The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy
“Don’t be silly. You do not do well in carriages.”
True. But then again, he had never taken a long carriage ride with her.
“I imagine you will wish to ride alongside the carriage again tomorrow?” she asked.
“I think it would be best.” For so many reasons.
She nodded. “I might have to find another book to read. I’m afraid I shall finish this one up rather more quickly than expected.”
They reached the door to the private dining room, and Richard stepped forward so that he might open it for her. “What are you reading?” he asked.
“Another book by Miss Austen. Mansfield Park.”
He held out her chair. “I am not familiar with it. I do not think my sister has read it.”
“It is not as romantic as her others.”
“Ah. That explains it. Fleur would not like it, then.”
“Is your sister such a romantic?”
Richard started to open his mouth, then paused. How to describe Fleur? She was not exactly his favorite person these days. “I think she is, yes,” he finally said.
Iris seemed amused by this. “You think?”
He felt himself smile, sheepishly. “It’s not the sort of thing she discusses with her brother. Romance, I mean.”
“No, I suppose not.” She shrugged and stabbed a potato with her fork. “I certainly would not discuss it with mine.”
“You have a brother?”
She gave him a startled look. “Of course.”
Damn, he should have known that. What sort of man did not know that his wife had a brother?
“John,” she said. “He’s the youngest.”
This was even more of a surprise. “You have a brother named John?”
At that she laughed. “Shocking, I know. He should have been a Florian. Or a Basil. It’s really not fair.”
“What about William?” he suggested. “For Sweet William?”
“That would have been even more cruel. To have a flower’s name and still be so utterly normal.”
“Oh, come now. Iris isn’t Mary or Jane, but it isn’t so uncommon.”
“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s that there are five of us. What is common and ordinary becomes awful in bulk.” She looked down at her food, her eyes dancing with amusement.
“What?” he asked. He had to know what was causing such a delightful expression.
She shook her head, her lips pressed together, obviously trying not to laugh.
“Tell me. I insist.”
She leaned forward, as if imparting a great secret. “If John had been a girl, he would have been called Hydrangea.”
“Good God.”
“I know. My brother is a lucky, lucky boy.”
Richard chuckled, then suddenly realized that they had been talking quite comfortably for several minutes. More than comfortably—really, she was quite good company, his new wife. Maybe this would all work out. He just had to get past this first hurdle . . .
“Why was your brother absent from the wedding?” he asked her.
She didn’t bother to look up from her food as she answered. “He is still at Eton. My parents did not think he should be removed from school for such a small celebration.”
“But all of your cousins were there.”
“You had no family in attendance,” she countered.
There were reasons for that, but he wasn’t prepared to go into them now.
“And at any rate,” Iris continued, “that wasn’t all of my cousins.”
“Good Lord, how many of you are there?”
Her lips pinched together. She was trying not to smile. “I have thirty-four first cousins.”
He stared at her. It was an incomprehensible number.
“And five siblings,” she added.
“That is . . . remarkable.”
She shrugged. He supposed it didn’t seem so remarkable if it was all she had known. “My father was one of eight,” she said.
“Still.” He speared a piece of Mrs. Fogg’s famous roast beef. “I have precisely zero first cousins.”
“Truly?” She looked shocked.
“My mother’s older sister was widowed quite young. She had no children and no wish to remarry.”
“And your father?”
“He had two siblings, but they died without issue.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Why?”
“Well, because—” She stopped, her chin drawing back as she pondered her answer. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I cannot imagine being so alone.”
For some reason he found this amusing. “I do have two sisters.”
“Of course, but—” Again, she cut herself off.
“But what?” He smiled to show her he was not offended.
“It’s just so . . . few of you.”
“I can assure you it did not feel that way when I was growing up.”
“No, I imagine not.”
Richard helped himself to two more of Mrs. Fogg’s Yorkshire puddings. “Your home was a hive of activity, I imagine.”
“Closer to a madhouse.”
He laughed.
“I’m not jesting,” she said. But she grinned.
“I hope you will find my two sisters an adequate substitute for yours.”
She smiled and cocked her head flirtatiously to the side. “With a name like Fleur, it was predestined, don’t you think?”
“Ah yes, the florals.”
“Is that what they call us now?”