by Julia Quinn
Kiss him?
There was nothing she wanted more. Or less. Her anger was the only thing holding her up, and if he kissed her . . . if she kissed him . . .
He would make her forget. And then she would lose herself, all over again.
“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, and his hand was so lovely and warm at her cheek.
She should pull away. She knew she should, but she could not bring herself to move. There was nothing in that moment but him and her and the way he was looking at her as if she were the very air he breathed.
He was a consummate actor; she knew that now. He had not fooled her completely—she took some pride in the fact that she’d known that he’d been hiding something—but he’d been good enough to make her think she could fall in love with him. And for all she knew, he was faking this now.
Maybe he didn’t want her. Maybe all he wanted was her compliance.
But she wasn’t sure that mattered. Because she wanted him. She wanted the touch of his lips and the soft brush of his breath on her skin. She wanted the moment. That sacred, suspended moment before they touched, when they only stared, wanting.
Needing.
Anticipation. It was almost better than a kiss. The air between them was heavy and expectant, warm and thick from the heat of their breaths.
Iris held herself still, waiting for him to gather her into his arms, to kiss her and make her forget, if only for a moment, that she was the world’s biggest fool.
But he didn’t. He was still as a statue, his dark eyes never leaving hers. He was going to make her say it, she realized. He would not kiss her until she granted him permission.
Until she admitted her desire.
“I can’t,” she whispered.
He did not say a word. He did not even move.
“I can’t,” she said again, nearly choking on the short sentence. “You have taken everything from me.”
“Not everything,” Richard reminded her.
“Oh, yes.” She nearly laughed at the irony. “You’ve left my innocence intact. Very kind of you.”
He stepped away. “Oh, for God’s sake, Iris, you know why—”
“Stop,” she cut in. “Just stop. Don’t you understand? I don’t want this conversation.”
And she didn’t. He would only try to explain himself, and she didn’t want to listen. He would tell her that he’d had no choice, that he was acting out of love for his sister. And maybe all that was true, but Iris was still so damned angry. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness. He didn’t deserve her understanding.
He had humiliated her. He didn’t get the opportunity to talk her out of her fury.
“It’s just a kiss,” he said softly, but he was not that naive. He had to know it was more than a kiss.
“You took my freedom,” she said, hating how her voice trembled with emotion. “You took my dignity. You will not take my self-respect.”
“You know that was not my intention. What can I do to make you understand?”
Iris shook her head sadly. “Maybe after . . .” She glanced down at her belly, where her empty womb hid beneath her clothes. “Maybe I will fall in love with Fleur’s baby. And maybe then I’ll decide that this was all worth it, even that it was God’s plan. But right now . . .” She swallowed, trying to find compassion for the innocent child at the heart of it all. Was she so unnatural that she couldn’t even manage that? Or maybe she was just selfish, too hurt by Richard’s manipulation to let herself ponder what might be the greater good.
“Right now,” she said softly, “it doesn’t feel like it.”
She took a step back. It felt as if she were snapping a rope in two. She felt empowered. And infinitely more sad.
“You should talk to your sister,” she said.
His eyes flicked toward hers.
“Unless you have finally gained her agreement,” Iris said, answering his unspoken question.
Richard seemed to be vaguely perturbed that she was questioning this. “Fleur has not argued with me about it since the day she arrived.”
“And you perceive that to be acquiescence?” Really, men could be so stupid.
He frowned.
“I would not be so sure that she has come around to your way of thinking,” she told him.
Richard looked at her sharply. “Have you spoken to her?”
“You know very well I have spoken to no one.”
“Then perhaps you should not speculate,” he said in what Iris found to be an unbecomingly snippy voice.
She shrugged. “Perhaps not.”
“You do not know Fleur,” he persisted. “Your interaction has been limited to a single conversation.”
Iris rolled her eyes. “Conversation” was not the word she would have used to describe that awful scene in Fleur’s bedroom. “I don’t know why she is so determined to keep the baby,” Iris said. “Perhaps it is the sort of thing only a mother could understand.”
He flinched.
“That was not meant as a blow,” she informed him coolly.
Richard’s eyes met hers, then he murmured, “Forgive me.”
“Regardless,” Iris continued, “I don’t think you should consider yourself secure until Fleur gives you her explicit consent.”
“She will.”
Iris raised her brows doubtfully.
“She has no choice.”
Again, so stupid. She gave him a pitying look. “So you think.”
He looked at her assessingly. “You disagree?”
“You already know that I don’t approve of your scheme. But that hardly matters.”
“I meant,” he said through clenched teeth, “do you think she can raise the baby on her own?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Iris said, even though in this, she agreed with him. Fleur was mad to think she could withstand the hardship and scorn she would suffer as an unwed mother. Almost as mad as Richard was to think he could pass off her child as his and not have it rain unhappiness later. If it was a girl, they might make it work, but if Fleur had a boy . . .
Clearly they needed to find that girl a husband. Iris still didn’t understand why no one else seemed to see this. Fleur flat out refused to consider marriage, and Richard kept saying that there was no one suitable. But Iris had trouble believing this. Perhaps they lacked the funds to buy Fleur a well-connected husband who would be willing to accept her child, but why couldn’t she wed a vicar? Or a soldier? Or even someone in trade?
This was no time for snobbery.
“What matters,” Iris continued, “is what Fleur thinks, and she wants to be a mother.”
“Stupid, stupid girl,” Richard said harshly, the words a bitter hiss on his lips.
“I cannot disagree there,” Iris said.
He looked at her in surprise.
“You did not marry a paragon of Christian charity and forgiveness,” she said sardonically.
“Apparently not.”
Iris was silent for a moment, then she said, almost dutifully, “I will still support her. And I will love her as a sister.”
“Like you do Daisy?” he quipped.
Iris stared. Then she laughed. Or maybe she snorted. Either way, it was indisputably the sound of humor, and she brought one of her hands to her mouth, barely able to believe herself. “I do love Daisy,” she said, bringing her hand back down to the flat plane of her collarbone. “Truly.”
A faint smile played across Richard’s face. “You have the capacity for more charity and forgiveness than you give yourself credit.”
Iris snorted again. Daisy was vexing.
“If Daisy has given you something about which to smile,” he said softly, “then I must love her, too.”
Iris looked at him and sighed. He looked tired. His eyes had always been deeply set, but the shadows beneath them were more pronounced. And the crinkles at the corners . . . the ones that formed so merrily when he smiled . . . now they were weary grooves.
This hadn’t been easy for him, either
.
She looked away. She didn’t want to feel sympathy.
“Iris,” Richard said, “I only wanted—damn.”
“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.”
Their eyes met; no, their eyes clashed, and Richard finally turned on his heel and stalked away. Iris watched him disappear over the rise, then let out her breath in a long, shaky whoosh.
“Are you all right?” she asked Fleur, who was still hiccuping in her arms. “No, don’t answer that. Of course you’re not all right. None of us is.”
“Why won’t he listen to me?” Fleur whispered.
“He believes that he is acting in your best interest.”
“But he’s not.”
Iris sucked in her breath, trying to keep her voice even as she said, “He’s certainly not acting in his own best interest.”
Fleur pulled back and looked up at her. “Nor yours.”
“Certainly not mine,” Iris said, her agreement caustic at best.
Fleur’s mouth flattened into a sullen line. “He does not understand me.”
“I don’t either,” Iris admitted.
Fleur touched her hand to her flat abdomen. “I love—I’m sorry, I loved the father. The baby is born of that love. I can’t just give him up.”
“You loved him?” Iris asked. How was that possible? If even half of what Richard said was true, William Parnell had been a terrible person.
Fleur looked toward her feet, mumbling, “It is difficult to explain.”
Iris just shook her head. “Don’t even try. Come, shall we head back to the house?”
Fleur nodded, and they began walking. After a few minutes she said, completely without fervor, “I still hate you, you know.”
“I know,” Iris said. She reached out and gave the younger girl’s hand a squeeze. “I still hate you, too, sometimes.”
Fleur looked over at her with an almost hopeful expression. “You do?”
“Sometimes.” Iris reached down and plucked a blade of grass. She put it between her thumbs, trying to make a whistle. “I don’t really want to have your baby, you know.”
“I can’t imagine why you would.”
They resumed walking, Iris taking about six steps before saying, “You’re not going to ask me why I’m doing it?”
Fleur shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter, does it?”
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Iris thought about that for a moment. “No, I suppose not.”
“I know you mean well.”
Iris nodded absently, keeping the pace up the hill.
“Aren’t you going to return the sentiment?” Fleur asked.
Iris turned her head sharply. “That you mean well?”
Fleur’s lips pressed peevishly together.
“I suppose you do,” Iris finally capitulated. “I will confess I find your motives utterly baffling, but I suppose you mean well.”
“I don’t want to marry a stranger.”
“I did.”
Fleur stopped in her tracks.
“Well, almost one, anyway,” Iris allowed.
“You weren’t pregnant with another man’s child.”
Good heavens, the girl was exasperating. “No one is saying you should deceive your bridegroom,” Iris told her. “I’m sure there is someone who will leap at the chance to align himself with Maycliffe.”
“And I shall be made to feel grateful for the rest of my life,” Fleur said bitterly. “Have you considered that?”
“No,” Iris said quietly. “I had not.”
They reached the edge of the west lawn, and Iris squinted up at the sky. It was still overcast, but the clouds had grown thinner. The sun might well yet make an appearance. “I’m going to stay outside,” she said.
Fleur looked up, too. “Won’t you want a shawl?”
“Yes, I suppose I will.”
“I can have one of the maids bring one down.”
It was as clear a gesture of friendship as Iris had ever seen. “That would be most helpful, thank you.”
Fleur nodded and entered the house.
Iris walked over to bench and sat down, waiting for the sun.
Chapter Twenty-two
BY NIGHTFALL IRIS was a bit more at ease. She had spent the rest of the day in her own company, feeling only the tiniest pang of guilt when she elected to take her evening meal in her room. After the morning’s interactions with Richard and Fleur, she rather thought she’d earned the right to abstain from conversation for a day or so. The entire exchange had been exhausting.