The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

Richard tilted his head toward the innkeeper in salute, then said, “Allow me to introduce my new wife, Lady Kenworthy. Lady Kenworthy, this is Mr. Fogg, esteemed proprietor of the Dusty Goose.”

“I am honored to meet you, ma’am,” Mr. Fogg said. “Your husband is our favorite guest.”

Richard gave him a half smile. “A frequent one, at least.”

“Your inn is lovely,” Iris said. “I see no dust, however.”

Mr. Fogg grinned. “We do our best to keep the geese outside.”

Iris laughed, and was dearly grateful for it. The sound had become almost unfamiliar.

“Shall I show you to your rooms?” the innkeeper asked. “Mrs. Fogg has prepared supper for you. Her very best roast, with cheese, potatoes, and Yorkshire puddings. I can have it served in the private dining room whenever you wish.”

Iris smiled her thanks and followed Mr. Fogg up the stairs.

“Here we are, my lady,” he said, opening a door at the far end of the hall. “It is our finest chamber.”

It was indeed very fine for a coaching inn, Iris thought, with a large four-poster bed and a window facing south.

“We have but two rooms with private washing chambers,” Mr. Fogg continued, “but, of course, we have saved this one for you.” He opened another door, displaying a small windowless room with a chamber pot and a copper tub. “One of our maids will draw you a hot bath, should you wish it.”

“I will let you know, thank you,” Iris said. She wasn’t sure why she was so eager to make a good impression on an innkeeper of all people, except that her husband seemed quite fond of him. And, of course, there was no reason to be rude to someone who was so clearly going out of his way to please her.

Mr. Fogg bowed. “Very well. I shall leave you, ma’am. I am sure you wish to rest after your journey. Sir Richard?”

Iris blinked in confusion as he led Richard to the door.

“You’re just across the hall,” Mr. Fogg continued.

“Very good,” Richard said.

“You’re—” Iris caught herself before she blurted something embarrassing. Her husband had reserved separate rooms for their wedding night?

“Ma’am?” Mr. Fogg asked, turning back to her in question.

“It’s nothing,” Iris said quickly. There was no way she was going to let on that she had been surprised by the sleeping arrangements.

Surprised and . . . And relieved. And maybe a little bit hurt, too.

“If you will just open my room for me,” Richard said to Mr. Fogg, “I can make my way there myself. In the meantime, I would like a private word with my wife.”

The innkeeper bowed and took his leave.

“Iris,” Richard said.

She didn’t turn toward him, exactly, but she did glance in his direction. And tried to smile.

“I would not do you the dishonor of demanding a wedding night at a roadside inn,” he said in a stiff voice.

“I see.”

He seemed to be waiting for a lengthier reply, so she added, “That is very considerate of you.”

He was silent for a moment, his right hand tapping awkwardly against his thigh. “You have been rushed into this.”

“Nonsense,” she said crisply, forcing a touch of levity into her voice. “I have known you all of two weeks. I can name half a dozen marriages that have been forged on slighter acquaintances.”

He lifted a brow. A very sardonic one, and not for the first time Iris wished she weren’t so bloody pale. Even if she could raise a single brow, no one would be able to see it.

He bowed. “I will take my leave.”

She turned away, pretending to fuss with something in her reticule. “Please.”

There was another uncomfortable silence.

“I shall see you for supper?” he inquired.

“Of course.” She had to eat, didn’t she?

“Will a quarter of an hour suffice?” His voice was scrupulously polite.

She nodded, even though she was not facing him. He could discern the movement, she was sure. And she no longer trusted her voice.

“I shall knock before I go down,” he said, and then she heard the door click behind him.

Iris held herself still, not even breathing. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps some part of her needed for him to be away, farther away than a simple click of the door. She needed him to cross the hall, enter his own chamber, close that door behind him.

She needed all of that between them.

And then she could cry.

RICHARD CLOSED IRIS’S door, walked carefully across the hall, opened his own door, shut it, locked it, and then let out a stream of invective so fluent, so spectacularly creative that it was a wonder lightning did not smite the entire Dusty Goose on the spot.

What the hell was he going to do?

Everything had been going to plan. Everything. He’d met Iris, he’d got her to marry him, and they were on their way north. He hadn’t exactly told her everything yet—very well, he hadn’t really told her much of anything yet, but he’d never planned to do so until they arrived at Maycliffe and met his sisters, anyway.

That he’d found a wife who was so intelligent and agreeable was a relief. That she was attractive was a lovely bonus. He had not, however, anticipated that he would want her.

Not like this.

He’d kissed her in London, and he’d quite liked it—enough to know that bedding her would be no hardship. But enjoyable as the experience was, he’d had no difficulty stopping when the time came. His pulse had quickened, and he’d felt the first stirrings of desire, but it had been nothing that was not easily tamed.