The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

And now . . . Now that they were married and he had no reason to hold his passions . . .

It made no sense.

But then again, neither had marrying her, and he’d done that with alacrity.

She bit her lip.

“I have asked much of you,” he said.

“Not so much,” she muttered.

“What was that?”

She gave her head a little shake. “Nothing.”

He let out a breath, the only signal that this conversation might be even a little difficult for him. “You have moved halfway across the country,” he said. “I have taken you away from all you hold dear.”

Iris managed a tight smile. Was this meant to reassure her?

“But I do believe,” he continued, “that we will suit very well. And I hope that you will come to view Maycliffe as home.”

“Thank you,” she said politely. She appreciated that he was making such an effort to make her feel welcome, but it wasn’t doing much to soothe her nerves.

“My sisters will be most eager to meet you.”

Iris hoped that was true.

“I wrote to them about you,” he continued.

She looked up in surprise. “When?” she asked. He would have had to have done so immediately following their engagement if the news was to reach Maycliffe before she did.

“I sent an express.”

Iris nodded, even as she returned her gaze to the window. That would have done it. Express riders were dear, but well worth it if one needed a missive to arrive quickly. She wondered what he might have written about her. How might he describe his intended bride after barely a week of acquaintance? And to his sisters, no less?

She turned back, trying to observe Richard’s face without being too obvious about it. He was quite intelligent, this much she’d known after less than a week of acquaintance. He was very good with people, too, far better than she was, that was for certain. She imagined that anything he wrote of her to his sisters would depend on them. He would know what they would wish to learn about her.

“You’ve told me almost nothing of them,” she said suddenly.

He blinked.

“Your sisters.”

“Oh. Haven’t I?”

“No.” And how strange that she was only just realizing it then. She supposed it was because she knew the most important facts—names, ages, a bit of what they looked like. But she knew absolutely nothing else, save for Fleur’s fondness for Pride and Prejudice.

“Oh,” he said again. He glanced out the window, then back to her, his movements an uncharacteristic staccato. “Well. Fleur is eighteen, Marie-Claire three years younger.”

“Yes, you’ve said as much.” Her sarcasm was subtle, and from the look on his face, it took him a few seconds to realize it.

“Fleur likes to read,” he said brightly.

“Pride and Prejudice,” Iris supplied.

“Yes, see?” He gave her a charming smile. “I’ve told you things.”

“I suppose technically that is true,” she said with a little nod in his direction. “Things being plural, and two being plural, and your having told me two things . . .”

His eyes narrowed, mostly with amusement. “Very well, what would you like to know?”

She hated when people asked questions like that. “Anything.”

“You haven’t told me anything about your siblings,” he pointed out.

“You’ve met my siblings.”

“Not your brother.”

“You’re not going to live with my brother,” she retorted.

“Point taken,” he acknowledged, “although one might say that any further information from me would be superfluous, as you’re going to meet them in about three minutes.”

“What?” Iris nearly shrieked, whipping back around to the window. Sure enough, they had left the main road and entered a long drive. The trees were thinner here than on the main road, the fields rolling gently to the horizon. It was a lovely landscape, peaceful and serene.

“It’s just over the rise.”

She could hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice.

“Just a moment now,” he murmured.

And then she saw it. Maycliffe Park. It was bigger than she’d imagined, although certainly nothing to Fensmore or Whipple Hill. But those were homes of earls. Her cousins, but still earls of the realm.

Maycliffe had its charms, though. From the distance, it appeared to be red brick, with rather unusual Dutch gables adorning the façade. There was something almost uneven about it, but given what she knew of its history, that made sense. Richard had told her that the house had been modified and added to several times over the years.

“The family rooms face south,” he told her. “You’ll be glad for it in the winter.”

“I don’t know which way we’re facing now,” Iris admitted.

He smiled. “We are approaching from the west. So your rooms will be around that”—he pointed to the right—“corner.”

Iris nodded without turning back to her husband. Right now she wanted to keep her attention on her new home. As they pulled closer, she saw that each gable was dotted with a small circular window. “Who has the rooms at the top?” she asked. “With the round windows?”

“It’s a bit of a mix. Some are for servants. On the south, it’s the nursery. My mother turned one into a reading room.”

He hadn’t said much about his parents, either, Iris realized. Just that they’d both passed, his mother when he was a student at Eton, his father a few years later.