The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (10 page)

She couldn't think. How could she think when he was staring at her as if they were the only two souls left on earth? His midnight eyes were warm—no, hot, and they made her want to melt into him, to throw over everything she knew, all good sense. Her body quivered, and her breath quickened, and she could not look away from his mouth as he kissed her yet again, this time moving to her palm.

Something tightened within her. Something she was sure it was not proper to feel. Not here in her aunt's hallway, not with a man she'd only just met.

“Will you marry me?” he asked.

No. Something was wrong. It was too soon. It did not make sense that he would love her so quickly.

But he did not love her. He had not said he loved her. And yet, the way he looked at her . . .

Why did he want to marry her? Why could she not trust him?

“Iris?” he murmured. “My darling?”

And she finally found her voice.

“I need time.”

D
AMN IT
.

This was exactly what he had thought would happen. She wasn't going to agree to marry him after only a weeklong courtship. She was far too sensible for that.

The irony just killed him. If she weren't the intelligent, sensible creature she was, he wouldn't have chosen her.

He should have stuck to his original plan. He'd come here tonight with every intention of compromising her. Nothing extreme; it would be the worst sort of hypocrisy if he stole anything more than a kiss.

But a kiss was all he needed. One witnessed kiss, and she was as good as his.

But no, she'd mentioned the word
wedding
, and then he'd felt guilty, and he knew he damn well
should
feel guilty. A romantic proposal was his way of making it up to her, not that she knew there was anything for which he must atone.

“Of course,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. “I spoke too soon. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she said, stumbling on the words. “It was just so surprising, and I hadn't considered, and you've only met my father just once, and in passing at that.”

“I will, of course, ask his permission,” Richard said. It wasn't exactly a falsehood. If he could get Iris to say yes in the next few minutes, he would happily seek a private audience with her father and do things in the proper manner.

“May I have a few days?” she asked, her expression hesitant. “There are so many things I don't know about you. And at least as much you do not know about me.”

He let his eyes burn hot into hers. “I know enough to know that I shall never find a more worthy bride.”

Her lips parted, and he knew that his compliments were well aimed. If he only had had more time, he could have wooed her the way a bride ought to be wooed.

He took both of her hands in his and gave them a gentle squeeze. “You are so precious to me.”

She appeared not to know what to say.

He touched her cheek, stalling for time as he tried to figure out how to salvage this. He needed to marry her, and he could not afford a delay.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement. The door to the drawing room was still open. He was at an odd angle to it; he could see only a sliver of the interior. But he had a feeling that Lady Pleinsworth would exit at any moment, and—

“I must kiss you!” he cried out, and he pulled Iris roughly into his arms. He heard her gasp with shock, and it tore painfully through him, but he had no choice. He had to go back to his original plan. He kissed her mouth, her jaw, her lovely exposed neck, and then—

“Iris Smythe-Smith!”

He jumped back. Strangely, he did not have to feign surprise.

Lady Pleinsworth rushed over. “What in the name of God is happening here?”

“Aunt Charlotte!” Iris stumbled back, trembling like a frightened deer. Richard saw her eyes go from her aunt to someone behind her, and with an increasing sense of dread he realized that the Ladies Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances had also come into the hall and were staring at them with openmouthed shock.

Dear God, now he was responsible for the corrupting of children.

“Get your hands off my niece!” Lady Pleinsworth thundered.

Richard thought it best not to point out that he had already done so.

“Harriet,” Lady Pleinsworth said, never taking her eyes off Richard. “Go fetch your aunt Maria.”

Harriet gave a jerky nod and did her bidding.

“Elizabeth, summon a footman. Frances, go to your room.”

“I can help,” Frances protested.

“Your room, Frances.
Now!
”

Poor Frances, who was still wearing her horn, had to hold it with both hands as she ran off.

When Lady Pleinsworth spoke again, her voice was deadly. “Both of you, in the drawing room. This instant.”

Richard stepped aside to allow Iris to pass. He had not thought she could possibly look more pale than normal, but her skin was positively bloodless.

Her hands were shaking. He hated that her hands were shaking.

A footman arrived just as they entered the drawing room, and Lady Pleinsworth pulled him aside and spoke to him in a low voice. Richard presumed she was sending him with a message for Iris's father.

“Sit,” Lady Pleinsworth ordered.

Iris sank slowly into a chair.

Lady Pleinsworth turned her imperious stare on Richard. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I cannot be seated while you remain standing, your ladyship.”

“I give you leave,” she bit off.

He took a seat. It went against everything in his nature, to sit meekly and silent, but he knew this was what had to happen. He just wished Iris didn't look so hollow, so troubled and ashamed.

“Charlotte?”

He heard Iris's mother's voice coming from the hall. She stepped into the room, followed by Harriet, still holding her shepherdess's crook.

“Charlotte, what is going on? Harriet said . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith's words trailed off as she took in the tableau. “What has happened?” she asked, her voice low.

“I have sent for Edward,” Lady Pleinsworth said.

“Father?” Iris said tremulously.

Lady Pleinsworth whirled to face her. “You did not think you could act as you did without repercussion?”

Richard shot to his feet. “She is blameless in this.”

“What. Happened?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said again, each word sharply pronounced.

“He has compromised her,” Lady Pleinsworth said.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith gasped. “Iris, how could you?”

“This is not her fault,” Richard cut in.

“I am not speaking to you,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith snapped. “At least not yet.” She turned to her sister-in-law. “Who knows?”

“All three of my youngest.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith closed her eyes.

“They won't say anything!” Iris suddenly exclaimed. “They are my cousins.”

“They are children!” Lady Pleinsworth roared.

Richard had had enough. “I must ask you not to speak to her in that tone of voice.”

“I don't think you are in any position to be making demands.”

“Nevertheless,” he said softly, “you will speak to her with respect.”

Lady Pleinsworth's brows rose at his impertinence, but she said nothing more.

“I cannot believe you would behave so foolishly,” Iris's mother said to her.

Iris didn't speak.

Her mother turned to Richard, her mouth cut into a firm, furious line. “You will have to marry her.”

“There is nothing that would please me more.”

“I doubt your sincerity, sir.”

“That's not fair!” Iris cried out, jumping to her feet.

“You defend him?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith demanded.

“His intentions were honorable,” Iris said.

Honorable
, Richard thought. He was no longer sure what that meant.

“Oh, really,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith nearly spat. “If his intentions were so hon—”

“He was in the middle of asking me to marry him!”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith looked from her daughter to Richard and back, clearly not sure what to make of this development. “I will say nothing more on the subject until your father arrives,” she finally said to Iris. “It should not be long. The night is clear, and if your aunt”—she tipped her head toward Lady Pleinsworth—“has made clear the import of the summons, he will likely come on foot.”

Richard agreed with her assessment. The Smythe-Smith home was a very short distance away. It would be much faster to walk than to wait for a carriage to be readied.

The room remained in tense silence for several seconds until Mrs. Smythe-Smith abruptly turned to her sister-in-law. “You must go to your guests, Charlotte. With neither of us there, it will appear very suspicious.”

Lady Pleinsworth nodded grimly.

“Take Harriet,” Iris's mother continued. “Introduce her to some of the gentlemen. She is nearly of age to be out. It will seem the most natural thing in the world.”

“But I'm still in costume,” Harriet protested.

“This is no time to be missish,” her mother declared, grabbing her arm. “Come.”

Harriet stumbled along behind her mother, but not before shooting a sympathetic last glance at Iris.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith closed the door to the drawing room and then let out a breath. “This is a fine mess,” she said, and not with compassion.

“I will make arrangements for a special license immediately,” Richard said. He saw no need to tell them that he had already procured one.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith crossed her arms and began to pace.

“Mama?” Iris ventured.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith held up a shaking finger. “Not now.”

“But—”

“We will wait for your father!” Mrs. Smythe-Smith snarled. She was shaking with fury, and the expression on Iris's face told Richard that she had never seen her mother thus.

Iris stepped back, hugging her arms to her body. Richard wanted to comfort her, but he knew her mother would fly into a rage if he took even one step in her direction.

“Of all my daughters,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said in a furious whisper, “you are the last one I would have thought might do something like this.”

Iris looked away.

“I am so ashamed of you.”

“Of me?” Iris said in a small voice.

Richard took a menacing step forward. “I said your daughter is blameless.”

“Of course she is not blameless,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith snapped. “Was she alone with you? She knows better than that.”

“I was in the middle of a marriage proposal.”

“May I assume you have not yet requested a private meeting with Mr. Smythe-Smith to obtain his consent?”

“I thought to do your daughter the honor of asking
her
, first.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith's mouth pressed together in an angry line, but she did not respond. Instead she looked vaguely in Iris's direction and let out a frustrated “Oh, where is your father?”

“I'm sure he will be here soon, Mama,” Iris replied quietly.

Richard prepared himself to jump to Iris's defense again, but her mother held her tongue. Finally, after several more minutes passed, the door to the drawing room opened, and Iris's father walked in.

Edward Smythe-Smith was not an exceptionally tall man, but he carried himself well, and Richard imagined that he had been quite athletic when he was younger. Certainly, he was still strong enough to damage a man's face, should he decide violence was appropriate.

“Maria?” he said, looking to his wife as he entered. “What the devil is going on? I received an urgent summons from Charlotte.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith wordlessly motioned to the two other inhabitants of the room.

“Sir,” Richard said.

Iris looked at her hands.

Mr. Smythe-Smith did not speak.

Richard cleared his throat. “I would very much like to marry your daughter.”

“If I am reading this situation correctly,” Mr. Smythe-Smith said with devastating calm, “you don't have much choice in the matter.”

“Nevertheless, it is what I desire.”

Mr. Smythe-Smith tipped his head toward his daughter but did not look at her. “Iris?”

“He did ask me, Father.” She cleared her throat. “Before . . .”

“Before
what
?”

“Before Aunt Charlotte . . . saw . . .”

Richard took a breath, trying to hold himself back. Iris was miserable; she could not even finish her sentence. Couldn't her father see this? She did not deserve such an interrogation, and yet Richard instinctively knew that if he were to intercede, he would only make it worse.

But he could not do nothing. “Iris,” he said softly, hoping she would hear his support in his voice. If she needed him, he would take over.

“Sir Richard asked me to marry him,” Iris said resolutely. But she didn't look at him. She did not even flick her eyes in his direction.

“And what,” her father asked, “was your reply?”

“I—I had not yet made one.”

“What was your reply going to be?”

Iris swallowed, clearly uncomfortable with all eyes on her. “I would have said yes.”

Richard felt his head jerk. Why was she lying? She had told him she needed more time.

“Then it is settled,” Mr. Smythe-Smith said. “It is not how I would have liked to have seen it come about, but she is of age, she wants to marry you, and indeed, she must.” He looked to his wife. “I assume we will need a speedy wedding.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith nodded, letting out a relieved breath. “It is perhaps not so dire. I believe Charlotte has the gossip under control.”

“Gossip is never under control.”

Richard could only agree with that.

“Still,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith persisted, “it is not as dire as it could be. We can still give her a proper wedding. It will look better if it is not so rushed.”

“Very well.” Mr. Smythe-Smith turned to Richard. “You may marry her in two months' time.”