The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (6 page)

Iris had never felt so treasured. She had never felt so . . .

Desired.

A shiver ran through her, and she stumbled. Was this what it felt like, to be wanted by a gentleman? To want one in return? She had watched her cousins fall in love, shaken her head in dismay as infatuation made fools of them all. They had spoken of breathless anticipation, of searing kisses, and then, after their marriages, it had all dropped to a low whisper among themselves. There were secrets—very pleasant ones, it seemed—that were not spoken of among unmarried ladies.

Iris had not understood. When her cousins had spoken of that perfect moment of desire, right before a kiss, she could only think that it sounded dreadful. To kiss someone on the mouth . . . Why on earth would she wish to do that? It seemed rather sloppy business to her.

But now, as she circled through the dance, taking Sir Richard's hand and allowing him to spin her about, she could not help but stare at his lips. Something awakened within her, a strange yearning, a hunger from deep inside that stole her breath.

Dear God, this was desire.
She
wanted
him
. She, who had never even so much as wished to hold a man's hand, wanted to
know
him.

She froze.

“Miss Smythe-Smith?” Sir Richard was immediately at her side. “Is something amiss?”

She blinked, and then finally remembered to breathe. “Nothing,” she whispered. “I feel a bit faint, that is all.”

He led her away from the other dancers. “Allow me to get you something to drink.”

She thanked him, then waited in one of the chaperones' chairs until he returned with a glass of lemonade.

“It's not cold,” he said, “but the other choice was champagne, and I don't think that would be wise if you're feeling light-headed.”

“No. No, of course not.” She took a sip, aware that he was studying her intently. “It was very warm out there,” she said, feeling the need to explain herself, however falsely. “Don't you think?”

“A bit, yes.”

She took another sip, glad to have something in her hands upon which to focus her attention. “You don't need to remain here and watch over me,” she told him.

“I know.”

She had been trying not to look at him, but the pleasant simplicity of his words caught her attention.

He gave her a mischievous half smile. “It's quite agreeable here at the edge of the ballroom. So many people to watch.”

She turned quickly back to her lemonade. It was a sly sort of compliment, but a compliment, indeed. No one would have understood it but they two, and for that reason it was all the more wonderful.

“I shall not be sitting here long, I'm afraid,” she said.

His eyes seemed to sparkle. “Such a statement can only demand explanation.”

“Now that you have danced with me,” she told him, “others will feel the need to follow suit.”

He chuckled at that. “Really, Miss Smythe-Smith, do you find we men so lacking in originality?”

She shrugged, still keeping her gaze fixed ahead. “As I told you, Sir Richard, I am very fond of observation. I cannot say
why
men do as they do, but I can certainly tell you
what
they do.”

“Follow one another like sheep?”

She bit back a smile.

“I suppose there is some truth in that,” he acknowledged. “I shall have to congratulate myself on having noticed you all on my own.”

She looked over at him at that.

“I am a man of discerning tastes.”

She tried not to snort. Now he was really laying it on too thick. But she was glad of it. It was easier to remain indifferent when his compliments felt too deliberate.

“I have no reason to doubt your observations,” he continued, leaning back in his chair as he watched the crowds milling about. “But as I am a man, and therefore one of your unknowing subjects—”

“Oh,
please
.”

“No, no, we must call a spade a spade.” He tilted his head toward hers. “All in the name of science, Miss Smythe-Smith.”

She rolled her eyes.

“As I was saying,” he continued, in a voice that brazenly dared her to interrupt, “I believe I can shed some light upon your observations.”

“I do have a hypothesis of my own.”

“Tsk tsk. You said you could not say why men act as they do.”

“Not conclusively, but I would be appallingly lacking in curiosity if I did not ponder the matter.”

“Very well. You tell me. Why are men such sheep?”

“Well, now you've boxed me into a corner. How am I meant to answer that without giving offense?”

“You can't, really,” he admitted, “except that I will promise that my feelings will not be hurt.”

Iris let out a breath, hardly able to believe she was having such an irregular conversation. “You, Sir Richard, are not a fool.”

He blinked. Then said, “As promised, my feelings are not hurt.”

“And as such,” she continued with a smile—because really, who could have not smiled at that?—“when you take an action, other men will not immediately think you foolish. I imagine there are even a few young gentlemen out there who look up to you.”

“You are too kind,” he drawled.

“To continue,” she said, brooking no interruption, “when you ask a young lady to dance . . . More specifically, a young lady who is not known for dancing, others will wish to know why. They will wonder if you have seen something in her that they have not. And even if they look more closely and still find nothing of interest, they will not wish to be thought ignorant. So they will ask her to dance, too.”

He didn't say anything right away, so she added, “I suppose you think me cynical.”

“Oh, without a doubt. But that's not necessarily a bad thing.”

She turned toward him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“I think we should conduct a scientific experiment,” he announced.

“An experiment,” she repeated. What on earth was he about?

“Since you have observed my fellow gentlemen as if we were specimens in a rather grandly decorated laboratory, I propose that we make the experiment more formal.” He looked to her for reply, but she was speechless, utterly speechless.

“After all,” he continued, “science requires the gathering and noting of data, does it not?”

“I suppose,” she said suspiciously.

“I shall lead you back toward the dancing. No one will approach you here in the chaperones' chairs. They'll suppose you injured. Or ill.”

“Really?” Iris drew back in surprise. Maybe that was part of the reason she was not often asked to dance.

“Well, it's what I've always thought, at any rate. Why else would a young lady be over here?” He glanced in her direction, causing Iris to wonder if perhaps his question had not been hypothetical, but the moment she opened her mouth, he continued with: “I shall lead you back, and leave you be. We shall see how many men ask you to dance.”

“Don't be silly.”

“And you,” he continued, as if she had not said a word, “must be honest with me. You must tell me truthfully if you are engaged for more dances than usual.”

“I promise to tell the truth,” Iris said, stifling a laugh. He had such a way about him, of saying the silliest thing as if it were of grave importance. She could almost believe this was all in the pursuit of science.

He stood and held out his hand. “My lady?”

Iris set down her empty lemonade glass and stood.

“I trust you are no longer suffering the effects of light-headedness,” he murmured as he led her across the ballroom.

“I believe I shall manage for the rest of the evening.”

“Good.” He bowed. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow?”

“We are walking, are we not? You did grant me permission to call on you. I thought we might stroll about town if the weather cooperates.”

“And if it doesn't?” she asked, feeling just a bit saucy.

“Then we shall discuss books. Perhaps”—his head dipped closer to hers—“something your sister has not read?”

She laughed, loud and true. “I am almost hoping for rain, Sir Richard, and I—”

But she was cut off by the approach of a sandy-haired gentleman. Mr. Reginald Balfour. She'd met him before; his sister was good friends with one of hers. But he'd never done more than greet her politely.

“Miss Smythe-Smith,” he said, bowing to her curtsy. “You look exceptionally fine this evening.”

Iris's hand was still on Sir Richard's arm, and she could feel him tensing as he tried not to laugh.

“Are you engaged for the next dance?” Mr. Balfour asked.

“I am not,” she said.

“Then may I lead you out?”

She glanced over at Sir Richard. He winked.

N
INETY MINUTES LATER
, Richard stood near the wall, watching Iris as she danced with yet another gentleman he did not recognize. For all her talk about never dancing every dance, she appeared to be well on her way to that goal tonight. She seemed honestly surprised by the attention. Whether she was enjoying herself, he was not certain. He supposed that even if she weren't, she would view the evening as an interesting experience, one worthy of her particular brand of observation.

Not for the first time, it occurred to him that Iris Smythe-Smith was highly intelligent. It was one of the reasons he'd chosen her. She was a rational creature. She would understand.

No one seemed to notice him in the shadows, so he took advantage of the moment by mentally ticking through his list. He'd drawn one up when he'd found himself racing back to London a few days earlier. Well, not drawn. He wasn't so foolish as to write such a thing down. But he'd had ample time on the journey to reflect upon what he needed in a wife.

She could not be spoiled. Or the sort who liked to draw attention to herself.

She could not be stupid. He had good reason to marry quickly, but whomever he chose, he was going to have to live with the lady for the rest of his life.

It would be nice if she was pretty, but it was not imperative.

She ought not be from Yorkshire. All things considered, it would be much easier if she was a stranger to the neighborhood.

She probably could not be rich. He needed someone for whom he might be considered an advantageous match. His wife would never need him as much as he needed her, but it would be easier—at least at the beginning—if she did not realize this.

And above all, she must understand what it meant to value one's family. That was the only way this was going to work. She had to understand
why
he was doing this.

Iris Smythe-Smith fit his needs in every way. From the moment he saw her at her cello, desperately wishing that people were not looking at her, she had intrigued him. She'd been out in society for several years, but if she'd received any marriage proposals, he had not heard of them. Richard might not be rich, but he was respectable, and there was no reason for her family to disapprove of him, especially when no other suitors were forthcoming.

And he liked her. Did he wish to throw her over his shoulder, spirit her away, and ravish her? No, but nor did he think it would be unenjoyable when the time came.

He liked her. And he knew enough of marriage to know that this was more than most men had when they went to the altar.

He just wished he had more time. She was too sensible to accept him so soon after their first meeting. And honestly, he didn't want to be married to the type of female who would act so rashly. He was going to have to force the issue, which was unfortunate.

But, he reminded himself, there was nothing to be done that evening. His only task was to be polite and charming so that when the time came, no one would put up much of a fuss.

He'd already had enough fuss to last a lifetime.

The following day

“N
OT
D
AISY
,” I
RIS
pleaded. “Please, anyone but Daisy.”

“You cannot walk about London with Sir Richard without a chaperone,” her mother said, adjusting her hairpins as she examined her reflection in her vanity mirror. “You know that.”

Iris had rushed to her mother's bedchamber the moment she'd learned that Daisy had been asked to accompany her for the day's outing with Sir Richard. Surely her mother would realize the foolishness of such a plan. But no, Mrs. Smythe-Smith seemed perfectly content with the idea and was acting as if it was all settled.

Iris scooted around to her mother's other side, positioning herself too close to the mirror to be ignored. “Then I'll take my maid. But not Daisy. She won't hang back. You know she won't.”

Mrs. Smythe-Smith considered this.

“She will insert herself into every conversation,” Iris pressed. Her mother still looked unconvinced, though, and Iris realized she would need to approach this from a different angle. The
your-daughter-is-quite-on-the-shelf-and-this-might-be-her-last-chance
angle.

“Mama,” Iris said, “please, you must reconsider. If Sir Richard wishes to know me better, he will certainly meet with no success if Daisy is with us all afternoon.”

Her mother let out a little sigh.

“You know it's true,” Iris said quietly.

“You do have a point,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said with a frown. “Although I don't want Daisy to feel left out.”

“She's four years younger than I am,” Iris protested. “Surely there is time enough for her to find a gentleman of her own.” And then, in a very small voice, she said, “It's my turn.”

She liked Sir Richard, even if she did not quite trust him. There was something so odd, so unexpected about his attentions toward her. He had quite clearly sought an introduction at the musicale; Iris could not recall the last time that had happened. And then to call upon her the very next day, and to spend so much time at her side at the Mottram ball . . . It was unprecedented.