The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

“What is it?” She turned back around, following his gaze toward the path from the house. “Oh . . .”

Fleur was approaching, storming toward them with angry strides.

“She doesn’t look happy,” Iris said.

“No, she does not,” Richard said quietly, and then he sighed. It was a sad, exhausted sound, and Iris cursed her own heart for breaking.

“How dare you!” Fleur cried, as soon as she was close enough to be heard. Two more steps and it was clear which of them she was accusing.

Iris.

“What the devil do you think you were doing at breakfast?” Fleur demanded.

“Eating,” Iris retorted, even though that was barely true. She’d felt so panicked, knowing she was about to commit to the biggest lie of her life. She’d barely been able to eat anything.

Fleur scowled. “You might as well have come right out and announced that you are with child.”

“I did come right out and announce it,” Iris said. “I thought that was what I was supposed to do.”

“I’m not giving you the baby,” Fleur seethed.

Iris turned to Richard with a look that quite clearly said, this is your problem.

Fleur stepped between them, practically spitting at Iris in her rage. “Tomorrow you will announce that you have miscarried.”

“To whom?” Iris retorted. It had been only family in the room when she’d made her cryptic statement.

“She will do no such thing,” Richard snapped. “Have you any compassion? Any sense for all that your new sister is giving up for you?”

Iris crossed her arms. It was about time someone acknowledged her sacrifice.

“I didn’t ask this of her,” Fleur protested.

But Richard was implacable. “You are not thinking clearly.”

Fleur gasped. “You are the most patronizing, hateful—”

“I am your brother!”

“Not my keeper.”

Richard’s tone turned to ice. “The law begs to differ.”

Fleur drew back as if struck. But when she spoke, it was with seething intensity. “Forgive me if I have difficulty trusting your sense of obligation.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You left us,” Fleur cried. “When Father died. You left.”

Richard’s face, which had been red with fury, suddenly drained white.

“You could not wait to be rid of us,” Fleur went on. “Father wasn’t even cold in his grave before you had us packed up and living with Aunt Milton.”

“I could not take care of you,” Richard said.

Iris bit her lip, watching him with wary concern. His voice was shaking, and he looked . . .

Wrecked. He looked positively wrecked, as if Fleur had found the one festering wound deep in his soul and jammed her thumb into it.

“You could have tried,” Fleur whispered.

“I would have failed.”

Fleur’s mouth tightened. Or maybe it trembled. Iris could not tell what she was feeling.

Richard’s throat worked, and several seconds passed before he spoke. “Do you think I am proud of my behavior? I have spent every moment of the last few years trying to make up for it. Father might as well have been gone after Mother died. And then I—” He swore, raking his hand through his hair as he turned away. When he continued, his voice was more even. “I am constantly trying to be a better man than I was, a better man than he was.”

Iris felt her eyes go wide.

“I feel so bloody disloyal, and—” Richard stopped, quite suddenly.

Iris went still. Fleur, too. It was almost as if Richard’s lack of movement was a contagious thing, and they all stood there, tense and waiting.

“This is not about Father,” Richard finally said. “And it’s not about me, either.”

“Precisely why it should be my decision,” Fleur said sharply.

Oh, Fleur, Iris thought with sigh. She’d pulled out her claws just when things were starting to settle down.

Richard looked over at Iris, saw her dejected posture, and then turned back to his sister with furious eyes. “Now look what you’ve done,” he snapped.

“Me?” Fleur shrieked.

“Yes, you. Your behavior has been unfathomably selfish. Don’t you realized I might have to give Maycliffe to the son of Willam Parnell? Have you any idea how abhorrent I find that?”

“You said you would love the child,” Iris said quietly, “regardless of his parentage.”

“I will,” Richard practically exploded. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. And she”—he flung his arm toward Fleur—“is not helping.”

“I did not ask this of you!” Fleur cried. Her voice was shaking, but it didn’t sound like rage anymore. She sounded, Iris realized, like a woman about to shatter.

“That’s enough, Richard,” Iris suddenly announced.

He turned to her with irritated bewilderment. “What?”

Iris put her arm around Fleur. “She needs to lie down.”

Fleur let out a few wretched gasps and then crumpled against Iris’s side, sobbing.

Richard looked dumbstruck. “She was just yelling at me,” he said to no one in particular. And then to Fleur, “You were just yelling at me.”

“Go away,” Fleur sobbed, her words echoing through Iris’s body.

Richard stared at the two of them for a long moment, then cursed under his breath. “Now you’re on her side, I see.”

“There aren’t any sides,” Iris said, despite the fact that she had no idea which of them he meant was on the other’s side. “Don’t you understand? This is a horrible situation. For everyone. No one will emerge with heart intact.”