The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

And the worst part was, he could force her to do this. They both knew that. In marriage, the man’s word was law, and the woman’s lot was to obey. Oh, she could run to her parents, but they would just send her back to Maycliffe. They might be shocked, they might think Richard was mad to consider such a scheme, but in the end, they would tell her that he was her husband, and if this was his choice, she must go along with it.

“You deceived me,” she whispered. “You deliberately tricked me into marriage.”

“I am sorry.”

And he probably was, but that did not excuse him.

Then she asked the most terrifying question of all. “Why me?”

Richard blanched.

Iris felt her blood drain from her body, and she stumbled back, the force of his unsaid reply a punch to her gut. He didn’t need to say anything; the answer was right there on his face. Richard had chosen her because he could. Because he’d known that with her modest dowry and unremarkable looks she would not have suitors clamoring for her hand. A girl like her would be eager for marriage. A girl like her would never refuse a man like him.

Good Lord, had he researched her? Of course. He must have done. Why else would he have attended the Smythe-Smith musicale, if not to seek an introduction?

Winston Bevelstoke’s face suddenly flashed in her mind, his smile so practiced and suave as he introduced them. Had he helped Richard to choose a bride?

Iris nearly choked with the horror of it. Richard must have asked his friends to draw up lists of the most desperate women in London. And she had topped the charts.

She had been judged. And she had been pitied.

“You have humiliated me,” she said, barely able to find her voice.

No one would call Sir Richard Kenworthy a fool. He had known exactly what he needed in a bride—someone so pathetic and grateful for a marriage proposal that she’d roll over and say yes, please when he finally revealed the truth.

That was what he thought of her.

Iris gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth to stifle the cry that rose from her throat.

Fleur regarded her with a disconcertingly steady gaze before saying to Richard, “You really should have told her the truth before you asked her to marry you.”

“Shut up,” he snarled.

“Don’t tell her to shut up,” Iris snapped.

“Oh, now you’re on her side?”

“Well, nobody seems to be on mine.”

“You should know that I have told him I will not agree to the scheme,” Fleur said.

Iris turned to look at her, to really look at her for the first time that afternoon, to try to see something beyond the petulant, hysterical girl who’d stepped down from the carriage. “Are you mad?” she demanded. “What do you propose to do? Who is the baby’s father?”

“It’s obviously no one you know,” Fleur snapped.

“The younger son of a local baron,” Richard said in a flat voice. “He seduced her.”

Iris whirled to face him. “Well, then, why don’t you force him to marry her?”

“He’s dead,” he replied.

“Oh.” Iris felt as if she’d been punched. “Oh.” She looked at Fleur. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” Richard said.

Iris’s eyes widened with shock.

“His name was William Parnell,” he spat. “He was a bastard. Always has been.”

“What happened?” Iris asked, not sure that she wanted to know.

Richard glanced over at her with an arched brow. “He fell over the side of a balcony, drunk and waving a pistol. It’s a miracle no one was shot.”

“Were you there?” Iris whispered. Because she had the most awful feeling he might have had something to do with it.

“Of course not.” He looked at her with a disgusted expression. “There were a dozen witnesses. Including three prostitutes.”

Iris swallowed uncomfortably.

Richard’s face was a ravaged mask as he said, “I tell you this only so you will know what sort of man he was.”

Iris nodded dumbly. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know what to feel. After a few moments, she turned to Fleur—her new sister, she reminded herself—and took her hands. “I’m so sorry.” She swallowed, keeping her voice careful and soft. “Did he hurt you?”

Fleur turned away. “It was not like that.”

Richard lurched forward. “Do you mean to tell me you let—”

“Stop!” Iris cried out, yanking him back. “There is nothing to be gained by making accusations.”

Richard gave a curt nod, but he and Fleur continued to watch each other warily.

Iris swallowed. She hated to be insensitive, but she had no idea how far along Fleur was—her dress was loose enough to conceal an early pregnancy—and she rather thought they hadn’t many moments to spare.

“Is there another gentleman who will marry her?” she asked. “Someone who—”

“I’m not going to marry a stranger,” Fleur said hotly.

I did. The words came unbidden to Iris’s mind. Unbidden, but undeniably true.

Richard’s eyes made a disdainful roll. “I haven’t the money to buy her a husband, in any case.”

“Surely you could find someone—”

“Willing to take her babe as his heir, should it be a boy? That takes a hefty bribe indeed.”

“And yet you’re prepared to do it,” she stated.

Richard flinched, but he said, “The child will be my niece or nephew.”