The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

“Not quick,” Iris corrected. “Devious.”

“Even worse.”

“He is the oldest,” she told Tommy meaningfully. “What he achieved with brute force, we’ve had to manage with our wits.”

“She’s got you there, Sir Richard,” Tommy chortled.

“She always does.”

“Really?” Iris murmured, her brows high.

Richard just smiled secretively. Let her make of that what she will.

They entered the house, Tommy calling ahead to his mother that Sir Richard was here with the new Lady Kenworthy. Mrs. Burnham bustled out immediately, wiping floury hands on her apron. “Sir Richard,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “This is indeed an honor.”

“I have come to introduce my wife.”

Iris gave a pretty smile. “We’ve brought you a gift.”

“Oh, but we should be giving gifts to you,” Mrs. Burnham protested. “For your wedding.”

“Nonsense,” Iris said. “You are welcoming me into your home, onto your land.”

“It is your land now, too,” Richard reminded her, setting the box of treats on a table.

“Yes, but the Burnhams have been here a century longer than I have. I still must earn my place.”

And just like that, Iris won the everlasting loyalty of Mrs. Burnham, and by extension, all the tenants. Society was the same no matter the sphere. Mrs. Burnham was the matron of the largest of the local farms, and this made her the leader of Maycliffe society. Iris’s words would have reached the ears of every soul at Maycliffe by nightfall.

“You see why I married her,” Richard said to Mrs. Burnham. The words flowed naturally from his smiling lips, but once said, a little prick of guilt sparked in his gut. It wasn’t why he’d married her.

He wished it was why he’d married her.

“John,” Mrs. Burnham said, “you must meet the new Lady Kenworthy.”

Richard hadn’t realized that John Burnham had entered the small foyer. He was a quiet man, always had been, and he was standing near the door to the kitchen, waiting for the others to notice him.

“My lady,” John said with a little bow. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“And you,” Iris replied.

“How fares the farm?” Richard asked.

“Very well,” John replied, and the two of them spoke for a few minutes about fields and crops and irrigation while Iris made polite conversation with Mrs. Burnham.

“We must be on our way,” Richard finally said. “We’ve many more stops to make before heading back to Maycliffe.”

“It must be quiet with your sisters gone,” Mrs. Burnham said.

John turned sharply. “Your sisters are gone?”

“Just to visit our aunt. She thought we could do with some time alone.” He gave John a man-to-man sort of smile. “Sisters don’t add much to a honeymoon.”

“No,” John said, “I imagine not.”

They made their farewells, and Richard took Iris’s arm to lead her out.

“I think that went well,” she said, as he helped her up into the wagon.

“You were splendid,” he assured her.

“Truly? You would not just say that?”

“I would just say that,” he admitted, “but it is true. Mrs. Burnham adores you already.”

Iris’s lips parted, and he could tell she was about to say something like “Truly?” or “Do you really think so?” but then she just smiled, her cheeks flushing with pride. “Thank you,” she said softly.

He kissed her hand in reply, then gave the reins a flick.

“This is a lovely day,” she said, as they drove away from Mill Farm. “I’m having a lovely day.”

As was he. The loveliest in memory.

Chapter Fourteen

Three days later

SHE WAS FALLING in love with her husband. Iris didn’t know how it could possibly be more obvious.

Wasn’t love supposed to be confusing? Wasn’t she supposed to lie in bed, agonizing under the weight of her tortuous thoughts—Is this real? Is this love? Back in London she’d asked her cousin Sarah about it—Sarah, who was so thoroughly and obviously in love with her husband, and even she had said that she hadn’t been sure at first.

But no, Iris always had to do things her own way, and she simply woke up in the morning and thought to herself, I love him.

Or if she didn’t yet, she would soon. It was only a matter of time. Her breath caught whenever Richard walked into the room. She thought about him constantly. And he could make her laugh—oh, how he could make her laugh.

She could make him laugh, too. And when she did, her heart leapt.

The day they had visited the tenants had been magical, and she knew he’d felt it, too. He had kissed her as if she were a priceless treasure—no, she thought, not like that. That would have been cold and clinical.

Richard had kissed her as if she were light and warmth and rainbows all rolled into one. He’d kissed her as if the sun were shining down with a single beam of light, just on them, only on them.

It had been perfect.

Pure magic.

And then he hadn’t done it again.

They spent their days together, exploring Maycliffe. He gazed warmly into her eyes. He held her hand, he even kissed the tender skin of her wrist. But he never brought his lips to hers.

Did he think she would not welcome his advances? Did he think it was still too soon? How could it be too soon? They were married, for heaven’s sake. She was his wife.

And why didn’t he realize that she would be too embarrassed to ask him about it?