The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

by Julia Quinn

  But sleep proved elusive, no matter how weary she felt, and sometime after midnight she gave up the attempt, threw back her covers, and padded across her bedchamber to the petite writing desk Richard had had brought up the week before.

  She looked down at the small selection of books lying on the desktop. She’d finished them all except the history of Yorkshire, which had stubbornly refused to get the least bit interesting, even in the chapter about the War of the Roses. How the author managed to make that dull she’d never know, but she had given up trying to find out.

  Gathering the books in her arms, she shoved her feet in her night slippers and headed for the door. She wouldn’t wake anyone if she tiptoed down to the library.

  The servants had long since retired, and the house was very quiet. Still, Iris stepped gently, grateful for the soft carpets that muffled her footsteps. At home she’d known every creaky board and squeaky door hinge. She hadn’t had a chance yet to learn the same for Maycliffe.

  She paused in her steps, frowning. That was not right. She had to stop thinking of her parents’ house as home. Maycliffe was her home now. She needed to get used to that.

  She supposed she was starting to feel that way, at least a little bit. Even with all the drama—and heavens, there was a lot of drama—Maycliffe was starting to settle into her heart. The sofa in the drawing room was her sofa now, no question about that, and already she’d grown accustomed to the unique song of the yellow-bellied birds that nested near her window. She wasn’t sure what they were called, only that they didn’t have them in London.

  She was starting to feel at home here, strange as that seemed. At home with a husband who would not bed her, a sister who hated her (sometimes) for trying to save her from ruin, and another sister who . . . who . . .

  She thought about that. There really wasn’t much to say about Marie-Claire. Iris hadn’t shared more than two words with her since that first day. She ought to rectify that. It’d be nice if at least one of Richard’s sisters didn’t (sometimes) see her as the devil incarnate.

  At the bottom of the stairs Iris turned right toward the library. It was just down the hall, past the drawing room and Richard’s study. She rather liked his study, she decided. She hadn’t had much occasion to enter the masculine sanctuary recently, but it was warm and comfortable and with the same southerly view she had from her bedroom.

  She paused for a moment to adjust her grip on her candleholder, then squinted. Was that a light down the hall or just her own candle, throwing off flickers and shadows meant to tease and deceive? She held still, held her breath, even, then moved forward again, stepping lightly.

  “Iris?”

  She froze. There was nothing for it. She nudged herself forward and peered into Richard’s study. He was sitting in a chair by the fire, a half-filled glass of something alcoholic in his hand.

  He tipped his tousled head in her direction. “I thought that might be you.”

  “I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?”

  “Not at all,” he said, smiling up at her from his comfortable spot. Iris thought he might be a little bit drunk. It was very unlike him not to rise when a lady entered a room.

  It was also a little odd that he was smiling at her. Given the way they’d parted and all.

  She clutched her small pile of books to her chest. “I was getting something to read,” she said, motioning toward the library.

  “I’d assumed.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Nor I.”

  “Yes, I see.”

  His mouth curled into a lazy half smile. “Witty conversationalists, we two.”

  Iris let out a little laugh. Strange that they could find their humor again now that the house was abed. Or maybe not so strange. She’d been in a contemplative mood all day, ever since her unexpected rapprochement with Fleur. They had not agreed on anything, not really, but Iris thought they had been able to find the good in each other nonetheless.

  Surely she ought to be able to find the same with Richard.

  “Penny for them,” the man in question said.

  Iris looked up with arched brows. “I have enough pennies, thank you.”

  He clutched his hand to his heart. “Wounded! And with coin.”

  “Without coin, actually,” Iris corrected. Because it was the sort of thing she could never let pass.

  He grinned.

  “It’s important to be precise in all things,” she said, but she was grinning, too.

  He chuckled at that, then held up his glass. “Drink?”

  “What is it?”

  “Whiskey.”

  Iris blinked in surprise. She’d never heard of a man offering a woman a sip of whiskey.

  Immediately, she wanted some.

  “Just a little,” she said, setting her books down on a table. “I don’t know if I’ll like it.”

  Richard chuckled as he poured a finger of the amber liquid into a glass. “If you don’t like this, you don’t like whiskey.”

  She gave him a questioning glance as she took a seat in the straight-backed chair across from him.

  “It’s the best there is,” he said without modesty. “It’s not hard to get the really good stuff here, as close to Scotland as we are.”

  She peered down at her glass and took a little sniff. “I did not realize you were such a connoisseur.”

  He shrugged. “I seem to be drinking a lot of it lately.”

  Iris looked away.

  “Didn’t say that to blame you, by the way.” He paused, presumably to take a drink. “Believe me when I say that I know this is a quagmire of my own making.”

  “And Fleur’s,” Iris said quietly.

  His eyes found hers, and the corner of his mouth tipped up. Just a bit. Just enough to thank her for recognizing that. “And Fleur’s,” he agreed.

  They sat in silence for several minutes, Richard downing his glass of whiskey while Iris carefully sipped hers. She liked it, she decided. It was hot and cold at the same time. How else could one describe something that burned until it made you shiver?

  She spent more time looking at her drink than at her husband, allowing herself to study his face only when his eyes closed and he leaned his head against the back of the chair. Was he asleep? She didn’t think so. No one could fall asleep that quickly, especially upright.

  She raised her glass to her lips, experimenting with trying a larger sip. It went down even more smoothly, although that could be the result of all the whiskey that had gone down before it.

  Richard still had his eyes closed. He was definitely not asleep, she decided. His lips pressed together and relaxed, and she realized she recognized the expression. He did that when he was thinking. Well, of course he was always thinking, that’s what humans did, but he did that when he was thinking about something particularly vexing.

  “Am I such a bad person?” he asked, his eyes remaining shut.

  Iris’s lips parted in surprise. “Of course not.”

  He let out a little sigh and finally opened his eyes. “I didn’t used to think so.”

  “You’re not,” she said again.

  He regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. “Good to know.”

  Iris wasn’t sure what to say to that, so she took another sip of her whiskey, tipping it back to get the last few drops.

  “More?” Richard inquired, holding up the decanter.

  “I probably shouldn’t,” she said, but she held out her glass all the same.

  He poured, this time two fingers.

  She regarded her glass, holding it up level with her eyes. “Will this make me drunk?”

  “Probably not.” He cocked his head, his mouth twisting as if he were doing arithmetic in his head. “But I suppose it could do. You’re small. Did you eat supper?”

  “I did.”

  “You should be all right, then.”

  Iris nodded and looked back down at her glass, giving it a little swirl. They sipped in silence for anot
her minute, then she said, “You should not think you are a bad person.”

  He quirked a brow.

  “I’m enormously angry with you, and I think you’re making a mistake, but I do understand your motives.” She looked down at her whiskey, momentarily mesmerized by the way it seemed to flicker and glow in the candlelight. Her voice, when she found it again, was pensive. “No one who loves his sisters so well could ever be a bad person.”

  He was quiet for a moment, and then—“Thank you.”

  “It does you credit, I suppose, that you are willing to make such a sacrifice.”

  “I am hoping,” he said quietly, “that it will not feel like such a sacrifice once the babe is in my arms.”

  Iris swallowed. “I am hoping the same.”

  He leaned forward quite suddenly, resting his forearms on his knees. The motion brought his head lower than hers, and he looked up at her through his thick, dark lashes. “I really am sorry, you know.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “For what you’ve been forced to do,” he needlessly clarified. “It probably won’t matter, but I dreaded telling you.”

  “I should think so,” she retorted before she could think to temper her tone. Of course he would dread it. Who on earth would enjoy such a thing?

  “No, I mean, I knew you would hate me.” He closed his eyes. “It wasn’t the telling that I dreaded. I didn’t really even think about the actual telling. I just didn’t want you to hate me.”

  She sighed. “I don’t hate you.”

  He looked up. “You should.”

  “Well, I did. For a few days, at least.”

  He nodded. “That’s good.”

  Iris couldn’t help but smile.

  “It would be rather churlish of me to deny you that,” he said wryly.

  “My anger?”

  He held up his glass. A salute? Maybe. “You deserve it,” he said.

  Iris nodded slowly, then thought, what the hell, and raised her glass a little, too.

  “What are we toasting?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Fair enough.” He cocked his head. “To your health, then.”

  “My health,” Iris said with a choked laugh. Good heavens, what a thing.

  “It shall surely be the least dangerous pregnancy in history,” she remarked.

  His eyes met hers with a flash of surprise, and then his lips curved into a half smile. “No childbirth fever for you,” he agreed.

  She took a gulp of her whiskey. “I shall regain my figure with supernatural speed.”

  “The other ladies will be envious,” he said solemnly.

  Iris laughed, her eyes closing briefly with mirth before returning to Richard’s face. He was watching her, studying her almost, and his expression . . . it wasn’t amorous or lustful, it was just . . .

  Grateful.

  She looked down, wondering why gratitude seemed so disappointing. He should be grateful for all she was doing, and yet . . .

  It didn’t feel right.

  It didn’t feel like enough.

  She swirled her whiskey. There wasn’t much left.

  Richard’s voice, when she heard it, was soft and sad in the darkness. “What shall we do, Iris?”

  “Do?”

  “We have a lifetime of marriage ahead of us.”

  Iris stared at her drink. Was he asking her to forgive him? She wasn’t sure she was ready to do that. And yet, somehow she knew she would. Was that what it meant to fall in love? That she would forgive the unforgivable? If such a thing had happened to one of her sisters or cousins, Iris would have never forgiven the husband, never.

  But this was Richard. And she loved him. In the end, that was all that would matter.

  In the end.

  But maybe not yet.

  She let out a little snort. How like her that was. To know that she would forgive him but to refuse to do it just yet. It wasn’t about making him suffer, though. It wasn’t even about holding a grudge. She just wasn’t ready. He’d said she deserved her anger, and he was right.

  She looked up. He was watching her patiently.

  “It will be all right,” she said. That was all she could give him. She hoped he would understand.

  He nodded, then rose to his feet and held out his hand. “May I walk you to your room?”

  Part of her longed for the warmth of his body near hers, even just the touch of her hand on his arm. But she didn’t want to fall more in love with him. At least, not tonight. She gave him a regretful smile as she stood. “I’m not sure that would be such a good idea.”

  “Then may I walk you to the door?”

  Iris’s lips parted as she stared up at his face. The door was barely three yards away. It was as unnecessary a gesture as she could imagine, and yet she could not resist. She placed her hand in his.

  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 i
t’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.”