The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

“Then don’t.”

“The damage is done.”

“But you can fix it. All you have to do is tell her she doesn’t have to steal my child.”

He whirled around. “It’s not steal—” He caught the triumphant look on her face, and said, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Fleur gave him a stony stare. “I assure you, I enjoy nothing about this.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her. Behind her eyes she was just as broken as Iris. The pain in her face . . . Had he put it there? No. No. He was trying to help her, to save her from the ruined existence with which that bastard Parnell had left her.

His hands curled into fists. If that bloody rotter hadn’t gone and died, he would have killed him. No, he would have marched him to the church with Fleur and then killed him. He thought of how his sister had once been, full of dreams and romance. She used to lie in the grass by the orangery and read in the sunshine. She used to laugh.

“Make me understand,” he pleaded. “Why do you resist this? Don’t you realize this is your only hope for a respectable life?”

Fleur’s lips trembled, and for the first time that afternoon, she looked unsure of herself. He saw in her face the child she’d once been, and it broke his heart anew.

“Why can you not set me up somewhere as a young widow?” she asked. “I can go to Devon. Or Cornwall. Somewhere where we don’t know a soul.”

“I haven’t the money to provide you with a proper household,” Richard said, shame at his financial constraints making his voice hard. “And I will not allow you to live in poverty.”

“I don’t need much,” Fleur said. “Just a little cottage, and—”

“You think you don’t need much,” Richard cut in. “But you don’t know. You’ve lived your whole life with servants. You’ve never had to shop for your food or stoke your own fires.”

“Neither have you,” she shot back.

“This isn’t about me. I’m not the one who will be off in a leaky cottage, worrying over the price of meat.”

Fleur looked away.

“I’m the one,” he said in a softer voice, “who will have to worry about you, wondering what I will do if you fall ill, or are taken advantage of, and I can’t even help you because you’re half a country away.”

Fleur did not speak for some time. “I cannot marry the baby’s father,” she finally said. “And I will not give up my child.”

“It will be with me,” he reminded her.

“But it won’t be mine,” she cried. “I don’t want to be its aunt.”

“You say that now, but what happens in ten years when you realize that no one will marry you?”

“I realize that now,” she said sharply.

“If you have this child and raise it yourself, you will be lost to respectable society. You won’t be able to stay here.”

She went still. “You would cut me off, then.”

“No,” he said quickly. “Never. But I cannot keep you in the house. Not while Marie-Claire is yet unmarried.”

Fleur looked away.

“Your ruin is her ruin. Surely you know that.”

“Of course I know that,” she said hotly. “Why do you think I—”

But she stopped, clamping her mouth shut.

“What?” he demanded. Why did he think she what?

She shook her head. And in a voice low and sad, she said, “We will never agree on this.”

He sighed. “I am only trying to help you, Fleur.”

“I know.” She looked up at him, her eyes tired and sad and maybe even a little wise.

“I love you,” he said, choking on the words. “You are my sister. I vowed to protect you. And I failed. I failed.”

“You did not fail.”

He threw out an arm, motioning to her still-flat belly. “You mean to tell me you gave yourself to Parnell willingly?”

“I told you, that’s not what—”

“I should have been here,” he said. “I should have been here to protect you, and I wasn’t. So for the love of God, Fleur, give me the opportunity to protect you now.”

“I cannot be my child’s aunt,” she said with quiet determination. “I cannot.”

Richard rubbed his face with the heel of his hand. He was so tired. He didn’t think he’d ever been so tired in his life. He would talk to her tomorrow. He would make her see.

He walked to the door. “Do not do something rash,” he said quietly. And then he added, “Please.”

She gave a single nod. It was enough. He trusted her. It was the damnedest thing, but he trusted her.

He let himself out of the room, pausing only briefly to acknowledge Marie-Claire’s presence in the hall. She was still standing near the door, her fingers nervously clasped together. He could not imagine she’d needed to eavesdrop; most of the conversation had been amply loud.

“Should I go in?” she asked.

He shrugged. He had no answers. He kept walking.

He wanted to talk to Iris. He wanted take her hand in his and make her understand that he hated this, too, that he was sorry he’d tricked her.

But not sorry he married her. He could never be that.

He paused outside her door. She was crying.

He wanted to hold her.

But how could he be of comfort, when he was the one who had done this to her?

So he kept walking, past his own bedroom door and down the stairs. He went to his study and he shut the door. He looked at his half-drunk glass of brandy and decided he hadn’t had nearly enough.