by Julia Quinn
“It was patently clear that she would never get a better offer than Mr. Darcy,” Daisy continued.
“That’s what Mr. Collins said when he proposed to her,” Iris shot back. “And then Mr. Darcy asked her.”
“Who is Mr. Collins?”
“They are fictional characters, Mama,” Iris said.
“Very foolish ones, if you ask me,” Daisy said haughtily. “Mr. Darcy is very rich. And Miss Elizabeth has no dowry to speak of. That he condescended to propose to her—”
“He loved her!”
“Of course he did,” Daisy said peevishly. “There can be no other reason he would ask her to marry him. And then for her to refuse!”
“She had her reasons.”
Daisy rolled her eyes. “She’s just lucky he asked her again. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”
“I think I ought to read this book,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said.
“Here,” Iris said, feeling suddenly dejected. She held the book out toward her mother. “You can read my copy.”
“But you’re in the middle.”
“I’ve read it before.”
Mrs. Smythe-Smith took the book, flipped to the first page and read the first sentence, which Iris knew by heart.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
“Well, that’s certainly true,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said to herself.
Iris sighed, wondering how she might occupy herself now. She supposed she could fetch another book, but she was too comfortable slouched on the sofa to consider getting up. She sighed.
“What?” Daisy demanded.
“Nothing.”
“You sighed.”
Iris fought the urge to groan. “Not every sigh has to do with you.”
Daisy sniffed and turned away.
Iris closed her eyes. Maybe she could take a nap. She hadn’t slept very well the night before. She never did, the night after the musicale. She always told herself she would, now that she had another whole year before she had to start dreading it again.
But sleep was not her friend, not when she couldn’t stop her brain from replaying every last moment, every botched note. The looks of derision, of pity, of shock and surprise . . . She supposed she could almost forgive her cousin Sarah for feigning illness the year before to avoid playing. She understood. Heaven help her, no one understood better than she.
And then Sir Richard Kenworthy had demanded an audience. What had that been about? Iris was not so foolish to think that he was interested in her. She was no diamond of the first water. She fully expected to marry one day, but when it happened, it wasn’t going to be because some gentleman took one look at her and fell under her spell.
She had no spells. According to Daisy, she didn’t even have eyelashes.
No, when Iris married, it would be a sensible proposition. An ordinary gentleman would find her agreeable and decide that the granddaughter of an earl was an advantageous thing to have in the family, even with her modest dowry.
And she did have eyelashes, she thought grumpily. They were just very pale.
She needed to find out more about Sir Richard. But more importantly, she needed to figure out how to do that without attracting attention. It wouldn’t do to be seen as chasing after him. Especially when—
“Callers, ma’am,” their butler announced.
Iris sat up. Time for good posture, she thought with false brightness. Shoulders up, back straight . . .
“Mr. Winston Bevelstoke,” the butler intoned.
Daisy straightened and preened, but not before tossing an I-told-you-so glance at Iris.
“And Sir Richard Kenworthy.”
Chapter Three
“YOU KNOW,” WINSTON said to him as they paused at the bottom of the steps to the Smythe-Smith home, “it will not do to raise the girl’s hopes.”
“And here I thought it was an accepted custom to pay a call upon a young lady,” Richard said.
“It is. But these are the Smythe-Smiths.”
Richard had started to climb the stairs, but at this he halted. “Is there something exceptional about this family?” he inquired in a mild tone. “Other than their unique musical talents?” He needed to marry quickly, but he also needed gossip—and—God forbid, scandal—to be kept to a minimum. If the Smythe-Smiths had dark secrets, he had to know.
“No,” Winston said with a distracted shake of his head. “Not at all. It’s just . . . Well, I suppose one would say . . .”
Richard waited. Eventually Winston would spit it out.
“This particular branch of the Smythe-Smith family is somewhat . . .” Winston sighed, unable to finish the sentence. He really was a good sort, Richard thought with a smile. He might stuff his ears with cotton and drink from a flask during a concert, but he could not bring himself to speak ill of a lady, even if his only insult was that she was unpopular.
“If you court one of the Misses Smythe-Smith,” Winston finally said, “people will be curious why.”
“Because I’m such a catch,” Richard said in a dry voice.
“Aren’t you?”
“No,” Richard said. It was just like Winston to be oblivious to such a thing. “I’m not.”
“Come now, things can’t be as bad as that.”
“I’ve only just managed to save Maycliffe’s lands from my father’s neglect and mismanagement, there is an entire wing of the house that is presently uninhabitable, and I have two sisters of whom I am the sole guardian.” Richard gave him a bland smile. “No, I would not say I’m a splendid catch.”
“Richard, you know I—” Winston frowned. “Why is Maycliffe uninhabitable?”
Richard shook his head and went up the steps.
“No, really, I’m curious. I—”
But Richard had already brought down the knocker. “Flood,” he said. “Vermin. Probably a ghost.”
“If you’re that hard up,” Winston said quickly, eyeing the door, “you’re going to need a bigger dowry than you’ll find here.”
“Perhaps,” Richard murmured. But he had other reasons to seek out Iris Smythe-Smith. She was intelligent; he had not needed long in her company to assure himself of that. And she valued family. She must. Why else would she have participated in that wretched musicale?
But could she value his family as well as she did her own? She would need to, if he married her.
The door was swung open by a somewhat portly butler who took his and Winston’s cards with a stiff bow. A moment later they were ushered into a small but elegant drawing room, decorated in shades of cream, gold, and green. Richard immediately noticed Iris on the sofa, quietly watching him through her lashes. On another woman the expression might have been flirtatious, but on Iris it was more watchful. Assessing.
She was taking his measure. Richard wasn’t certain how he felt about that. He ought to be amused.
“Mr. Winston Bevelstoke,” the butler announced, “and Sir Richard Kenworthy.”
The ladies rose to greet them, and they gave their attention first to Mrs. Smythe-Smith, as was proper.
“Mr. Bevelstoke,” she said, smiling at Winston. “It has been an age. How is your dear sister?”
“Very well. She is nearing the end of her confinement, else she would have attended last night.” He motioned to Richard. “I do not believe you have been introduced to my good friend, Sir Richard Kenworthy. We were at Oxford together.”
She smiled politely. “Sir Richard.”
He bowed with his head. “Mrs. Smythe-Smith.”
“My two youngest daughters,” she said, motioning to the two ladies behind her.
“I had the honor of making Miss Smythe-Smith’s acquaintance last night,” Richard said, honoring Iris with a small bow.
“Yes, of course you did.” Mrs. Smythe-Smith smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and once again Richard had the distinct impression that he was being weighed and measured. Against what yardstick,
however, he could not know. It was damned unsettling, and not for the first time he found himself thinking that Napoleon might have been defeated well before Waterloo if only they’d sent the London mamas out to take care of strategy.
“My youngest,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said, tilting her head toward Daisy, “Miss Daisy Smythe-Smith.”
“Miss Daisy,” Richard said politely, bowing over her hand. Winston did the same.
Once the necessary introductions were made, the two gentlemen took their seats.
“How did you enjoy the concert?” Miss Daisy asked.
She seemed to be directing her question to Winston, for which Richard was immeasurably grateful.
“Very much,” he said, after clearing his throat six times. “I can’t remember the last time I, er . . .”
“I imagine you have never heard Mozart played with such fervor,” Iris said, coming to his rescue.
Richard smiled. There was a cleverness to her that was quite appealing.
“No,” Winston said quickly, relief evident in his voice. “It was a singular experience.”
“And you, Sir Richard?” Iris asked. He met her eyes—a very, very light blue, he finally deduced—and to his surprise he saw a flash of impertinence. Was she baiting him?
“I find that I am most grateful that I decided to attend,” he replied.
“That’s no sort of an answer,” she said, her voice too low to be properly heard by her mother.
He quirked a brow. “It’s as much of one as you’re going to get.”
Her mouth opened as if to gasp, but in the end she just said, “Well met, Sir Richard.”
The conversation ambled through predictable topics—the weather, the King, and then the weather again—until Richard took advantage of the banality of their discussion by suggesting a walk in nearby Hyde Park.
“Because the weather is so fine,” he concluded.
“Yes, it is just as I said,” Daisy exclaimed. “The sun is shining uncommonly well. Is it warm outside, Mr. Bevelstoke? I have not yet left the house.”
“Tolerably warm,” Winston replied before shooting Richard a quick but lethal glance. They were even now, or perhaps he was in Winston’s debt. The Smythe-Smith musicale could not be nearly as trying as an hour on the arm of Miss Daisy. And they both knew that Winston would not be the one escorting Iris.
“I was surprised to see you so soon after the concert,” Iris said once they were outside and headed toward the park.
“And I am surprised to hear you say so,” he countered. “Surely I gave no impression of disinterest.”
Her eyes widened. Normally he would not be so forward, but he did not have time for a subtle courtship.
“I am not certain,” she said carefully, “what I have done to earn your regard.”
“Nothing,” he admitted. “But then, regard is not always earned.”
“Is it not?” She sounded startled.
“Not in its immediacy.” He smiled down at her, pleased that the brim of her bonnet was shallow enough for him to see her face. “Isn’t that the purpose of courtship? To determine whether an initial regard is worthy?”
“I believe what you call regard, I call attraction.”
He chuckled. “You are of course correct. Please accept my apologies and my clarification.”
“Then we are agreed. I do not have your regard.”
“But you do hold attraction,” he murmured daringly.
Her cheeks colored, and he realized that when Iris Smythe-Smith blushed, she did so with every inch of her skin. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she muttered.
“You have my regard,” he said firmly. “If you had not earned it last night, you have done so this morning.”
Her eyes took on a bewildered expression, and she gave her head a little shake before turning her gaze back to the path ahead.
“I have never been a man who values stupidity in females,” he said lightly, almost as if he was remarking on a shop display.
“You hardly know me well enough to measure my intelligence.”
“I can measure it well enough to know you’re not stupid. Whether you can speak German and do sums in your head I can learn soon enough.”
She looked as if she was trying not to smile, then she said, “Yes to one, no to the other.”
“German?”
“No, sums.”
“Pity, that.” He gave her a knowing look. “The language would come in so handy with the royal family.”
She laughed. “I believe they all speak English by now.”
“Yes, but they keep marrying Germans, don’t they?”
“More to the point,” Iris said, “I don’t expect an audience with the King any time in the near future.”
Richard chuckled, enjoying her quick wit. “There is always little Princess Victoria.”
“Who likely doesn’t speak English,” Iris conceded. “Her mother certainly doesn’t.”
“You’ve met?” he asked dryly.
“Of course not.” She gave him a bit of a look, and he had a feeling that had they known each other better, she might have accompanied it with a friendly elbow in the ribs. “Very well, I am convinced. I must find a German tutor posthaste.”
“Have you an aptitude for languages?” he inquired.
“No, but we were all forced to study French until Mama declared it unpatriotic.”
“Still?” Good gracious, the war had been over for nearly a decade.
Iris gave him a pert look. “She can hold a grudge.”
“Remind me not to cross her.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” she murmured distractedly. Her head tilted just a bit to the side, and she grimaced. “I fear we might need to save Mr. Bevelstoke.”
Richard looked over toward Winston, who was about twenty feet ahead of them on the path. Daisy was clutching his arm and talking with such vigor that her blond curls were indeed bouncing about.
Winston was putting on a good front, but he looked vaguely ill.
“I love Daisy,” Iris said with a sigh, “but she’s an acquired taste. Oh, Mr. Bevelstoke!” With that, she detached herself from Richard’s arm and hastened toward Winston and her sister. Richard picked up the pace and followed.
“I meant to ask you,” he heard Iris say, “what is your opinion of the Treaty of St. Petersburg?”
Winston looked at her as if she were speaking another language. German, perhaps.
“It was in yesterday’s newspaper,” Iris continued. “Surely you read about it.”
“Of course,” Winston said, quite clearly lying.
Iris smiled brightly, turning away from her sister’s scowl. “It does sound as if it’s been worked out to everyone’s satisfaction. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Er . . . yes,” Winston said, with rising enthusiasm. “Yes, indeed.” He understood what Iris was about, even if he had no idea what she was saying. “Quite right.”
“What are you talking about?” Daisy demanded.
“The Treaty of St. Petersburg,” Iris said.
“Yes, you said as much,” Daisy said irritably. “But what is it?”
Iris froze. “Oh, well, it’s, ehrm . . .”
Richard choked down a laugh. Iris didn’t know. She’d jumped into the breach to save Winston from her sister, but she didn’t know the answer to her own question.
One really couldn’t help but admire her brazenness.
“It’s the agreement, you know,” Iris continued, “between Great Britain and Russia.”
“Indeed,” Winston said helpfully. “A treaty. I believe it was signed in St. Petersburg.”
“It’s quite a relief,” Iris put in. “Don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes,” Winston answered. “We should all sleep more soundly because of it.”
“I’ve never trusted the Russians,” Daisy said with a sniff.
“Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Iris said. She looked over at Richard, but he just shrugged, enjoying himself far too
much to intercede.
“My sister almost married a Russian prince,” Winston said offhandedly.
“Did she?” Daisy asked, suddenly aglow.
“Well, no, not really,” Winston admitted. “But he wanted to marry her.”
“Oh, how divine,” Daisy gushed.
“You just said you don’t trust the Russians,” Iris reminded her.
“I didn’t mean royalty,” Daisy said dismissively. “Tell me,” she said to Winston, “was he terribly handsome?”
“I’m not really the best judge of that,” Winston hedged, then offered, “He was very blond, though.”
“Oh, a prince.” Daisy sighed, one fluttery hand coming to rest over her heart. Then her eyes narrowed. “Why on earth didn’t she marry him?”
Winston shrugged. “I don’t believe she wanted to. She married a baronet instead. They’re quite nauseatingly in love. Good fellow, though, Harry is.”
Daisy gasped so loudly Richard was sure they heard it in Kensington. “She chose a baronet over a prince?”
“Some women aren’t swayed by titles,” Iris said. She turned to Richard, and said in a low voice, “Believe it or not, this is the second time we’ve had this conversation today.”
“Really?” His brows rose. “Who were you talking about before?”
“Fictional characters,” she explained, “from a book I was reading.”
“Which one?”
“Pride and Prejudice,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’m sure you haven’t read it.”
“I have, as a matter of fact. It is a favorite of my sister, and I thought it prudent to acquaint myself with her reading choices.”
“Do you always take such a paternal view with respect to your siblings?” she asked archly.
“I am her guardian.”
Her lips parted, and she hesitated a moment before saying, “I am sorry. That was rude of me. I did not know.”
He accepted her apology with a gracious nod. “Fleur is eighteen and a bit of a romantic. If she had her way, she’d read nothing but melodramas.”
“Pride and Prejudice is not a melodrama,” Iris protested.
“No,” he said with a laugh, “but I have no doubt that Fleur has managed to turn it into one in her head.”