wished for him to come sit next to her.

Which was not what she was saying at all.

Not that she would mind.

Which wasn’t to say that she desired it.

She was completely indifferent. Really. She did not care one way or another where he chose to sit.

“It matters not which way I am facing,” Sir Richard answered, reminding Iris that she had indeed asked him a question. “I find that staring out the window at a far-off spot often helps.”

“My mother says the same thing,” Iris agreed. “She, too, has difficulty reading in carriages.”

“I usually just ride alongside,” he said with a shrug. “It’s easier all the way around.”

“Did you not wish to do so today?” Oh, blast. Now he would think she was trying to boot him from the carriage. Which was also not what she was saying.

“I might later on,” he told her. “In town we move slowly enough that I’m not affected.”

She cleared her throat. “Right. Well, I’ll just read now, if you don’t mind.”

“Please.”

She opened her book and began to read. In a closed carriage. Alone with her new handsome husband. She read a book.

She had a feeling this was not the most romantic way to begin a marriage.

But then again, what did she know?

Chapter Nine

IT WAS NEARLY eight in the evening when they finally stopped for the day. Iris had been alone in the carriage for some time. They had made one brief stop so that everyone could see to their needs, and upon the resumption of their journey, Sir Richard had elected to ride alongside the vehicle. Iris told herself she did not feel slighted. He suffered from motion sickness; she did not wish him to become ill on their wedding day.