The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

Then Iris had tripped while exiting the carriage. He’d caught her, of course. He was a gentleman; it was instinct. He would have done so for any lady.

But when he touched her, when his hands settled on the curve of her small waist, and her body slid along his as he lowered her to the ground . . .

Something inside of him had caught fire.

He did not know what had changed. Was it something primitive, something deep in the heart of him that now knew she was his?

He’d felt like an idiot, stunned and frozen, unable to remove his hands from her hips. His blood pounded through his veins, and his heart beat so loudly he could not believe she did not hear it. And all he could think was—

I want her.

And it wasn’t just the usual I-haven’t-been-with-a-woman-in-a-few-months sort of want. It was electric, an instant bolt of desire so strong it stole the breath from his body.

He’d wanted to tilt her face toward his and kiss her until she was gasping with need.

He’d wanted to cup his hands on her bottom and squeeze and lift until she had no choice but to wrap her legs around him.

And then he’d wanted to push her back against a tree and own her.

Good Lord. He wanted his wife. And he couldn’t have her.

Not yet.

Richard swore again as he wrenched off his coat and flung himself onto his bed. Damn! He did not need such a complication. He was going to have to tell her to lock her bloody door when they took up residence at Maycliffe.

He swore yet again. He didn’t even know if there was a lock on the connecting door between the master’s and mistress’s bedrooms.

He’d have to install one.

No, that would cause talk. Who the hell added a lock to a connecting bedroom door?

Not to mention Iris’s feelings. He had seen in her eyes that she’d been surprised that he did not plan to visit her on their wedding night. He was quite certain she was at least somewhat relieved—he did not flatter himself that she had fallen desperately in love with him in so short a time. Even if she had, she was hardly the sort to approach the marriage bed without trepidation.

But she was also hurt. He had seen that, too, despite her attempts to hide it. And why shouldn’t she be? For all she could tell, her husband did not find her appealing enough to take to bed on their wedding night.

He let out a grim laugh. Nothing could have been further from the truth. God only knew how long it was going to take for his traitorous body to settle down enough to escort her to supper.

Oh yes, that would be genteel. Here, take my arm, but do ignore my raging erection.

Someone really needed to invent a better pair of breeches.

He lay on his back, thinking unamorous thoughts. Anything to direct his mind to something other than the delicate flare of his wife’s hip. Or the soft pink of her lips. It was a color that would have been ordinary on anyone else, but against Iris’s pale skin . . .

He swore. Again. This was not the way this was supposed to go. Bad thoughts, unappealing thoughts . . . Let’s see, there was that time he’d got food poisoning at Eton. Very bad fish, that was. Salmon? No, pike. He’d vomited for days. Oh, and the pond at Maycliffe. It would be cold this time of year. Very cold. Balls-numbingly cold.

Bird-watching, Latin conjugation, his great-aunt Gladys (God rest her soul). Spiders, soured milk, plague.

Bubonic plague.

Bubonic plague on his cold, numb . . .

That did the trick.

He checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes had passed. Possibly eleven. Certainly enough time to warrant hauling his pathetic self off the bed and making himself presentable.

With a groan, Richard pulled his coat back on. He should probably change for supper, but surely such rules could be relaxed while traveling. And besides, he’d already told his valet that he would not need his services until he retired for the evening. He hoped Iris had not thought she must don a more formal gown. It had not occurred to him to tell her so.

At precisely the correct time, he rapped upon her door. She opened it immediately.

“You did not change,” he blurted out. Like an idiot.

Her eyes widened as if she feared she had made an error. “Was I meant to?”

“No, no. I’d meant to tell you not to bother.” He cleared his throat. “But I forgot.”

“Oh.” She smiled. Awkwardly. “Well, I didn’t. Change, that is.”

“I see.”

Richard made a note to compliment himself on his sparkling wit.

She stood there.

So did he.

“I brought a shawl,” she said.

“Good idea.”

“I thought it might get cold.”

“It might.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought.”

He stood there.

So did she.

“We should eat,” he said suddenly, holding out his arm. It was dangerous to touch her, even under such innocent circumstances, but he was going to have to get used to it. He could hardly refuse to offer her his escort for the next however many months.

He really needed to find out how many months. Exactly how many months.

“Mr. Fogg was not exaggerating about his wife’s roast,” he said, struggling for something utterly innocuous. “She is a splendid cook.”

He might have imagined it, but he thought Iris looked relieved that he had initiated a bit of ordinary conversation. “That will be lovely,” she said. “I’m quite hungry.”

“Did you not eat in the carriage?”

She shook her head. “I meant to, but I fell asleep.”

“I’m sorry I was not there to entertain you.” He bit his tongue. He knew exactly how he’d have liked to entertain her, even if she was innocent of such activities.