The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (28 page)

Difficult?
Her jaw came unhinged. He wanted her to feign a pregnancy and then claim another woman's child as her own? And he called that
difficult
?

“. . . but I think you will see that it is the only solution.”

No
. She shook her head. “That cannot be possible. There must be some other way.”

“Do you really think I came to this decision lightly?” Richard said, his voice rising with temper. “Do you imagine I did not consider every possible alternative?”

Iris's lungs grew tight, and she fought the need to suck in great big gulps of air. She couldn't breathe. She could barely
think
. Who
was
this man? He'd been almost a stranger when they married, but she had thought he was at heart a good and honest person. She had let him kiss her in the most mortifyingly intimate way imaginable, and she did not even
know
him.

She'd thought she might even be falling in love.

And the worst part was, he could force her to do this. They both knew that. In marriage, the man's word was law, and the woman's lot was to obey. Oh, she could run to her parents, but they would just send her back to Maycliffe. They might be shocked, they might think Richard was mad to consider such a scheme, but in the end, they would tell her that he was her husband, and if this was his choice, she must go along with it.

“You deceived me,” she whispered. “You deliberately tricked me into marriage.”

“I am sorry.”

And he probably was, but that did not excuse him.

Then she asked the most terrifying question of all. “Why me?”

Richard blanched.

Iris felt her blood drain from her body, and she stumbled back, the force of his unsaid reply a punch to her gut. He didn't need to say anything; the answer was right there on his face. Richard had chosen her because he
could
. Because he'd known that with her modest dowry and unremarkable looks she would not have suitors clamoring for her hand. A girl like her would be eager for marriage. A girl like her would never refuse a man like him.

Good Lord, had he
researched
her? Of course. He must have done. Why else would he have attended the Smythe-Smith musicale, if not to seek an introduction?

Winston Bevelstoke's face suddenly flashed in her mind, his smile so practiced and suave as he introduced them. Had he helped Richard to choose a bride?

Iris nearly choked with the horror of it. Richard must have asked his friends to draw up lists of the most desperate women in London. And she had topped the charts.

She had been judged. And she had been pitied.

“You have humiliated me,” she said, barely able to find her voice.

No one would call Sir Richard Kenworthy a fool. He had known exactly what he needed in a bride—someone so pathetic and grateful for a marriage proposal that she'd roll over and say
yes, please
when he finally revealed the truth.

That
was what he thought of her.

Iris gasped, clapping her hand to her mouth to stifle the cry that rose from her throat.

Fleur regarded her with a disconcertingly steady gaze before saying to Richard, “You really should have told her the truth before you asked her to marry you.”

“Shut
up,
” he snarled.

“Don't tell her to shut up,” Iris snapped.

“Oh, now you're on her side?”

“Well, nobody seems to be on
mine
.”

“You should know that I have told him I will not agree to the scheme,” Fleur said.

Iris turned to look at her, to really look at her for the first time that afternoon, to try to see something beyond the petulant, hysterical girl who'd stepped down from the carriage. “Are you mad?” she demanded. “What do you propose to do? Who is the baby's father?”

“It's obviously no one you know,” Fleur snapped.

“The younger son of a local baron,” Richard said in a flat voice. “He seduced her.”

Iris whirled to face him. “Well, then, why don't you force him to marry her?”

“He's dead,” he replied.

“Oh.” Iris felt as if she'd been punched. “Oh.” She looked at Fleur. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm not,” Richard said.

Iris's eyes widened with shock.

“His name was William Parnell,” he spat. “He was a bastard. Always has been.”

“What happened?” Iris asked, not sure that she wanted to know.

Richard glanced over at her with an arched brow. “He fell over the side of a balcony, drunk and waving a pistol. It's a miracle no one was shot.”

“Were you there?” Iris whispered. Because she had the most awful feeling he might have had something to do with it.

“Of course not.” He looked at her with a disgusted expression. “There were a dozen witnesses. Including three prostitutes.”

Iris swallowed uncomfortably.

Richard's face was a ravaged mask as he said, “I tell you this only so you will know what sort of man he was.”

Iris nodded dumbly. She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to
feel
. After a few moments, she turned to Fleur—her new sister, she reminded herself—and took her hands. “I'm so sorry.” She swallowed, keeping her voice careful and soft. “Did he hurt you?”

Fleur turned away. “It was not like that.”

Richard lurched forward. “Do you mean to tell me you
let
—”

“Stop!” Iris cried out, yanking him back. “There is nothing to be gained by making accusations.”

Richard gave a curt nod, but he and Fleur continued to watch each other warily.

Iris swallowed. She hated to be insensitive, but she had no idea how far along Fleur was—her dress was loose enough to conceal an early pregnancy—and she rather thought they hadn't many moments to spare.

“Is there another gentleman who will marry her?” she asked. “Someone who—”

“I'm not going to marry a stranger,” Fleur said hotly.

I did
. The words came unbidden to Iris's mind. Unbidden, but undeniably true.

Richard's eyes made a disdainful roll. “I haven't the money to buy her a husband, in any case.”

“Surely you could find someone—”

“Willing to take her babe as his heir, should it be a boy? That takes a hefty bribe indeed.”

“And yet you're prepared to do it,” she stated.

Richard flinched, but he said, “The child will be my niece or nephew.”

“But not yours!” Iris turned away, hugging her arms to her body. “And not mine.”

“You cannot love a child not of your body?” His voice was low, accusing.

“Of course I can. But this is deceptive. It's wrong. You know it is!”

“I wish you luck convincing him of that,” Fleur said.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, be quiet!” Iris snapped. “Can't you see I'm trying to help you?”

Fleur lurched back, startled by Iris's display of temper.

“What will you do when we have a boy,” Iris asked Richard, “and your son—your firstborn son—cannot inherit Maycliffe because you have already given it away?”

Richard said nothing, his lips pressed so tightly together they were nearly gone white.

“You would deny your own child his birthright?” Iris pressed.

“I will make arrangements,” he said stiffly.

“There are no arrangements that can be made,” Iris cried. “You cannot have thought this through. If you claim her son as ours, you cannot make a younger child your heir. You—”

“Maycliffe is not entailed,” Richard reminded her.

Iris drew an angry breath. “That's even worse. You would allow Fleur's son to believe he is your firstborn and then hand Maycliffe to his younger brother?”

“Of course not,” Richard nearly hissed. “What sort of man do you think I am?”

“Honestly? I don't know.”

He recoiled, but he continued speaking. “I will divide the property in two if necessary.”

“Oh, that will be fair,” Iris drawled. “One child will get the house and the other the orangery. No one is going to feel slighted at
that
.”

“For the love of God,” Richard exploded, “will you just
shut up
?”

Iris gasped, flinching at his tone.

“I shouldn't have said that if I were you,” Fleur said.

Richard snarled something at his sister; Iris didn't know what, but Fleur took a step back, and all three of them hung frozen in an uneasy tableau until Richard drew a loud breath, and said in an emotionless voice, “We will all travel to Scotland next week. To visit cousins.”

“We have no Scottish cousins,” Fleur said flatly.

“We do now,” he told her.

Fleur looked at him as if he'd gone mad.

“Just recently discovered on the family tree,” he said, with enough false cheer to indicate that he was making the whole thing up. “Hamish and Mary Tavistock.”

“Now you're inventing relations?” Fleur scoffed.

He ignored her sarcasm. “
You
are going to enjoy their company so much you decide to stay.” He gave her a sickly smile. “For months.”

Fleur crossed her arms. “I won't do it.”

Iris looked at Richard. The raw pain in his eyes was almost too much to bear. For a moment she wanted to go to him, to lay her hand on his arm and comfort him.

But no.
No
. He did not deserve her comfort. He had lied to her. He had deceived her in the worst possible way.

“I cannot stay here,” she said suddenly. She could not remain in this room. She could not look at him. Or his sister.

“You will not leave me,” Richard said sharply.

She turned, not sure if her face belied her disbelief. Or her contempt. “I am going to my room,” she said slowly.

He shifted his weight slightly. He was embarrassed. Good.

“Do not disturb me,” Iris said.

Neither Richard nor Fleur said a word.

Iris stalked to the door and wrenched it open, only to find Marie-Claire, tripping over her feet as she jumped back, trying to look as if she hadn't been blatantly eavesdropping.

“Good afternoon,” Marie-Claire said with a hasty smile. “I was just—”

“Oh for God's sake,” Iris snapped, “you already
know
.”

She brushed past her, beyond caring that she'd made the younger girl stumble. When she got to her room, she did not slam the door. Instead she shut it with a careful click, her hand remaining frozen on the handle. With a strange detachment, she watched as her fingers began to tremble and then shake. And then her legs were shaking, and she had to lean against the door for support, and then she was sliding down, down to the floor where she bent into herself and began to weep.

I
RIS WAS GONE
for a full minute before Richard could bring himself to look at his sister.

“Do not blame this on me,” Fleur said with low fervor. “I did not ask this of you.”

Richard tried not to respond. He was so damned weary of arguing with her. But he could not see anything but the shattered look on Iris's face, and he had an awful sense that he'd broken something within her, something he could never repair.

He began to feel chilled, the hot fury of the last month replaced by a devastating frost. His eyes settled hard on Fleur's. “Your lack of gratitude astounds me.”

“I am not the one who demanded that she commit such an immoral fraud.”

Richard clenched his teeth until his jaw shook. Why could she not see reason? He was trying to protect her, to give her a chance at a happy, respectable life.

Fleur gave him a scornful glance. “Did you really think she was going to smile, and say, ‘As you wish, sir?'”

“I will deal with my wife as I see fit,” he bit off.

Fleur snorted.

“My God,” he exploded. “You have absolutely no—” He cut himself off, raking a hand through his hair as he wrenched himself away, turning to face the window. “Do you think I like this?” he nearly hissed. He clutched the sill with whitened fingers. “Do you think I enjoyed deceiving her?”

“Then don't.”

“The damage is done.”

“But you can fix it. All you have to do is tell her she doesn't have to steal my child.”

He whirled around. “It's not steal—” He caught the triumphant look on her face, and said, “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

Fleur gave him a stony stare. “I assure you, I enjoy nothing about this.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her. Behind her eyes she was just as broken as Iris. The pain in her face . . . Had he put it there? No.
No
. He was trying to help her, to save her from the ruined existence with which that bastard Parnell had left her.

His hands curled into fists. If that bloody rotter hadn't gone and died, he would have killed him. No, he would have marched him to the church with Fleur and
then
killed him. He thought of how his sister had once been, full of dreams and romance. She used to lie in the grass by the orangery and read in the sunshine. She used to
laugh
.

“Make me understand,” he pleaded. “Why do you resist this? Don't you realize this is your only hope for a respectable life?”

Fleur's lips trembled, and for the first time that afternoon, she looked unsure of herself. He saw in her face the child she'd once been, and it broke his heart anew.

“Why can you not set me up somewhere as a young widow?” she asked. “I can go to Devon. Or Cornwall. Somewhere where we don't know a soul.”

“I haven't the money to provide you with a proper household,” Richard said, shame at his financial constraints making his voice hard. “And I will not allow you to live in poverty.”

“I don't need much,” Fleur said. “Just a little cottage, and—”

“You think you don't need much,” Richard cut in. “But you don't know. You've lived your whole life with servants. You've never had to shop for your food or stoke your own fires.”