The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

He tugged at his cravat. “I was planning to visit tenants today.”

“May I come with you?”

Their eyes met. Iris wasn’t sure which one of them was more surprised. She’d hardly realized what she was going to say until the words were out.

“Of course,” Richard replied. What else could he say, right there in front of Mrs. Hopkins?

“I’ll fetch my spencer,” Iris said, taking a step toward the door. Spring was still a chilly season this far north.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

She turned.

He made a motion toward the sideboard. “Breakfast?”

“Oh.” She felt her face flush. “Of course. How silly of me.” She walked back to the food and took a plate, nearly jumping when she felt Richard’s breath near her ear.

“Should I be worried that my presence turns you off your food?”

She stiffened. Now he was flirting with her? “Excuse me,” she said. He was blocking the sausages.

He stepped aside. “Do you ride?”

“Not well,” she admitted. And then, just because she was feeling peevish, she asked, “Do you?”

He drew back, his eyes startled. And vexed. More vexed than startled. “Of course.”

She smiled to herself as she took a seat. Nothing got to a gentleman quite like an insult to his horsemanship.

“You needn’t wait with me,” she said, cutting her sausage with surgical precision. She was trying so hard to appear normal, not that he knew her well enough to know what was normal. But still, it was a matter of pride.

He slid into the seat across from her. “I am at your disposal.”

“Are you?” she murmured, wishing that such a comment did not make her pulse race.

“Indeed. I was about to leave when I saw you. Now I have nothing to do but wait.”

Iris glanced at him as she spread jam on her toast. He was sprawled in his chair in a most informal manner, leaning back with the lazy grace of a natural athlete.

“I should bring gifts,” she said, the idea coming to her rather suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gifts. For the tenants. I don’t know, baskets of food or some such. Don’t you think?”

He took a second or two to ponder that, then said, “You’re right. It never even occurred to me.”

“Well, to be fair, you weren’t planning to have me accompany you today.”

He nodded, smiling at her as she lifted her toast to her mouth.

She froze. “Is something wrong?”

“Why would something be wrong?”

“You’re smiling at me.”

“I’m not allowed to?”

“No, I—Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered under her breath. “Never mind.”

He waved this off. “Consider it forgotten.”

But he was still smiling at her.

It made her very uneasy.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

Really? He was going to ask her that?

“Iris?”

“As well as can be expected,” she answered. As soon as she found her voice.

“That doesn’t sound very promising.”

She shrugged. “It’s a strange room.”

“By that token, you would have had difficulty sleeping the entire journey.”

“I did,” she confirmed.

His eyes clouded with concern. “You should have said something to me.”

If you’d been in my room, you’d have seen for yourself, she wanted to say. Instead she said, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Richard leaned forward and took her hand, which was a little awkward as she’d been reaching for her tea. “I hope you will always feel comfortable coming to me with your problems.”

Iris tried to keep her face impassive, but she had a feeling she was looking at him as if he were some sort of zoo exhibit. It was lovely that he was acting with such concern, but they were only talking about a few nights of disrupted sleep. “I’m sure I shall,” she said with an uneasy smile.

“Good.”

She glanced about the room awkwardly. He was still holding her hand. “My tea,” she finally said, tipping her head in the direction of the cup.

“Of course. So sorry.” But when he let go, his fingers slid along hers like a caress.

A little frisson of awareness danced up her arm. He had that lovely, lazy smile on his face again, the one that made her feel rather warm inside. He was trying to seduce her again. She was sure of it.

But why? Why would he treat her with such warmth only to reject her? He was not that cruel. He could not be.

She took a hasty sip of her tea, wishing he would stop looking at her so intently. “What was your mother like?” she blurted out.

That seemed to disconcert him. “My mother?”

“You’ve never told me about her.” And more to the point, it was not the sort of topic that invited romance. Iris needed a nice innocuous conversation if she was to have any hope of finishing her breakfast.

“My mother was . . .” He seemed not to know what to say.

Iris took another bite of her breakfast, watching him with a serene expression as he wrinkled his nose and blinked a few times. Maybe she was at heart a selfish, petty creature, but she was enjoying this. He flustered her all the time. Surely a little turnabout was fair game.

“She loved to be outside,” he finally said. “She cultivated roses. And other plants, too, but the roses were the only ones I could ever remember the names of.”

“What did she look like?”