The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

She did not understand him.

One moment he was charming, and the next he was fleeing her presence as if she carried plague. She could not believe he had had the housekeeper show her to her room. Surely that was a new husband’s job. But she supposed she should not have been surprised. Richard had avoided her bed at all three inns they’d visited on the journey north. Why should she think he might behave differently now?

She sighed. She needed to learn to be indifferent to him. Not cruel, not unkind, just . . . unaffected. When he smiled at her—and he did smile at her, the cur—her whole being seemed to fizz with happiness. Which would have been lovely, except that it made his rejection even more puzzling.

And painful.

Honestly, it would be better if he weren’t so nice to her most of the time. If she could dislike him—

No, what was she thinking? It would not be better if he were cruel or ignored her completely. Surely a complicated marriage was better than an unpleasant one. She had to stop being melodramatic. It was not like her. She just needed to find some sort of equilibrium and maintain it.

“Good evening, Lady Kenworthy.”

Iris started with surprise. Richard was poking his head through the partially open doorway that led to the hall. “I did knock,” he said with an amused expression.

“I’m sure you did,” she said hastily. “My mind was elsewhere.”

His smile grew more sly. “Dare I ask where?”

“Home,” she lied, then realized what she’d said. “I mean London. This is my home now.”

“Yes,” he said, and he entered the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. His head tilted slightly to the side, and he stared at her for just long enough to make her fidget. “Have you done something different with your hair?”

And just like that, all of her vows to remain indifferent went out the window.

Iris nervously touched her head, just behind her right ear. He’d noticed. She had not thought he would. “One of the maids helped me to dress,” she said. “She’s rather fond of . . .”

Why was he looking at her so intently?

“Fond of . . . ?”

“Little braids,” she said in a rush. A ridiculous rush. She sounded like a ninny.

“It looks lovely.”

“Thank you.”

He gazed at her warmly. “You do have the most marvelous hair. The color is exquisite. I have never seen the like.”

Iris’s lips parted. She should say something. She should thank him. But she felt almost frozen—not cold, just frozen—and then she felt ridiculous. To be so affected by a compliment.

Richard was thankfully unaware of her torment. “I’m sorry you had to travel without a maid,” he continued. “I confess I did not even consider the issue. Typical of the males of our species, I’m sure.”

“I-it was not a problem.”

His smile deepened, and Iris wondered if it was because he knew he’d flustered her.

“Nevertheless,” he said, “I apologize.”

Iris didn’t know what to say. Which was just as well, because she wasn’t sure she remembered how to speak.

“Did Mrs. Hopkins show you your room?” Richard asked.

“Yes,” Iris said with a little bob of a nod. “She was most helpful.”

“It meets with your satisfaction?”

“Of course,” Iris said with complete honesty. It was a lovely chamber, bright and cheerful with its southern exposure. But what she really loved . . .

She looked up at Richard with bliss in her eyes. “You have no idea how delighted I am to have my own washroom.”

He chuckled. “Really? That’s what you love best?”

“After sharing one with Daisy for the last seventeen years? Absolutely.” She tipped her head toward him in what she hoped was a cheeky manner. “And the view from the window isn’t bad, either.”

His laugh deepened, and he stepped toward the window, motioning for her to join him. “What do you see?” he asked.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Iris said, carefully positioning herself so that they did not touch.

But he was not so inclined. He looped his arm through hers and gently tugged her closer. “I have lived my entire life at Maycliffe. When I gaze out this window, I see the tree I first climbed when I was seven. And the spot where my mother always wanted a hedgerow maze.”

A wistful expression came over his face, and Iris had to look away. It felt almost intrusive to watch him.

“I cannot see Maycliffe through a newcomer’s eyes,” she heard him say. “Perhaps you would do me the favor of enlightening me.”

His voice was smooth and velvety, flowing through her like warm chocolate. She kept her eyes forward, but she knew that he had turned toward her. His breath tickled her cheek, warming the air between them.

“What do you see, Iris?”

She swallowed. “I see . . . grass. And trees.”

Richard made a funny noise, like he was swallowing his surprise.

“Bit of a hill,” she added.

“You’re not very poetic, are you?”

“Not at all,” she admitted. “Are you?” She turned, forgetting that she had intended not to, and she was startled by his nearness.

“I can be,” he said softly.

“When it suits you?”

He smiled slowly. “When it suits me.”

Iris gave a nervous smile and looked back out the window. She felt terribly jumpy, her feet wiggling about in her slippers as if someone were sparking tiny fires beneath her. “I’d rather hear what you see,” she said. “I need to learn about Maycliffe. I want to be a good mistress of the estate.”