The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

“Now?”

She rolled her eyes. “The Smythe-Smith bouquet, the garden girls, the hothouse flowers . . .”

“The hothouse flowers?”

“My mother was not amused.”

“No, I don’t imagine she was.”

“It was not always ‘flowers,’” she said with a bit of a wince. “I’m told that some gentlemen were fond of alliteration.”

“Gentlemen?” Richard echoed doubtfully. He could come up with all sorts of things that began with H, and none of them were complimentary.

Iris speared a tiny potato with her fork. “I use the term loosely.”

He watched her for a moment. At first glance, his new wife seemed wispy, almost insubstantial. She was not tall, only up to his shoulder, and rather thin. (Although not, he had discovered recently, without curves.) And then, of course, there was her remarkable coloring. But her eyes, which on first glance had seemed pale and insipid, sharpened and glowed with intelligence when she was engaged in conversation. And when she moved it became clear that her slender frame was not one of weakness and malaise but rather of strength and determination.

Iris Smythe-Smith did not glide through rooms as so many of her peers had been trained to do; when she walked, it was with direction and purpose.

And her name, he reminded himself, was not Smythe-Smith. She was Iris Kenworthy, and he was coming to realize that he had barely scratched the surface of knowing her.

Chapter Ten

Three days later

THEY WERE GETTING CLOSE.

It had been ten minutes since they’d passed through Flixton, the nearest village to Maycliffe Park. Iris tried not to look too eager—or nervous—as she watched the landscape slide by through the window. She tried to tell herself it was just a house, and if her husband’s descriptions were accurate, not even a terribly grand one at that.

But it was his house, which meant it was now her house, and she desperately wished to make a good impression upon her arrival. Richard had told her there were thirteen servants in the house proper, nothing too daunting, but then he’d mentioned that the butler had been there since his childhood, and the housekeeper even longer, and Iris could not help but think that it did not matter that her surname was now Kenworthy—she was the interloper in this equation.

They would hate her. The servants would hate her, and his sisters would hate her, and if he had a dog (really, shouldn’t she know if he had a dog?), it would probably hate her as well.

She could see it now, prancing up to Richard with a silly dog grin, then turning to her, fangs out and snarling.

A jolly homecoming this would be.

Richard had sent word ahead to alert the household of the approximate time of their arrival. Iris was well enough acquainted with country house life to know that a swift rider would be watching for them a few miles out. By the time their carriage arrived at Maycliffe, the entire household would be lined up to greet them.

Richard spoke of the upper servants with great affection; given his charm and amiability, Iris could only imagine that this feeling was returned in equal measure. The servants would take one look at her, and it would not matter if she was trying to be fair-minded and kind. It would not matter if she smiled at her husband and appeared happy and pleased with her new home. They would be watching her closely and would see it in her eyes. She was not in love with her husband.

And perhaps more importantly, he was not in love with her.

There would be gossip. There was always gossip when the master of an estate married, but she was a complete unknown in Yorkshire, and given the rushed nature of the wedding, the whispers about her would be intense. Would they think she had trapped him into marriage? It could not be further from the truth, and yet—

“Do not worry.”

Iris looked up at the sound of Richard’s voice, thankful that he had broken the vicious cycle of her thoughts. “I’m not worried,” she lied.

He quirked a brow. “Allow me to rephrase. There is no need for you to worry.”

Iris folded her hands primly in her lap. “I did not think there was.”

Another lie. She was getting good at this. Or maybe not. From Richard’s expression, it was clear he did not believe her.

“Very well,” she acceded. “I am a little nervous.”

“Ah. Well, there probably is reason for that.”

“Sir Richard!”

He grinned. “Sorry. I could not resist. And if you recall, I would prefer that you not call me sir. At least not when we are alone.”

She tilted her head, deciding he deserved the ambiguity of such a response.

“Iris,” he said, his voice gentle, “I would be a cad if I did not recognize that you have had to make all of the adjustments in our union.”

Not all, Iris thought acerbically. And certainly not the biggest. In fact, one might say that a rather important part of her had not been adjusted in the least. The second night of their journey had passed much the same as the first: in separate bedchambers. Richard had repeated what he’d said before, that she did not deserve a wedding night in a dusty inn.

Never mind that the Royal Oak was every bit as spotless as the Dusty Goose had been. The same went for the Kings Arms, where they’d slept the final night of their journey. Iris knew that she should feel honored that her husband held her in such regard, that he would put her comfort and well-being above his needs, but she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the man who had kissed her so passionately at Pleinsworth House barely a week before. He had seemed so overcome by her nearness, so wholly unable to restrain himself.