The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (12 page)

“Not in so many words, but it did sound rather awkward.”

“I'm sure it can be, if you don't love your husband.”

“I don't love my husband,” Iris said plainly.

Sarah sighed, and her voice lost some of its authority. “Do you at least like him?”

“Yes, of course.” Iris thought about the man who would, in just a few short hours, be her husband. She might not be able to say that she loved him, but to be fair, there was nothing really
wrong
with him. He had a lovely smile, and thus far, he had treated her with the utmost respect. But she hardly knew him. “I might grow to love him,” she said, wishing she spoke with more authority. “I hope I do.”

“Well, that's a start.” Sarah pressed her lips together in thought. “He seems to like you, too.”

“I'm fairly certain he does,” Iris replied. Then, in quite a different tone, she added, “Unless he is a spectacular liar.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Iris said quickly. She wished she hadn't spoken. Her cousin knew why the marriage was taking place in such a hurry—the whole family did—but no one knew the truth behind Sir Richard's proposal.

Even Iris.

She sighed. It was better if everyone thought it had been a romantic declaration of love. Or at least that he'd thought the whole thing through and decided they were well matched. But not this . . . this . . .

Iris didn't know how to explain it, even to herself. She just wished she could shake this nagging suspicion that something was not quite right.

“Iris?”

“Sorry.” Iris gave her head a little shake. “I've been somewhat distracted lately.”

“I should think so,” Sarah replied, seemingly accepting that explanation. “Still, I have spoken to Sir Richard only a few times, but he seems to be a kind man, and I think he will treat you well.”

“Sarah,” Iris began, “if your intent was to ease my apprehension, I must tell you that you are failing miserably.”

Sarah made a rather amusingly frustrated sound and clasped her head in her hands. “Just listen to me,” she said. “And trust me. Do you trust me?”

“Not really.”

Sarah's expression was beyond comical.

“I'm joking,” Iris said with a smile. “Please, I must be allowed my share of humor on my wedding day. Especially after that conversation with my mother.”

“Just remember,” Sarah said, reaching forward to take Iris's hand. “It can be lovely, what happens between a husband and wife.”

Iris's expression must have been dubious, because Sarah added, “It's very special. Truly, it is.”

“Did someone tell you of this before your wedding?” Iris asked. “After your mother spoke to you? Is that why you thought to come and tell me this?”

To Iris's great surprise, Sarah flushed a deep pink. “Hugh and I . . . ah . . . we might have . . .”

“Sarah!”

“Shocking, I know. But it was wonderful, truly, and I could not help myself.”

Iris was stunned. She knew that Sarah had always been a freer spirit than she was, but she never would have dreamed that she would have given herself to Hugh before marriage.

“Listen,” Sarah said, squeezing Iris's hand. “It does not matter if Hugh and I anticipated our vows. We are married now, and I love my husband, and he loves me.”

“I don't judge you,” Iris said, although she had a feeling she did, maybe a little bit.

Sarah regarded her with a frank expression. “Has Sir Richard kissed you?”

Iris nodded.

“Did you like it? No, don't answer, I can tell from your face that you did.”

Not for the first time Iris cursed her fair skin. There wasn't a person in England who blushed with as much vigor and depth as she did.

Sarah patted her hand. “That's a good sign. If his kisses are lovely, then the rest will most likely be, too.”

“This has been the strangest morning of my life,” Iris said weakly.

“It's about to get stranger”—Sarah stood and gave Iris an exaggerated tip of the head—“
Lady Kenworthy
.”

Iris threw a pillow at her.

“I must away,” Sarah said. “Your sisters will be here at any moment to help you get ready.” She moved to the door and placed her hand on the knob, glancing back at her cousin with a smile.

“Sarah!” Iris called out, before she could exit the room.

Sarah tilted her head in question.

Iris gazed at her cousin, and for the first time in her life, realized just how much she loved her. “Thank you.”

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER
, Iris was Lady Kenworthy in truth. She had stood before a man of God, and she had said the words that would bind her to Sir Richard for life.

He was still such a mystery. He had continued to court her during the brief time between her compromise and the wedding, and she could not say that he was anything but charming. But she still could not bring herself to trust in him without reservation.

She did like him. She liked him very much. He had a wicked sense of humor, ideally matched to her own, and if pressed, she would have said that she believed him to be a man of good moral fiber and principles.

But it wasn't so much of a belief as it was a supposition, or in truth, just a hope. Her gut told her all would be well, but she didn't really like to trust her gut. She was far too practical for that. She preferred tangibility; she desired proof.

Their courtship had not made
sense
. She simply could not get past that.

“We must make our farewells,” her husband—
her husband
!—said to her shortly after the wedding breakfast. The celebration, like the ceremony, had been simple, although not precisely small. The size of Iris's family had made that impossible.

Iris had passed through the events of the day in a daze, nodding and smiling at what she hoped were the correct moments. Cousin after cousin stepped forth to congratulate her, but with every kiss on the cheek and pat on the hand, she could only think that she was one moment closer to stepping into Sir Richard's carriage and riding away.

Now that time had come.

He handed her up, and she took a seat facing front. It was a nice carriage, well-appointed and comfortable. She hoped it was well sprung; according to her husband it was a four-day journey to Maycliffe Park.

A moment after she was settled, Sir Richard entered the carriage. He gave her a smile, then sat opposite her.

Iris peeked out the window at her family, gathered together in front of her home. No, not her home. Not any longer. She felt the mortifying prick of tears in her eyes and dug hastily in her beaded reticule for a handkerchief. She barely had her bag open, however, before Sir Richard leaned forward, proffering his own.

There was no point in denying her tearfulness, Iris supposed as she took the handkerchief. He could see her well enough. “I'm sorry,” she said as she dabbed her eyes. Brides weren't meant to cry on their wedding days. Surely it could not portend anything good.

“You have nothing for which to apologize,” Sir Richard said kindly. “I know this has all been quite an upheaval.”

She gave him the best smile she could manage, which wasn't much of one, really. “I was just thinking . . .” She motioned to the window. The carriage had not yet begun to move, and if she tilted her head just so, she could see what had once been her bedroom window. “It's no longer my home.”

“I hope you will like Maycliffe.”

“I'm sure I will. Your descriptions are lovely.” He had told her of the grand staircase and secret passageways. A room where King James I had slept. There was an herb garden near the kitchen and an orangery in the back. It wasn't attached to the house, though, and he'd told her that he'd long thought of connecting them.

“I shall do my best to make you happy,” he said.

She appreciated that he said that here, where they had no audience. “As shall I.”

The carriage began to move, its pace slow in the congested streets of London.

“How long shall we travel today?” Iris asked.

“About six hours in total, if the roads were not too affected by this morning's rain.”

“Not such a long day.”

He smiled in agreement. “This close to town there are plenty of opportunities to take a rest, should you need one.”

“Thank you.”

It was by far the most polite, proper, and boring conversation they had ever had. Ironic, that.

“Do you mind if I read?” Iris asked, reaching into her reticule for a book.

“Not at all. I envy you, as a matter of fact. I am wholly unable to read in a moving carriage.”

“Even when you are facing forward?” She bit her lip. Good heavens, what was she saying? He would construe that to mean she wished for him to come sit next to her.

Which was not what she was saying at all.

Not that she would
mind
.

Which wasn't to say that she desired it.

She was completely indifferent. Really. She did not care one way or another where he chose to sit.

“It matters not which way I am facing,” Sir Richard answered, reminding Iris that she had indeed asked him a question. “I find that staring out the window at a far-off spot often helps.”

“My mother says the same thing,” Iris agreed. “She, too, has difficulty reading in carriages.”

“I usually just ride alongside,” he said with a shrug. “It's easier all the way around.”

“Did you not wish to do so today?” Oh, blast. Now he would think she was trying to boot him from the carriage. Which was
also
not what she was saying.

“I might later on,” he told her. “In town we move slowly enough that I'm not affected.”

She cleared her throat. “Right. Well, I'll just read now, if you don't mind.”

“Please.”

She opened her book and began to read. In a closed carriage. Alone with her new handsome husband. She read a book.

She had a feeling this was not the most romantic way to begin a marriage.

But then again, what did she know?

I
T WAS NEARLY
eight in the evening when they finally stopped for the day. Iris had been alone in the carriage for some time. They had made one brief stop so that everyone could see to their needs, and upon the resumption of their journey, Sir Richard had elected to ride alongside the vehicle. Iris told herself she did not feel slighted. He suffered from motion sickness; she did not wish him to become ill on their wedding day.

But it did mean she was left alone, and as the evening wore on, and the light grew dimmer, she could not even escape into the pages of her book. Now that they had left London behind, their pace was swifter, and the horses fell into a steady, soothing rhythm. She must have fallen asleep, because one moment she was somewhere in Buckinghamshire, and the next someone was gently shaking her shoulder and calling her name.

“Iris? Iris?”

“Mmmbrgh.” She never had woken up well.

“Iris, we've arrived.”

She blinked a few times until her husband's face came into focus in the dim evening light. “Sir Richard?”

He smiled indulgently. “I should think you might be able to dispense with the 'Sir.'”

“Mmmmfh. Yes.” She yawned, shaking out her hand, which had fallen asleep. Her foot, too, she realized. “All right.”

He watched her with visible amusement. “Do you always wake so slowly?”

“No.” She pulled herself into a sitting position. At some point during the ride she'd slumped completely onto her side. “Sometimes I'm slower.”

He chuckled at that. “I shall take that under advisement. No important meetings for Lady Kenworthy before noon.”

Lady Kenworthy
. She wondered how long it would take to grow used to it.

“I can usually be relied upon to be coherent by eleven,” Iris returned. “Although I must say, the best part of being married is going to be having my breakfast in bed.”

“The best part?”

She blushed, and the sudden import of her words finally woke her up. “I'm sorry,” she said quickly. “That was thoughtless—”

“Think nothing of it,” he cut in, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her husband was not one to take ready insult. A very good thing that was, as Iris was not always one to consider her words before she spoke them.

“Shall we go?” Richard asked.

“Yes, of course.”

He hopped down and held out his hand. “Lady Kenworthy.”

That was twice he'd called her by her new name in the same number of minutes. She knew that many gentlemen did such a thing in the early days of marriage as a sign of endearment, but it made her uncomfortable. He meant well, she knew, but it only served to remind her how very much her life had changed in the space of a week.

Still, she must try to make the best of her situation, and that started with making pleasant conversation. “Have you stayed here before?” she asked as she accepted his hand.

“Yes, I—Whoa!”

Iris wasn't quite sure how it happened—maybe she hadn't managed to shake all of the pins and needles from her foot—but she slipped on the carriage step, and she let out a startled cry as her stomach lurched up against her heart, which returned the favor by launching into a full sprint.

And then, before she could even try to catch her balance, she was caught by Richard, who held her securely as he set her down.

“Goodness,” she said, glad to have her feet firmly on the ground. She placed one hand on her heart, trying to calm herself.

“Are you all right?” He did not seem to notice that his hands were still on her waist.

“Quite well,” she whispered. Why was she whispering? “Thank you.”

“Good.” He gazed down at her. “I shouldn't want . . .”

His words trailed off, and for a heavy second they stared into each other's eyes. It was the strangest, warmest sensation, and when he stepped abruptly away, Iris felt off-balance and out of sorts.