The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

He looked at her. Her lips were parted, still swollen from his kisses. But the desire was gone from her eyes, replaced by something he could not quite name.

Something he did not want to identify.

He raked his hand through his hair. “I think I should go.”

“You didn’t eat,” she said. Her voice sounded flat. He hated that.

“It doesn’t matter.”

She nodded, but he was fairly certain neither of them knew why. “Please,” he whispered, allowing himself one last touch. His fingers gently caressed her brow, then paused to cup her cheek in his hand. “Please know one thing. You have done nothing wrong.”

She did not speak. She just stared at him with those huge blue eyes, not even looking confused. Just . . .

Resigned. And that was even worse.

“It’s not you,” he said. “It’s me.” He had a feeling he was making this worse with every word, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He swallowed, waiting again for her to say something, but she did not.

“Good night,” he said softly. He bowed with his head and left the room. Never in his life had he felt so awful doing the right thing.

Two days later

RICHARD WAS SITTING in his study, nursing a second glass of brandy, when he saw a carriage coming up the drive, its windows glinting in the late-afternoon sun.

His sisters?

He’d sent word to his aunt that Fleur and Marie-Claire could not be permitted to stay the full two weeks, but still, he wasn’t expecting them today.

Setting his glass down, he walked over to the window and peered out for a closer look. It was indeed his aunt’s carriage. He closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t sure why they were back early, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

It was time.

He could not decide whether to greet them alone or with Iris, but in the end it did not matter; Iris was reading in the drawing room, and she called out to him as he walked by.

“Is that a carriage in the drive?”

“My sisters,” he confirmed.

“Oh.”

That’s all she said. Oh. He had a feeling she’d soon be saying quite a bit more.

He paused in the doorway, watching as she slowly set her book down. She’d been curled on the blue sofa with her legs tucked under her, and she had to pause to put her feet back in her slippers before standing.

“Do I look all right?” she asked, smoothing her dress.

“Of course,” he said distractedly.

Her lips pressed together.

“You look lovely,” he said, taking in her green-striped frock and softly pinned hair. “Forgive me. My mind is elsewhere.”

She seemed to accept his explanation and took his arm when he offered it. She did not quite meet his eyes. They had not spoken of what had happened in her room the two nights before, and it appeared they were not going to do so anytime soon.

When Iris had come down for breakfast the previous morning he had been sure their conversation would be stilted, if they spoke at all. But as always, she had surprised him. Or maybe he had surprised himself. Whatever the case, they had spoken of the weather, and of the book Iris was reading, and a problem the Burnhams were having with flooding in one of their fields. It had all been very smooth.

But it had not felt right.

When they spoke, it felt almost . . . careful. As long as they restricted their conversation to trivialities, they could pretend that nothing had changed. They both seemed to recognize that eventually they would run out of impersonal topics, and so they measured their words, doling them out like treasures.

But that was all about to end.

“I did not think they were expected until Thursday,” Iris said, allowing him to lead her from the room.

“Nor did I.”

“Why do you sound so grim?” she asked, after a brief pause.

Grim did not even begin to cover it. “We should wait for them in the drive,” he said.

She nodded, ignoring the fact that he did not answer her question, and they headed out the front door. Cresswell was already standing at attention in the drive, along with Mrs. Hopkins and the two footmen. Richard and Iris took their places just as the carriage pulled up behind his aunt’s prized team of dappled grays.

The door to the carriage was opened, and Richard immediately stepped forward to assist his sisters. Marie-Claire bounced down first, giving his hand a little squeeze as she descended. “She is in a beastly mood,” she said without preamble.

“Wonderful,” Richard muttered.

“You must be Marie-Claire,” Iris said brightly. She was anxious, though. Richard could see it in the way her hands were clasped tightly together in front of her. He’d noticed that she did that to keep herself from bunching the fabric of her dress in her fingers when she was nervous.

Marie-Claire gave a small curtsy. At fourteen she was already taller than Iris, but her face still held the roundness of childhood. “I am. Please forgive us for returning early. Fleur wasn’t feeling well.”

“No?” Iris inquired, peering toward the open carriage door. There was still no sign of Fleur.

Marie-Claire looked over at Richard while Iris wasn’t watching and made a retching motion.

“In the carriage?” he could not help but ask.

“Twice.”

He winced, then stepped up on the stool that had been laid beside the carriage door and peered inside. “Fleur?”

She was huddled in the corner, miserable and pale. She looked like she’d been sick twice in the carriage. Smelled like it, too.

“I’m not talking to you.”

Bloody hell. “So it’s like this, then.”