The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy
“Iris!” Marie-Claire yelled, running up alongside her. “She’ll kill me!”
“Really? That’s what you’re worried about?”
Marie-Claire slumped. “You’re right.” And then she said it again. “You’re right.”
“Damned right I am,” Iris said under her breath. She marched on. It was amazing how empowering a bit of profanity could be.
“What will you say to her?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ‘Are you out of your bloody mind?’”
Marie-Claire’s mouth fell open. And then, skipping forward to catch up, she asked, “Can I watch?”
Iris turned, measuring the malevolence in her eyes by the degree to which Marie-Claire drew back. “I am about one step away from clubbing you with a cricket bat,” she hissed. “No you may not watch.”
Marie-Claire’s expression took on an almost reverential touch. “Does my brother know you’re so violent?”
“He might by the end of the day,” Iris muttered. She picked up her speed.
“I’m coming with you!” Marie-Claire shouted from behind her.
Iris snorted. She didn’t bother to respond.
Marie-Claire drew up next to her. “Don’t you want to know where she is?”
“She’s in the orangery.”
“What—how do you know?”
“I saw her walking down the path when we left,” Iris snapped. And then, because she felt a ridiculous need to defend herself, she added, “I notice things. It’s what I do.”
But not very well, apparently. Or maybe Fleur was simply a spectacular liar. But that was neither here nor there. The truth was out. And Iris was about to get to the bottom of it.
Chapter Twenty-four
RICHARD HAD NOT slept. Or at least he thought he hadn’t. His eyes had closed once or twice during the night, but if he’d found any slumber, it had been fitful at best. He reckoned he must have dozed once dawn had broken; it was nearly half ten by the time he finally hauled himself from his bed and eleven before he was ready to head downstairs.
His valet had managed to wrestle his appearance into something approaching that of a gentleman, but one look in the mirror told Richard that he looked almost as bad as he felt, which was to say, tired.
Dejected.
And most of all, bleak.
The door to Iris’s bedroom was open as he walked past, and he heard the maids moving about inside, indicating that she had already risen. But when he reached the breakfast room, his wife was nowhere in sight.
Neither was breakfast, but this was less of a disappointment.
He tapped his hand against the sideboard, wondering what he should do next. The accounts, he supposed. His stomach was rumbling, but he could last until the midday meal. He didn’t really feel like eating, anyway.
“There you are, lad!”
He glanced over at the door that led to the kitchens. “Mrs. Hopkins. Good morning.” He smiled. She only called him lad when they were alone. He liked it. It reminded him of his childhood.
She gave him a vaguely scolding look. “Morning? Barely. I’ve not known you to lie abed so late in years.”
“Trouble sleeping,” he admitted, ruffling his hand through his hair.
She nodded knowingly. “Your wife, too.”
Richard’s heart leapt at the mention of her, but he forced himself not to react visibly. “You’ve seen Lady Kenworthy this morning?”
“Briefly. She went out with your sister.”
“Fleur?” This he found difficult to believe.
Mrs. Hopkins shook her head. “Marie-Claire. I got the impression that Lady Kenworthy had not perhaps intended to be up and about so early.”
Early? Iris?
“Not early to me, mind you,” Mrs. Hopkins went on. “It was gone past ten before I saw her. She did miss breakfast.”
“She didn’t take a tray in her room?”
Mrs. Hopkins clucked disapprovingly. “Marie-Claire was rushing her out the door. I made sure to give her something to eat on the walk, though.”
“Thank you.” Richard wondered if he ought to make a comment about a woman in Iris’s “condition” needing to eat properly. It seemed the sort of thing a caring husband might do.
But instead he heard himself saying, “Did they mention where they might be going?”
“Just for a walk, I think. It does my heart good to see them acting like sisters.” The housekeeper leaned in, her smile warm and maternal. “I do like your lady, sir.”
“I like her, too,” Richard murmured. He thought about the evening they had met. He had not originally been planning to attend her family’s musicale; he had not even been invited. It was only when Winston Bevelstoke had described the event to him that he’d thought it might be a good opportunity to look for a bride.
Iris Smythe-Smith was surely the happiest accident of his life.
When he had kissed her the night before, he had been consumed with the most exquisite sense of longing. It wasn’t merely desire, although that had certainly been present in abundance. He had been nearly overcome with the need to feel the warmth of her body, to breathe the same air.
He wanted to be near her. He wanted to be with her, in every sense of the word.
He loved her. He loved Iris Kenworthy with every last drop of his soul, and he might well have destroyed their only chance at lasting happiness.
He had been so sure that he was doing the right thing. He had been trying to protect his sister. He had been willing to sacrifice his very birthright to save Fleur’s reputation.