by Julia Quinn
“What?” he asked. He had to know what was causing such a delightful expression.
She shook her head, her lips pressed together, obviously trying not to laugh.
“Tell me. I insist.”
She leaned forward, as if imparting a great secret. “If John had been a girl, he would have been called Hydrangea.”
“Good God.”
“I know. My brother is a lucky, lucky boy.”
Richard chuckled, then suddenly realized that they had been talking quite comfortably for several minutes. More than comfortably—really, she was quite good company, his new wife. Maybe this would all work out. He just had to get past this first hurdle . . .
“Why was your brother absent from the wedding?” he asked her.
She didn’t bother to look up from her food as she answered. “He is still at Eton. My parents did not think he should be removed from school for such a small celebration.”
“But all of your cousins were there.”
“You had no family in attendance,” she countered.
There were reasons for that, but he wasn’t prepared to go into them now.
“And at any rate,” Iris continued, “that wasn’t all of my cousins.”
“Good Lord, how many of you are there?”
Her lips pinched together. She was trying not to smile. “I have thirty-four first cousins.”
He stared at her. It was an incomprehensible number.
“And five siblings,” she added.
“That is . . . remarkable.”
She shrugged. He supposed it didn’t seem so remarkable if it was all she had known. “My father was one of eight,” she said.
“Still.” He speared a piece of Mrs. Fogg’s famous roast beef. “I have precisely zero first cousins.”
“Truly?” She looked shocked.
“My mother’s older sister was widowed quite young. She had no children and no wish to remarry.”
“And your father?”
“He had two siblings, but they died without issue.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Why?”
“Well, because—” She stopped, her chin drawing back as she pondered her answer. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “I cannot imagine being so alone.”
For some reason he found this amusing. “I do have two sisters.”
“Of course, but—” Again, she cut herself off.
“But what?” He smiled to show her he was not offended.
“It’s just so . . . few of you.”
“I can assure you it did not feel that way when I was growing up.”
“No, I imagine not.”
Richard helped himself to two more of Mrs. Fogg’s Yorkshire puddings. “Your home was a hive of activity, I imagine.”
“Closer to a madhouse.”
He laughed.
“I’m not jesting,” she said. But she grinned.
“I hope you will find my two sisters an adequate substitute for yours.”
She smiled and cocked her head flirtatiously to the side. “With a name like Fleur, it was predestined, don’t you think?”
“Ah yes, the florals.”
“Is that what they call us now?”
“Now?”
She rolled her eyes. “The Smythe-Smith bouquet, the garden girls, the hothouse flowers . . .”
“The hothouse flowers?”
“My mother was not amused.”
“No, I don’t imagine she was.”
“It was not always ‘flowers,’” she said with a bit of a wince. “I’m told that some gentlemen were fond of alliteration.”
“Gentlemen?” Richard echoed doubtfully. He could come up with all sorts of things that began with H, and none of them were complimentary.
Iris speared a tiny potato with her fork. “I use the term loosely.”
He watched her for a moment. At first glance, his new wife seemed wispy, almost insubstantial. She was not tall, only up to his shoulder, and rather thin. (Although not, he had discovered recently, without curves.) And then, of course, there was her remarkable coloring. But her eyes, which on first glance had seemed pale and insipid, sharpened and glowed with intelligence when she was engaged in conversation. And when she moved it became clear that her slender frame was not one of weakness and malaise but rather of strength and determination.
Iris Smythe-Smith did not glide through rooms as so many of her peers had been trained to do; when she walked, it was with direction and purpose.
And her name, he reminded himself, was not Smythe-Smith. She was Iris Kenworthy, and he was coming to realize that he had barely scratched the surface of knowing her.
Chapter Ten
Three days later
THEY WERE GETTING CLOSE.
It had been ten minutes since they’d passed through Flixton, the nearest village to Maycliffe Park. Iris tried not to look too eager—or nervous—as she watched the landscape slide by through the window. She tried to tell herself it was just a house, and if her husband’s descriptions were accurate, not even a terribly grand one at that.
But it was his house, which meant it was now her house, and she desperately wished to make a good impression upon her arrival. Richard had told her there were thirteen servants in the house proper, nothing too daunting, but then he’d mentioned that the butler had been there since his childhood, and the housekeeper even longer, and Iris could not help but think that it did not matter that her surname was now Kenworthy—she was the interloper in this equation.
They would hate her. The servants would hate her, and his sisters would hate her, and if he had a dog (really, shouldn’t she know if he had a dog?), it would probably hate her as well.
She could see it now, prancing up to Richard with a silly dog grin, then turning to her, fangs out and snarling.
A jolly homecoming this would be.
Richard had sent word ahead to alert the household of the approximate time of their arrival. Iris was well enough acquainted with country house life to know that a swift rider would be watching for them a few miles out. By the time their carriage arrived at Maycliffe, the entire household would be lined up to greet them.
Richard spoke of the upper servants with great affection; given his charm and amiability, Iris could only imagine that this feeling was returned in equal measure. The servants would take one look at her, and it would not matter if she was trying to be fair-minded and kind. It would not matter if she smiled at her husband and appeared happy and pleased with her new home. They would be watching her closely and would see it in her eyes. She was not in love with her husband.
And perhaps more importantly, he was not in love with her.
There would be gossip. There was always gossip when the master of an estate married, but she was a complete unknown in Yorkshire, and given the rushed nature of the wedding, the whispers about her would be intense. Would they think she had trapped him into marriage? It could not be further from the truth, and yet—
“Do not worry.”
Iris looked up at the sound of Richard’s voice, thankful that he had broken the vicious cycle of her thoughts. “I’m not worried,” she lied.
He quirked a brow. “Allow me to rephrase. There is no need for you to worry.”
Iris folded her hands primly in her lap. “I did not think there was.”
Another lie. She was getting good at this. Or maybe not. From Richard’s expression, it was clear he did not believe her.
“Very well,” she acceded. “I am a little nervous.”
“Ah. Well, there probably is reason for that.”
“Sir Richard!”
He grinned. “Sorry. I could not resist. And if you recall, I would prefer that you not call me sir. At least not when we are alone.”
She tilted her head, deciding he deserved the ambiguity of such a response.
“Iris,” he said, his voice gentle, “I would be a cad if I did not recognize that you have had to make all of the
adjustments in our union.”
Not all, Iris thought acerbically. And certainly not the biggest. In fact, one might say that a rather important part of her had not been adjusted in the least. The second night of their journey had passed much the same as the first: in separate bedchambers. Richard had repeated what he’d said before, that she did not deserve a wedding night in a dusty inn.
Never mind that the Royal Oak was every bit as spotless as the Dusty Goose had been. The same went for the Kings Arms, where they’d slept the final night of their journey. Iris knew that she should feel honored that her husband held her in such regard, that he would put her comfort and well-being above his needs, but she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the man who had kissed her so passionately at Pleinsworth House barely a week before. He had seemed so overcome by her nearness, so wholly unable to restrain himself.
And now . . . Now that they were married and he had no reason to hold his passions . . .
It made no sense.
But then again, neither had marrying her, and he’d done that with alacrity.
She bit her lip.
“I have asked much of you,” he said.
“Not so much,” she muttered.
“What was that?”
She gave her head a little shake. “Nothing.”
He let out a breath, the only signal that this conversation might be even a little difficult for him. “You have moved halfway across the country,” he said. “I have taken you away from all you hold dear.”
Iris managed a tight smile. Was this meant to reassure her?
“But I do believe,” he continued, “that we will suit very well. And I hope that you will come to view Maycliffe as home.”
“Thank you,” she said politely. She appreciated that he was making such an effort to make her feel welcome, but it wasn’t doing much to soothe her nerves.
“My sisters will be most eager to meet you.”
Iris hoped that was true.
“I wrote to them about you,” he continued.
She looked up in surprise. “When?” she asked. He would have had to have done so immediately following their engagement if the news was to reach Maycliffe before she did.
“I sent an express.”
Iris nodded, even as she returned her gaze to the window. That would have done it. Express riders were dear, but well worth it if one needed a missive to arrive quickly. She wondered what he might have written about her. How might he describe his intended bride after barely a week of acquaintance? And to his sisters, no less?
She turned back, trying to observe Richard’s face without being too obvious about it. He was quite intelligent, this much she’d known after less than a week of acquaintance. He was very good with people, too, far better than she was, that was for certain. She imagined that anything he wrote of her to his sisters would depend on them. He would know what they would wish to learn about her.
“You’ve told me almost nothing of them,” she said suddenly.
He blinked.
“Your sisters.”
“Oh. Haven’t I?”
“No.” And how strange that she was only just realizing it then. She supposed it was because she knew the most important facts—names, ages, a bit of what they looked like. But she knew absolutely nothing else, save for Fleur’s fondness for Pride and Prejudice.
“Oh,” he said again. He glanced out the window, then back to her, his movements an uncharacteristic staccato. “Well. Fleur is eighteen, Marie-Claire three years younger.”
“Yes, you’ve said as much.” Her sarcasm was subtle, and from the look on his face, it took him a few seconds to realize it.
“Fleur likes to read,” he said brightly.
“Pride and Prejudice,” Iris supplied.
“Yes, see?” He gave her a charming smile. “I’ve told you things.”
“I suppose technically that is true,” she said with a little nod in his direction. “Things being plural, and two being plural, and your having told me two things . . .”
His eyes narrowed, mostly with amusement. “Very well, what would you like to know?”
She hated when people asked questions like that. “Anything.”
“You haven’t told me anything about your siblings,” he pointed out.
“You’ve met my siblings.”
“Not your brother.”
“You’re not going to live with my brother,” she retorted.
“Point taken,” he acknowledged, “although one might say that any further information from me would be superfluous, as you’re going to meet them in about three minutes.”
“What?” Iris nearly shrieked, whipping back around to the window. Sure enough, they had left the main road and entered a long drive. The trees were thinner here than on the main road, the fields rolling gently to the horizon. It was a lovely landscape, peaceful and serene.
“It’s just over the rise.”
She could hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice.
“Just a moment now,” he murmured.
And then she saw it. Maycliffe Park. It was bigger than she’d imagined, although certainly nothing to Fensmore or Whipple Hill. But those were homes of earls. Her cousins, but still earls of the realm.
Maycliffe had its charms, though. From the distance, it appeared to be red brick, with rather unusual Dutch gables adorning the façade. There was something almost uneven about it, but given what she knew of its history, that made sense. Richard had told her that the house had been modified and added to several times over the years.
“The family rooms face south,” he told her. “You’ll be glad for it in the winter.”
“I don’t know which way we’re facing now,” Iris admitted.
He smiled. “We are approaching from the west. So your rooms will be around that”—he pointed to the right—“corner.”
Iris nodded without turning back to her husband. Right now she wanted to keep her attention on her new home. As they pulled closer, she saw that each gable was dotted with a small circular window. “Who has the rooms at the top?” she asked. “With the round windows?”
“It’s a bit of a mix. Some are for servants. On the south, it’s the nursery. My mother turned one into a reading room.”
He hadn’t said much about his parents, either, Iris realized. Just that they’d both passed, his mother when he was a student at Eton, his father a few years later.
But this wasn’t the right time to press for more information. The carriage was coming to a stop, and sure enough, all of Maycliffe was lined up in the front drive to greet them. It did look to be more than the thirteen servants Richard had mentioned; perhaps he’d meant only those serving in the house itself. From what Iris could see there were gardeners among the group, stable-hands, too. She had never been greeted by such a complete collection of staff before; she supposed it was because she was not a guest, she was the new mistress of the estate. Why had no one warned her? She was nervous enough without feeling she had to make a good impression on the man who tended the roses.
Richard hopped down, then held a hand up for her. Iris took a deep breath and disembarked, regarding the assembled servants with what she hoped was a friendly yet confident smile.
“Mr. Cresswell,” Richard said, leading toward the tall man who could only be the butler, “may I present Lady Kenworthy, the new mistress of Maycliffe Park.”
Cresswell gave a stiffly proper bow. “We are delighted to have a woman’s presence again here at Maycliffe.”
“I am eager to learn about my new home,” Iris said, using words she had practiced the night before. “I am sure I will rely upon you and Mrs. Hopkins a great deal during these first few months.”
“It will be our honor to assist you, my lady.”
Iris felt the terrifying knot within her begin to loosen. Cresswell sounded sincere, and surely the rest of the servants would follow his lead.
“Sir Richard tells me that you have been at Maycliffe for many years,” Iris conti
nued. “He is most fortunate to . . .”
Her words trailed off as she glanced over at her husband. His normally genial expression had been replaced by one of near rage.
“Richard?” she heard herself whisper. Whatever could have happened to upset him so?
“Where,” he said to the butler, his voice as low and tightly wound as she had ever heard it, “are my sisters?”
RICHARD SEARCHED THE small crowd gathered in the drive, but really, what was the point? If his sisters were here, they would have been standing at the front, a burst of color against the black uniforms of the maids.
Damn it, they should have been out here to greet Iris. It was the worst sort of snub. Fleur and Marie-Claire might be used to having the run of the manor, but Iris was now the mistress of Maycliffe, and everyone—even those born with the surname Kenworthy—needed to get used to that.
Fast.
Furthermore, both of his sisters knew damn well how much Iris was giving up for their family. Even Iris didn’t know the full extent of it.
Any extent of it, really.
Something burned through Richard’s gut, and he really didn’t want to determine whether it was fury or guilt.
He hoped it was fury. Because there was guilt enough already, and he had a feeling it would soon turn to acid.
“Richard,” Iris said, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m sure there is a good reason for their absence.” But her smile was forced.
Richard turned to Cresswell, and snapped, “Why are they not down?” There was no excuse for this. The rest of the household had had time to exit and assemble. His sisters had four good legs between them. They could bloody well have descended the stairs to meet their new sister.
“Miss Kenworthy and Miss Marie-Claire are not at Maycliffe, sir. They’re with Mrs. Milton.”
They were with his aunt? “What? Why?”
“She arrived yesterday to collect them.”
“To collect them,” Richard repeated.
The butler’s expression remained impassive. “Mrs. Milton declared herself of the opinion that newlyweds deserve a honeymoon.”