The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

“You’re not,” he said.

She looked down at her tightly belted robe. It covered her up more than most ball gowns, but then again, most ball gowns could not be undone by a single tug of a sash.

“I intended to eat in my room,” she said.

“As do I.”

She looked at the open doorway behind him.

“Your room,” he clarified.

She blinked. “My room?”

“Is that a problem?”

“But you’ve already eaten.”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. “Actually, I have not.”

“But it’s half nine,” she stammered. “Why haven’t you eaten?”

“I was waiting for you,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh.” She swallowed. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

She tightened her arms around her body, feeling strangely as if she had to protect herself, or cover herself, or something. She felt utterly out of her element. This man had seen her naked. Granted, he was her husband, but still, the things he’d done to her . . . and the way she’d reacted . . .

Her face flushed crimson. She didn’t have to see it for herself to know just how deeply red she’d gone.

He quirked a brow. “Thinking of me?”

That was enough to strike her temper. “I think you should leave.”

“But I’m hungry.”

“Well, you should have thought of that earlier.”

This made him smile. “I’m to be punished for waiting for my wife?”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“And I thought I was being a gentleman by allowing you your slumber.”

“I was tired,” she said, and then she blushed again, because they both knew why.

She was spared further embarrassment by a knock at her door, and before she knew it, two footmen entered with a small table and chairs, followed by two maids carrying trays.

“Good heavens,” Iris said, watching the flurry of activity. She’d been planning to take her tray in bed. But, of course, she could not do that now, not if Richard insisted upon dining with her.

The footmen set the table with quick precision, stepping back to allow the maids to bring forth the food. It smelled heavenly, and as the servants filed out Iris’s stomach growled.

“One moment,” Richard murmured, and he walked to the door and peered down the hall. “Ah, here we are. Thank you.” When he stepped back into the room, he was holding a tall, narrow vase.

With a single iris.

“For you,” he said softly.

Her lips trembled. “Where did you—they’re not in season.”

He shrugged, and for the briefest second he looked almost apprehensive. But that could not be true; he was never nervous. “There are a few left,” he said, “if you know where to look.”

“But it’s—” She stopped, her lips parted in an astonished oval. She looked to the window, even though the curtains were now drawn tight. It was late. Had he gone out in the dark? Just to pick her a flower?

“Thank you,” she said. Because sometimes it was best not to question a gift. Sometimes one simply had to be glad for it without knowing why.

Richard placed the vase at the center of their small table, and Iris stared at the bloom, mesmerized by the thin inner streaks of gold, delicate and bright in the soft violet petals.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“Irises are.”

Her eyes flew from the flower to his face. She couldn’t help it.

He held out his hand. “Come,” he said. “We should eat.”

It was an apology. She saw it right there in his outstretched hand. She just wished she knew what he was apologizing for.

Stop, she told herself. Stop questioning everything. For once she was going to let herself be happy without needing to know why. She’d fallen in love with her husband, and that was a good thing. He’d brought her unimaginable pleasure in bed. That was a good thing, too.

It was enough. It had to be enough.

She took his hand. It was large and strong and warm and everything a hand ought to be. Everything a hand ought to be? She let out a little burst of absurd laughter. Good gracious, she was growing melodramatic.

“What is so funny?” he asked.

She shook her head. How was she to tell him that she had been measuring the perfection of hands, and his topped the list?

“Tell me,” he said, his fingers tightening around hers. “I insist.”

“No.” She kept shaking her head, her thoughts making her voice round and full of mirth.

“Tell me,” he growled, pulling her closer.

Her lips were now pressed together hard, the corners desperately fighting a smile.

His lips drew close to her ear. “I have ways of making you talk.”

Something wicked jumped within her, something greedy and lush.

His teeth found her earlobe, softly scraping the tender skin. “Tell me, Iris . . .”

“Your hands,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice.

He stilled, but she could feel his smile against her skin. “My hands?”

“Mmm.”

They spanned her waist. “These hands?”

“Yes.”

“You like them?”

She nodded, then gasped as he slid them lower, cupping the gentle curve of her bottom.

He brushed his mouth against her jaw, along her neck, and then back to the corner of her lips. “What else do you like?”

“Everything.” The word spilled forth without warning, and she probably should have felt embarrassed, but she didn’t. She couldn’t. Not with him.