The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

She turned away, her dark hair obscuring her face. “I would prefer to have one of the footmen assist me from the carriage.”

Richard pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the raging headache he knew would soon have his skull in a vise. He and Fleur had been at odds about this for well over a month. There was only one acceptable solution. He knew this, and it infuriated him that she refused to accept what must be done.

He sighed wearily. “For the love of God, Fleur, put aside your irritation for one minute and let me help you out of the carriage. It smells like a hospital in here.”

“I’m not irritated,” she spat.

“You’re irritating me.”

She drew back at the insult. “I want a footman.”

“You will take my hand,” he ground out.

For a moment he thought she would hurl herself out the opposite door just to vex him, but she must have retained at least an ounce of the sense she’d once displayed, because she looked up, and snarled, “Fine.” With a purposeful lack of grace, she slapped her hand onto his and allowed him to assist her out of the carriage. Iris and Marie-Claire were standing side by side, pretending not to watch.

“Fleur,” Richard said in a dangerous voice, “I would like to introduce you to your new sister. My wife, Lady Kenworthy.”

Fleur looked at Iris. There was an awful silence.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Iris said, holding out her hand.

Fleur did not take it.

For the first time in his life, Richard almost hit a woman. “Fleur,” he said warningly.

With a disrespectful purse of her lips, Fleur made a curtsy. “Lady Kenworthy.”

“Please,” Iris said, her eyes flicking nervously to Richard before settling back on Fleur. “I hope you will call me Iris.”

Fleur gave her a withering stare, then turned to Richard. “It isn’t going to work.”

“Don’t do this here, Fleur,” he warned her.

She jerked her arm out toward Iris. “Look at her!”

Iris took a little step back. Richard had a feeling she did not even realize she’d done it. Their eyes met, hers bewildered, his exhausted, and he silently pleaded with her not to ask, not yet.

But Fleur wasn’t done. “I’ve already said—”

Richard grabbed her by the arm and hauled her away from the others. “This is not the time or the place.”

She stared at him mutinously, then yanked her arm free. “I’ll be in my room, then,” she said, and stalked off toward the house. But she stumbled on the bottom step and would have fallen if Iris had not leapt forward to catch her.

For a moment the two women remained frozen as if in a tableau. Iris kept her hand on Fleur’s elbow, almost as if she realized that the younger woman was unsteady, that she’d been unsteady for weeks and needed some sort of human contact.

“Thank you,” Fleur said grudgingly.

Iris took a step back, her hands returning to their tightly clasped position in front of her. “It was nothing.”

“Fleur,” Richard said in a commanding voice. It was not a tone he’d often used with his sisters. Perhaps he should have done.

Slowly, she turned.

“Iris is my wife,” he stated. “Maycliffe is her home now, as much as it is ours.”

Fleur’s eyes met his. “I could never overlook her presence here. I assure you.”

And then Richard did the strangest thing. He reached out and took Iris’s hand. Not to kiss it, not to lead her somewhere.

Just to hold it. To feel her warmth.

He felt her fingers lace through his, and he tightened his grip. He did not deserve her. He knew it. Fleur knew it, too. But for this one awful moment, with his entire life crashing around him, he was going to hold his wife’s hand and pretend she would never let go.

Chapter Eighteen

FOR MUCH OF her life, Iris had made a conscious choice to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t that she had nothing to say; put her in a roomful of cousins and she’d run on at the mouth all night. Her father had once said she was a born strategist, always looking two steps ahead, and maybe this was why she had always recognized the value of choosing when to speak. Never, however, had she been truly rendered speechless. Truly, flabbergastedly, she-could-not-even-think-in-complete-sentences, speechless.

But now, as she watched Fleur Kenworthy disappear into Maycliffe, Richard’s hand still improbably twined with her own, all Iris could think was—Whhaaaaa?

No one moved for at least five seconds. The first to wake up was Mrs. Hopkins, who mumbled something about making sure Fleur’s room was ready before hurrying into the house. Cresswell, too, made a swift and discreet exit, ushering the two footmen along with him.

Iris held herself totally still, her only movement her eyes as they darted back and forth between Richard and Marie-Claire.

What on earth had just happened?

“I’m sorry,” Richard said, releasing her hand. “She is not usually like that.”

Marie-Claire snorted. “It would be more accurate to say she’s not always like that.”

“Marie-Claire,” he snapped.

He looked exhausted, Iris thought. Utterly wrecked.

Marie-Claire crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a dark stare at her brother. “She’s been awful, Richard. Just awful. Even Aunt Milton lost her patience with her.”

Richard turned sharply toward her. “Does she . . .”

Marie-Claire shook her head.

Richard exhaled.

Iris kept watching. And listening. Something strange was going on, some sort of hidden conversation beneath their scowls and shrugs.