The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (8 page)

And Iris was . . .

Still here.

“You love him very much, don't you?” she said quietly.

Sarah did not reply right away, regarding her cousin with an expression of curiosity. “I do,” she said solemnly. “With everything I am.”

Iris nodded. “I know.” She thought Sarah would speak then, perhaps to ask her why she'd made such a silly query, but Sarah remained silent, until Iris could not help but ask, “How did you know?”

“Know?”

“That you loved him.”

“I—” Sarah stopped, pausing to think. “I'm not sure. I can't really remember the exact moment. It's funny, I always thought that if I did fall in love, I would do it in a grand flash of insight. You know, bolts of lightning, angels singing on high . . . that sort of thing.”

Iris grinned. That did sound like Sarah. She'd always had a penchant for drama.

“But it wasn't like that at all,” Sarah continued wistfully. “I remember feeling very strange and wondering about it, trying to determine if what I felt was love.”

“So someone might not
know
while it's happening?”

“I suppose not.”

Iris caught her lower lip between her teeth, then whispered, “Was it when he first kissed you?”

“Iris!” Sarah smiled in shock and delight. “What a question!”

“It's not so improper,” Iris said, glancing at a spot on the wall that was decidedly to the left of Sarah's face.

“Oh, yes it is.” Sarah's chin drew back in her surprise. “But I love that you asked it.”

That was not what Iris expected her to say. “
Why?
”

“Because you always seem so . . .” Sarah waved a hand through the air, swirling it about as if that might draw out the correct word. “. . . untouched by these things.”

“By what things?” Iris asked suspiciously.

“Oh, you know. Emotions. Infatuations. You're always so calm. Even when you're furious.”

Iris bristled defensively. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Of course not. It's simply who you are. And quite frankly, it's probably the only reason Daisy has reached the age of seventeen without your killing her. Not that she'll ever appreciate it.”

Iris couldn't stop a wry smile. It was nice to know
some
one appreciated her forbearance with her younger sister.

Sarah narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “This is about Sir Richard, isn't it?”

Iris knew there was no point in denying it. “I just think—” She pressed her lips together, almost worried that if she didn't, a whole string of nonsense would burst forth. “I like him,” she finally admitted. “I don't know why, but I do.”

“You don't need to know why.” Sarah squeezed her hand. “It sounds as if he likes you, too.”

“I believe that he does. He's paid me quite a bit of attention.”

“But . . . ?”

Iris's eyes met her cousin's. She should have realized Sarah would hear the silent “but” at the end of the sentence. “But . . . I don't know,” Iris said. “Something isn't quite right.”

“Is it possible that you are searching for problems where they do not exist?”

Iris took a long breath and then let it out. “Perhaps. It's not as if I have anyone with whom to compare.”

“That's not true. You've had suitors.”

“Not many. And none I liked well enough to care if they continued in their attentions.”

Sarah sighed, but she did not argue the point. “Very well. Tell me what seems ‘not quite right,' as you put it.”

Iris tipped her head to the side, and she looked up, momentarily mesmerized by the way the sunlight danced upon the crystal chandelier. “I think he likes me too well,” she finally said.

Sarah let out a loud bark of laughter. “
That's
what is not quite right? Iris, do you have any idea how many—”

“Stop,” Iris interrupted. “Hear me out. This is my third season in London, and while I admit I have not been the most eager of debutantes, I have never been the subject of such warm attentions.”

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but Iris held up her hand to forestall her. “It's not even that they are so
warm
. . .” She felt herself blushing now. What a stupid choice of words. “It's that they were so instant.”

“Instant?”

“Yes. You probably did not notice him at the musicale, as you were facing away from much of the audience.”

“I was trying to jump into the pianoforte and close the lid is what you mean,” Sarah joked.

“Quite right,” Iris said with a little laugh. Of all her cousins, Sarah was the one who most shared Iris's loathing of the musicale.

“I'm sorry,” Sarah said. “I couldn't resist. Pray, continue.”

Iris pursed her lips, remembering. “He was watching me the entire time,” she said.

“Maybe he found you beautiful.”

“Sarah,” Iris said frankly, “no one finds me beautiful. At least not at first glance.”

“That's not true!”

“You know it is. It's fine. I promise.”

Sarah looked unconvinced.

“I know I am not
ugly
,” Iris assured her. “But it's as Daisy said—”

“Oh no,” Sarah cut in forcefully, “
don't
quote Daisy.”

“No,” Iris said, trying to be fair. “Occasionally she says something that makes sense. I lack color.”

Sarah held her gaze for a long moment, and then said, “That is the most asinine thing I have ever heard.”

Iris lifted her brows. Her pale, colorless brows. “Have you ever met anyone quite so pale?”

“No, but that signifies nothing.”

Iris let out a frustrated breath, trying to articulate her thoughts. “I'm trying to say that I'm used to being underestimated. Overlooked.”

Sarah just stared at her. And then—“What are you
talking
about?”

Iris let out a frustrated little puff of a breath. She knew Sarah would not understand. “People rarely notice me. And that's—no, I swear it!—all right. I don't want to be the center of attention.”

“You're not shy,” Sarah pointed out.

“No, but I like being able to watch people, and”—she shrugged—“if I'm honest, mock them inside my own head.”

Sarah sputtered a laugh.

“Once people get to know me, it's different,” Iris continued, “but I do not stand out in a crowd. And that is why I do not understand Sir Richard Kenworthy.”

Sarah was silent for a full minute. Every now and then she'd open her mouth as if to speak, but her lips would just hang in an oval, and then she'd shut them again. Finally she asked, “But you like him?”

“Were you not listening?” Iris practically exploded.

“Every word!” Sarah insisted. “But I do not see how any of it is relevant, at least not yet. For all we know, he
did
take one look at you and fall desperately in love. His behavior is certainly consistent with such a thing.”

“He's not in love with me,” Iris insisted.

“Maybe not
yet
.” Sarah let her words hang in the air for some time before asking, “If he asked you to marry him, this very afternoon, what would you say?”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Of course it is, but I still want to know. What would you say?”

“I wouldn't say anything, because he would not ask.”

Sarah scowled. “Will you stop being so stubborn for one moment and indulge me?”

“No!” Iris was ready to throw up her arms in exasperation. “I fail to see the point in attempting to determine my reply to a question that will not be asked.”

“You would say yes,” Sarah said.

“No, I wouldn't,” Iris protested.

“Then you would say no.”

“I did not say that, either.”

Sarah sat back and nodded slowly, a very smug look washing over her features.

“What now?” Iris asked.

“You won't even ponder the question because you're afraid to examine your own feelings.”

Iris did not reply.

“I'm right,” Sarah said triumphantly. And then, as an aside: “I love being right.”

Iris took a deep breath, although whether this was to rein in her temper or summon her courage she did not know. “If he asked me to marry him,” she said, each word enunciated with precision, “I would tell him that I needed time to give him an answer.”

Sarah nodded.

“But he's not going to ask me.”

Sarah let out a loud peal of laughter. “You have to have the last word, don't you?”

“He's not going to ask me.”

Sarah just grinned. “Oh, look, tea has arrived. I'm famished.”

“He's not going to ask me.” Iris's voice had taken on a singsong quality.

“I shall leave directly after tea,” Sarah said officiously. “Much as I'd love to make his acquaintance, I wouldn't want to be here when he arrives. I might get in the way.”

“He's not going to ask me.”

“Oh, do have a biscuit.”

“He's not going to ask me,” Iris said again. And then, because she had to, she added, “He's not.”

Five days later

Pleinsworth House

I
T WAS TIME
.

It had been but a week since Richard had first laid eyes on Iris Smythe-Smith, right here in this very house. And now he was going to make her a proposal of marriage.

Of sorts.

He had called upon her every day since the Mottram ball. They had strolled in the park, ordered ices at Gunther's, shared a box at the opera, and visited Covent Garden. In short, they had done everything a courting couple in London was supposed to do. He was full certain that Iris's family expected him to ask her to marry him.

Just not quite yet.

He knew that Iris held him in some affection. She might even wonder if she was falling in love. But if he asked for her hand tonight, he was almost certain she would not be prepared to give an immediate answer.

He sighed. This was not how he had imagined getting himself a wife.

He'd come alone this evening; Winston had flatly refused to attend any artistic endeavor produced by the Smythe-Smith family, regardless of Richard's previous acceptance on his behalf. Now Winston was home with a false head cold, and Richard was standing in the corner, wondering why a piano had been brought into the drawing room.

And why it appeared to have been decorated with twigs.

A quick perusal of the room told him that Lady Pleinsworth had made up programs for the evening, although he did not seem to have been handed one, even though he had arrived nearly five minutes earlier.

“There you are.”

He turned at the soft voice and saw Iris standing before him in a simply adorned gown of pale blue muslin. She wore that color frequently, he realized. It suited her.

“I'm sorry to have left you unattended,” she said. “My assistance was required backstage.”

“Backstage?” he echoed. “I thought this was meant to be a poetry reading.”

“Ah, that,” she said, her cheeks turning a rather guilty shade of pink. “There has been a change of plans.”

He tipped his head in question.

“Perhaps I should get you a program.”

“Yes, I don't seem to have been given one when I arrived.”

She cleared her throat about six times. “I believe it was decided not to hand them out to the gentlemen unless requested.”

He considered that for a moment. “Dare I ask why?”

“I believe,” she said, glancing up at the ceiling, “there was some concern that you might not choose to remain.”

Richard looked in horror at the piano.

“Oh, no,” Iris quickly assured him. “There will be no music. At least not that I know of. It's not a concert.”

Still, Richard's eyes widened with panic. Where was Winston and his little balls of cotton when he needed him? “You're frightening me, Miss Smythe-Smith.”

“Does that mean you don't want a program?” she asked hopefully.

He leaned very slightly toward her. It wasn't enough to breach the rules of propriety, but still, he knew she noticed. “I think it's best to be prepared, don't you?”

She swallowed. “Just a moment.”

He waited as she crossed the room and approached Lady Pleinsworth. A moment later she returned with a sheet of paper. “Here,” she said sheepishly, holding it out.

He took it and looked down. Then looked back up. “
The Shepherdess, the Unicorn, and Henry VIII?
”

“It's a play. My cousin Harriet wrote it.”

“And we're to watch,” he confirmed warily.

She nodded.

He cleared his throat. “Do you, ah, have any idea of the length of this production?”

“Not as long as the musicale,” she assured him. “At least I don't think so. I have seen only the last few minutes of the dress rehearsal.”

“The piano is part of the set, I assume?”

She nodded. “It's nothing compared to the costumes, I'm afraid.”

He could barely bring himself to ask.

“It was my job to affix the horn to the unicorn.”

He tried not to laugh, he really did. And he almost managed.

“I'm not sure how Frances is going to get it off,” Iris said with nervous expression. “I glued it to her head.”

“You glued a horn to your cousin's head,” he repeated.

She winced. “I did.”

“Do you
like
this cousin?”

“Oh, very much. She's eleven and really quite delightful. I'd trade Daisy for her in a heartbeat.”

Richard had a feeling she would trade Daisy for a badger if given the option.

“A horn,” he said again. “Well, I suppose one can't be a unicorn without one.”

“That's just the thing,” Iris said with renewed enthusiasm. “Frances loves it. She adores unicorns. She's quite convinced they are real, and I think she would become one if she were so able.”