The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

He gave it a little squeeze and then lifted it a few inches, as if he were going to bring her fingers to his lips. But then he seemed to change his mind, and instead he twined their hands and led her to the door.

“Good night,” he said, but he didn’t release her hand.

“Good night,” she said, but she didn’t try to pull away.

“Iris . . .”

She looked up. He was going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes, hot and heavy with need.

“Iris,” he said again, and she did not say no.

His warm fingers touched her jaw, tipping her face toward his. Still, he waited, and finally she could do nothing else but dip her chin, barely a nod, really, but he felt it.

Slowly, so slowly she was certain the world had time to turn twice on its axis, his face moved toward hers. Their lips met, the touch soft and electric. He brushed against her, the light friction sending ripples of sensation to the very center of her being.

“Richard,” she whispered, and maybe he could hear the love in her voice. Maybe in that moment she didn’t care.

Her lips parted, but he did not deepen the kiss. Instead he rested his forehead on hers.

“You should go,” he said.

She allowed herself one more moment, then stepped back.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, placing her hand on the doorframe as she moved around him.

Thank you, he’d said.

Something in her heart shifted. Soon, she thought. Soon she would be ready to forgive.

RICHARD WATCHED HER GO.

He watched her glide down the hall and disappear around the corner to the stairs. There was little to light the darkened hallway, but what there was seemed to catch on her pale hair like spun starlight.

She was such a contradiction. So ethereal in looks and so pragmatic in mind. He loved that about her, the way she was so relentlessly sensible. He wondered if perhaps that was part of what had initially drawn him to her. Had he thought that her innate rationality would allow her to get over the fundamental insult of their marriage? That she’d just shrug and say, Quite right, that makes sense.

What a fool he’d been.

Even if she did forgive him, and he was beginning to think that she might, he could never forgive himself.

He had wounded her deeply. He had chosen her for his wife for the most reprehensible of reasons. It was only fitting that now he should love her so ardently.

So hopelessly.

He did not see how she could ever love him, not after what he’d done. But he had to try. And maybe it would be enough that he loved her.

Maybe.

Chapter Twenty-three

The following morning

“IRIS? IRIS?”

Iris pried open an eye. Just one, mind you; the other was firmly closed and pressed hard into her pillow.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!”

Marie-Claire, Iris thought with her usual morning-induced irritability. Good Lord, what time was it, and why was she in Iris’s room?

Iris closed her eye.

“It’s half ten,” Marie-Claire said cheerily, “and it’s uncommonly warm out.”

Iris could not imagine what this might have to do with her.

“I thought we might go for a walk.”

Ah.

The mattress dipped under Marie-Claire’s weight as she perched on the end. “We really haven’t had a chance to get to know each other.”

Iris let out a sigh, the sort that would have been accompanied by the closing of eyes if she weren’t already facedown in her pillow. She had been thinking this very thing the night before. She just hadn’t meant to do anything about it before noon.

“Shall we?” Marie-Claire asked, just bursting with annoyingly chippy energy.

“Mmphghrglick.”

A very small silence, and then—“I beg your pardon?”

Iris growled into her pillow. She really didn’t know how she could have been more clear.

“Iris? Are you unwell?”

Iris finally rolled her body over and forced herself to enunciate as she said, “I am not at my best in the morning.”

Marie-Claire just stared at her.

Iris rubbed her eye. “Perhaps if we depart—what?” The last bit was not much more than a snap, really.

“Ehrm . . .” One corner of Marie-Claire’s mouth stretched out in a bizarre approximation of a grimace. “Your cheek.”

Iris let out an aggrieved sigh. “Pillow crease?”

“Oh. Is that what that is?” Asked with enough perkiness to make Iris want to reach for a weapon.

“Have you never seen one before?” she asked instead.

“No.” Marie-Claire frowned. “I always sleep on my back. I suppose Fleur does, too.”

“I sleep in many positions,” Iris grumbled, “but mostly . . . I sleep late.”

“I see.” Marie-Claire swallowed, but that was her only sign of awkwardness before she added, “Well, you’re awake now, so you might as well get up and meet the day. I don’t think there is any breakfast left in the dining room, but I’m sure Mrs. Hopkins can put together a cold collation. You can bring it with you.”

Iris looked longingly at her bed. She imagined this bed, tidy and sweet with a breakfast tray on it. But Marie-Claire had made a friendly gesture, and Iris knew she must accept. “Thank you,” she said, hoping her face did not belie the effort required to pry the words from her mouth. “That would be lovely.”

“Wonderful!” Marie-Claire beamed. “Shall I meet you in the drive, say in about ten minutes?”

Iris was about to bargain for fifteen, or better yet twenty, but then she thought—she was already awake. In for a penny, in for a pound. Ten minutes. Good Lord.