The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy
But then, just as his hand pressed down on the handle of the door, he heard her whisper, “Did I do something wrong?”
His hand stilled. But his arm trembled.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. But of course he knew exactly what she meant.
“It’s—I—”
He forced himself to turn around. Dear God, it hurt to watch her like this, so awkward and pained. She couldn’t get the sentence out, and if he were any sort of man, he’d figure out some way to spare her this humiliation.
He swallowed convulsively, searching for words that he knew would not be enough. “You are everything I could ask for in a wife.”
But the look in her eyes was distrustful.
He took a long breath. He could not leave her like this. He crossed the room and reached for her hand. Perhaps if he brought it to his lips, if he kissed her . . .
“No!” She jerked her hand back, her voice as raw as her eyes. “I can’t think straight when you do that.”
Under normal circumstances, he would have delighted in such an admission.
Iris looked away, her eyes squeezing shut for a second, just long enough for her head to give a little jerk. “I don’t understand you,” she said in a very low voice.
“Do you need to?”
She looked up. “What sort of question is that?”
He forced a shrug, trying to look casual. “I don’t understand anyone.” Himself, least of all.
She stared at him for so long he had to fight the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot. “Why did you marry me?” she finally asked.
“Didn’t we just have this conversation?”
Her mouth came together in an implacable line. She did not speak. She did not speak for so long that he was compelled to fill the silence.
“You know why I married you,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
“No,” she said, “I really don’t.”
“I compromised you.”
She gave him a withering glance. “We both know it started long before that.”
He tried to calculate how long he might be able to feign ignorance.
“Oh, for the love of God, Richard, please do not insult my intelligence. You kissed me that night with the express purpose of being seen by my aunt. You demean me by insisting otherwise.”
“I kissed you,” he said hotly, “because I wanted to.” It was the truth. Not the whole truth, but by God, it was part of the truth.
But Iris snorted with disbelief. “Maybe you did, but the question is why you wanted to.”
Good God. He raked his hand through his hair. “Why does any man want to kiss a woman?”
“I really wouldn’t know, now would I?” she practically spat. “Because my husband finds me repulsive.”
He took a step back, shocked into silence. Finally, because he knew he had to say something, he said, “Don’t be absurd.”
It was the wrong thing. Her eyes widened as they filled with outrage, and she turned on her heel and stalked away from him.
But he was faster, and he caught her by the wrist. “I don’t find you repulsive.”
Her eyes flicked up as she dismissed this. “I may not have the kind of experience you do, but I know what is meant to go on between a husband and wife. And I know that we have not—”
“Iris,” he cut in, desperate to put a stop to this, “you’re upsetting yourself.”
Her eyes blazed with icy fury as she yanked her hand away. “Don’t patronize me!”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He was. Of course he was.
“Iris,” he began.
“Do you fancy men? Is that it?”
His mouth fell open, and he would have taken a breath, except it seemed his throat was no longer connected to his belly, which felt as if it had been punched.
“Because if you do—”
“No!” he practically howled. “How do you even know of such a thing?”
She gave him a flat stare, and he had the uncomfortable impression that she was trying to decide if she believed him. “I know someone,” she finally said.
“You know someone?”
“Well, of him,” she mumbled. “My cousin’s brother.”
“I don’t fancy men,” Richard said tightly.
“I rather wish you did,” she muttered, glancing off to the side. “At least it would explain—”
“Enough!” Richard roared. Dear God, how much was a man meant to endure? He did not fancy men, and he did desire his wife. Quite urgently, as a matter of fact. And if he were living anyone’s life but his own, he would make sure she knew that, in every way possible.
He stepped in close. Close enough to make her uncomfortable. “You think I find you repulsive?”
“I-I don’t know,” she whispered.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” He took her face in his hands and brought his lips down to hers, burning with all the torment in his heart. He’d spent the past week wanting her, imagining every delicious thing he was going to do with her once he could finally take her to his bed. It had been a week of denial, of torture, of punishing his body in the most primitive way possible, and he had reached his limit.
He might not be able to do everything he wanted, but by God, she would know the difference between desire and disdain.
His mouth plundered hers, sweeping, tasting, devouring. It was as if every moment of his life had coalesced into this one kiss, and if he broke contact, even for a moment, even to breathe, it would all disappear.