The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

“What are you putting in that one?” he asked, peeking over Iris’s shoulder as she placed items into a small wooden crate.

Iris glanced up at him only briefly. She was clearly enjoying her work. “Mrs. Hopkins said that the Millers likely need some new linens.”

“Dishcloths?” It seemed a rather plain gift to him.

“It’s what they need,” Iris said. But then she flashed him a smile. “We’re also adding some biscuits just as soon as they come out of the oven. Because it’s always nice to get some things you want, too.”

Richard stared at her for the longest moment.

Self-consciously, she checked her dress, then touched her cheek. “Do I have something on my face? I was helping with the jam . . .”

She had nothing on her face, but he leaned forward and lightly kissed the corner of her mouth. “Right here,” he murmured.

She touched the spot where he’d kissed her. She gazed at him with an expression of wonder, as if she wasn’t sure what had just happened.

He wasn’t sure, either.

“It’s all better now,” he told her.

“Thank you. I—” A faint blush stole over her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

And it was.

For the next two hours Richard pretended to help with baskets. Iris and Mrs. Hopkins had everything well in hand, and when he tried to make a suggestion, it was either waved away or considered and found wanting.

He didn’t mind. He was happy to assume the position of biscuit-tester (uniformly excellent, he was happy to inform Cook), and watch Iris assume her role as mistress of Maycliffe.

Finally, they had a collection of eighteen baskets, boxes, and bowls, each carefully packed and labeled with the surname of a tenant family. No two gifts were the same; the Dunlops, with four boys between the ages of twelve and sixteen, were given a hefty portion of food, while one of Marie-Claire’s old dolls was placed in the basket for the Smiths, whose three-year-old daughter was recovering from croup. The Millers got their dishcloths and biscuits, and the Burnhams a hearty ham and two books—a study of land management for the eldest son, who had recently taken over the farm, and a romantic novel for his sisters.

And maybe for the son, too, Richard thought with a grin. Everyone could use a romantic novel every now and then.

Everything was loaded into a wagon, and soon Richard and Iris were on their way, bound for all four corners of Maycliffe Park.

“Not the most glamorous of conveyances,” he said with a rueful smile, as they bumped along the road.

Iris put her hand on her head as a stiff wind threatened to steal her bonnet. “I don’t mind. Goodness, can you imagine trying to transport all this in a barouche?”

He didn’t have a barouche, but there seemed little reason to mention this, so instead he said, “You should tie your bonnet strings. You won’t have to keep holding your hat.”

“I know. I’ve just always found it uncomfortable. I don’t like the feeling of them tight under my chin.” She looked over at him with a sparkle in her eye. “You should not be so hasty to offer advice. Your hat is affixed upon your head in no way whatsoever.”

As if on cue, the wagon took a bump just as the wind picked up again, and he felt his top hat rising from his head.

“Oh!” Iris yelped, and without thinking she grabbed his hat and pushed it back down. They had been sitting next to each other, but the movement brought them even closer, and when he slowed the horses and allowed himself to look at her, her face was tipped up toward his, radiant and very, very close.

“I think . . .” he murmured, but as he gazed into her eyes, made even more vivid under the bright blue sky, his words fell away.

“You think . . . ?” she whispered. Her hand was still on his head. Her other hand was on her head, and it would have been the most ridiculous position if it weren’t so utterly wonderful.

The horses ambled to a stop, clearly confused by his lack of direction.

“I think I might need to kiss you,” Richard said. He touched her cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking softly across her milky skin. She was so beautiful. How was it possible he hadn’t realized just how beautiful until this very moment?

The space between them melted into nothingness, and his lips found hers, soft and willing, breathless with wonder. He kissed her slowly, languorously, giving himself time to discover the shape of her, the taste, the texture. It was not the first time he’d kissed her, but it felt brand-new.

There was something exquisitely innocent in the moment. He did not crush her to his body; he did not even wish to. This was not a kiss of possession, nor one of lust. It was something else entirely, something born of curiosity, of captivation.

Softly, he deepened the kiss, letting his tongue glide along the silken skin of her lower lip. She sighed against him, her body softening as she welcomed his caress.

She was perfect. And sweet. And he had the strangest sense that he could stay there all day, his hand on her cheek, her hand on his head, touching nowhere else but at their lips. It was almost chaste, almost spiritual.

But then a bird cawed loudly in the distance, its sharp call piercing the moment. Something changed. Iris grew still, or maybe she simply breathed again, and with a shaky exhale, Richard managed to pull himself a few inches away. He blinked, then blinked again, trying to bring the world into focus. His universe had shrunk to this one woman, and he could not seem to see anything but her face.

Her eyes were filled with amazement, the same expression, he thought, that must be in his own. Her lips were gently parted, offering him the tiniest peek at her pink tongue. It was the strangest thing, but he felt no urge to kiss her. He wanted just to look at her. He wanted to watch the emotions wash across her face. He wanted to watch her eyes as the pupils adjusted to the light. He wanted to memorize the shape of her lips, to learn how quickly her eyelashes swept up and down when she blinked.