The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

She stared at the other pillow. What did she think she was going to see? An imprint of his face?

What had they done? He had . . .

She had . . .

But he definitely hadn’t . . .

She closed her eyes in agony. She didn’t know what was going on. She didn’t understand.

He could not have consummated the union. He hadn’t even removed his breeches. She might be ignorant when it came to the marriage bed, but she knew that much.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that it had been much too long since her last meal. Good heavens, she was hungry. What time was it? Had she missed supper?

She glanced over at her window, trying to figure out how late it was. Someone had pulled the heavy velvet curtains shut. Probably Richard, she thought, since the corner was caught on itself. A housemaid would never leave them askew like that.

It was dark out, but perhaps not yet pitch-black, and—oh, bother. She might as well just get up and look.

With a bit of a grunt she yanked the sheet free so that she could wrap herself with it. She didn’t know why she felt this strange compulsion to know the time, but she certainly wasn’t going to get her answer staring at a tiny triangle of window peeping out from behind her disheveled curtains.

Tripping over the edge of the sheet, she stumbled to the window and peered out. The moon shone brightly, not quite full, but round enough to lend the air a pearly glow. It was definitely well past dusk. How long had she been asleep?

“I wasn’t even tired,” she muttered.

She wrapped the sheet more tightly around her, grimacing when she realized how difficult she’d made it to walk. But she didn’t rewrap herself—that would have been far too sensible. Instead she hopped and jumped herself over to her mantel clock. She gave it a little turn so that it better faced the moonlit window. Almost half nine. So that meant she’d been asleep . . . what . . . three hours? Four?

To know precisely would mean she knew how long she’d spent with Richard, doing . . .

That.

She shivered. She wasn’t the least bit cold, but she shivered.

She needed to get dressed. She needed to get dressed, and get some food, and—

The door opened.

Iris shrieked.

So did the housemaid in the doorway.

But only one of them was wrapped like a mummy, and Iris’s lurch of surprise landed her in a heap on the floor.

“Oh, my lady!” the housemaid cried. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She rushed over, thrust her hand out, then pulled it back, clearly unsure of the proper behavior when faced with a nearly naked baronet’s wife on floor.

Iris almost asked for help, then decided against it. Arranging herself with as much poise as she could manage, she looked up at the maid and tried to school her features into a coolly dignified expression.

In her head, at that moment, she rather thought she resembled her mother.

“Yes?” she intoned.

“Ehrm . . .” The maid—who looked supremely uncomfortable, there really was no other way to describe it—bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Sir Richard was wondering if you wished to take supper in your room.”

Iris gave a regal nod. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

“Have you any preference?” the maid asked. “Cook made fish, but if that is not to your choosing, she can make something else. She told me to tell you that.”

“Whatever Sir Richard has chosen,” Iris said. He would have eaten over an hour earlier; she did not wish to force the kitchen staff back to their ovens to cater to her whims.

“Right away, then, my lady.” The maid curtsied again and practically ran from the room.

Iris sighed, then started to laugh because really, what else could she do? She gave this five minutes before every soul in the house knew of her mortifying—and mortifyingly dressed—tumble. Except her husband, of course. No one would dare breathe a word of it to him.

It was a very small shred of dignity, but she decided to cling to it.

Ten minutes later she’d donned one of her new silk nightgowns and covered it with a less revealing robe. She braided her hair for bed; it was where she intended to go just as soon as she finished eating. She could not imagine she would sleep right away, not after the nap she’d just taken. But she could read. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d stayed up half the night with a book and a candle.

She walked over to her side table to look through the stack of books she’d pulled from the library earlier that afternoon. She’d left Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman down in the drawing room, but she’d lost her taste for Hungarian archers.

And pathetic heroines who spent their time dithering and crying and wondering who might come to the rescue.

She’d read ahead. She knew what was coming.

No, she was not going to spend any more time with the piteous Miss Truesdale.

Picking up the books one by one, she examined her options. Another Sarah Gorely novel, a bit of Shakespeare, and a history of Yorkshire.

She took the history. She hoped it was boring.

But no sooner had she settled on her bed than she heard another knock at her door.

“Enter!” she called out, eager for supper.

The door that opened, however, was not the one that led to the hall. Instead it was the connecting door, the one that led to her husband’s bedchamber. And the person who entered was her husband.

“Richard!” she squeaked, scrambling off the bed.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice smooth as brandy. Not that she drank brandy, but everyone said it was smooth.

Good God, she was nervous.

“You’re dressed for supper,” she blurted out. Rather splendidly, too, in a bottle green superfine coat and pale yellow brocaded waistcoat. She now knew firsthand that his coats needed no padding. He’d told her once that he often helped his tenants in his fields. She believed him.