The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy
“I played the cello,” she said, “because it was expected of me. And because it made my family happy. And despite what I say about them, I love them dearly.”
“You do, don’t you,” he murmured.
She looked at him earnestly. “Even after all that, I consider Sarah one of my dearest friends.”
He regarded her with a curiously steady expression. “You obviously possess a high capacity for forgiveness.”
Iris felt herself draw back as she considered this. “I never thought so,” she said.
“I hope you do,” he said quietly.
“I beg your pardon?” Surely she could not have heard that correctly.
But he had already got to his feet and was holding out his hand. “Come, the day awaits.”
Chapter Thirteen
“YOU WANT HOW many baskets?”
Richard pretended not to notice Mrs. Hopkins’s dumbfounded expression. “Just eighteen,” he said jovially.
“Eighteen?” she demanded. “Do you know how long something like that takes?”
“It would be a difficult task for anyone but you,” he demurred.
The housekeeper narrowed her eyes, but he could tell she liked the compliment.
“Don’t you think it’s an excellent idea to bring baskets to the tenants?” he said, before she could come up with another protest. He tugged Iris forward. “It was Lady Kenworthy’s idea.”
“I thought it would be a nice gesture,” Iris said.
“Lady Kenworthy is all that is generous,” Mrs. Hopkins said, “but—”
“We’ll help,” Richard suggested.
Her mouth fell open.
“Many hands make light work, isn’t that something you used to say?”
“Not to you,” the housekeeper retorted.
Iris stifled a laugh. Charming little traitor, she was. But Richard was in far too good a mood to take offense. “The dangers of having servants who’ve known you since school days,” he murmured in her ear.
“School days!” Mrs. Hopkins scoffed. “I’ve known you since you were in—”
“I know exactly how long you’ve known me,” Richard cut in. He didn’t need Mrs. Hopkins mentioning his time in nappies in front of Iris.
“I would like to help, actually,” Iris said. “I am eager to meet the tenants, and I do think that the gifts would be more meaningful if I helped to pack them myself.”
“I don’t know that we even have eighteen baskets,” Mrs. Hopkins grumbled.
“Surely they don’t need to be actual baskets,” Iris said. “Any sort of container would do. And I’m sure you will know the best things with which to fill them.”
Richard just grinned, admiring his wife’s easy handling of the housekeeper. Each day—no, each hour—he learned something new about her. And with each revelation, he realized just how lucky he was that he had chosen her. It was so strange to think that he probably would not have looked twice in her direction if he hadn’t found himself forced to find a bride so quickly.
It was difficult to recall just what he’d thought he’d wanted in a wife. A substantial dowry, of course. He’d had to give that up, but now, as he watched Iris make herself at home in Maycliffe’s kitchen, it no longer seemed so urgent. If the repairs he needed to make to the house had to wait a year or two, so be it. Iris was not the sort to complain.
He thought about the women he had considered before Iris. He could not remember much about them, just that they had always seemed to be dancing or flirting or tapping his arm with a fan. They were women who demanded attention.
Whereas Iris earned it.
With her fierce intelligence and her quiet, sly humor, she had a way of sneaking up on his thoughts. She surprised him at every turn.
Who would have thought that he’d like her so well?
Like.
Who liked a wife? In his world, wives were tolerated, indulged, and if one was very lucky, desired. But liked?
If he hadn’t married Iris, he’d want her for a friend.
Well, he would, except for the complication of wanting so badly to take her to bed he could barely think straight. The night before, when he’d gone in to bid her good night, he’d almost lost control. He’d wanted to become her husband truly, he’d wanted her to know that he wanted her. He’d seen her face after he kissed her on the forehead. She was confused. Hurt. She’d thought he didn’t desire her.
Didn’t desire her?
It was so far from the truth as to be almost laughable. What would she think if she knew he lay awake at night, taut and burning with need as he imagined all the ways he wanted to bring her pleasure. What would she say if he told her how much he longed to bury himself within her, to imprint himself upon her, to make her understand that she was his, that he wanted her to be his, and he would gladly be hers.
“Richard?”
He turned at the sound of his wife’s voice. Or rather, he turned partway. His wicked thoughts had left their mark upon his body, and he was relieved that he could conceal himself behind the counter.
“Did you say something?” she asked.
Did he?
“Well, you made a sound,” she said with a shrug.
He could only imagine. Good Lord, how was he going to get through the next few months?
“Richard?” she said again. She looked amused, perhaps a little delighted at having caught him woolgathering. When he did not immediately reply, she shook her head with a smile and turned back to her work.
He watched her for a few moments, then dipped his hands in a nearby bowl of water and discreetly patted his face. When he was feeling sufficiently cooled, he walked over to where Iris and Mrs. Hopkins were sorting through items.