The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (15 page)

“You've met my siblings.”

“Not your brother.”

“You're not going to
live
with my brother,” she retorted.

“Point taken,” he acknowledged, “although one might say that any further information from me would be superfluous, as you're going to meet them in about three minutes.”

“What?” Iris nearly shrieked, whipping back around to the window. Sure enough, they had left the main road and entered a long drive. The trees were thinner here than on the main road, the fields rolling gently to the horizon. It was a lovely landscape, peaceful and serene.

“It's just over the rise.”

She could hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice.

“Just a moment now,” he murmured.

And then she saw it. Maycliffe Park. It was bigger than she'd imagined, although certainly nothing to Fensmore or Whipple Hill. But those were homes of earls. Her cousins, but still earls of the realm.

Maycliffe had its charms, though. From the distance, it appeared to be red brick, with rather unusual Dutch gables adorning the façade. There was something almost uneven about it, but given what she knew of its history, that made sense. Richard had told her that the house had been modified and added to several times over the years.

“The family rooms face south,” he told her. “You'll be glad for it in the winter.”

“I don't know which way we're facing now,” Iris admitted.

He smiled. “We are approaching from the west. So your rooms will be around that”—he pointed to the right—“corner.”

Iris nodded without turning back to her husband. Right now she wanted to keep her attention on her new home. As they pulled closer, she saw that each gable was dotted with a small circular window. “Who has the rooms at the top?” she asked. “With the round windows?”

“It's a bit of a mix. Some are for servants. On the south, it's the nursery. My mother turned one into a reading room.”

He hadn't said much about his parents, either, Iris realized. Just that they'd both passed, his mother when he was a student at Eton, his father a few years later.

But this wasn't the right time to press for more information. The carriage was coming to a stop, and sure enough, all of Maycliffe was lined up in the front drive to greet them. It did look to be more than the thirteen servants Richard had mentioned; perhaps he'd meant only those serving in the house itself. From what Iris could see there were gardeners among the group, stable-hands, too. She had never been greeted by such a complete collection of staff before; she supposed it was because she was not a guest, she was the new mistress of the estate. Why had no one warned her? She was nervous enough without feeling she had to make a good impression on the man who tended the roses.

Richard hopped down, then held a hand up for her. Iris took a deep breath and disembarked, regarding the assembled servants with what she hoped was a friendly yet confident smile.

“Mr. Cresswell,” Richard said, leading toward the tall man who could only be the butler, “may I present Lady Kenworthy, the new mistress of Maycliffe Park.”

Cresswell gave a stiffly proper bow. “We are delighted to have a woman's presence again here at Maycliffe.”

“I am eager to learn about my new home,” Iris said, using words she had practiced the night before. “I am sure I will rely upon you and Mrs. Hopkins a great deal during these first few months.”

“It will be our honor to assist you, my lady.”

Iris felt the terrifying knot within her begin to loosen. Cresswell sounded sincere, and surely the rest of the servants would follow his lead.

“Sir Richard tells me that you have been at Maycliffe for many years,” Iris continued. “He is most fortunate to . . .”

Her words trailed off as she glanced over at her husband. His normally genial expression had been replaced by one of near rage.

“Richard?” she heard herself whisper. Whatever could have happened to upset him so?

“Where,” he said to the butler, his voice as low and tightly wound as she had ever heard it, “are my sisters?”

R
ICHARD SEARCHED THE
small crowd gathered in the drive, but really, what was the point? If his sisters were here, they would have been standing at the front, a burst of color against the black uniforms of the maids.

Damn it, they should have been out here to greet Iris. It was the worst sort of snub. Fleur and Marie-Claire might be used to having the run of the manor, but Iris was now the mistress of Maycliffe, and everyone—even those born with the surname Kenworthy—needed to get used to that.

Fast.

Furthermore, both of his sisters knew damn well how much Iris was giving up for their family. Even Iris didn't know the full extent of it.

Any extent of it, really.

Something burned through Richard's gut, and he really didn't want to determine whether it was fury or guilt.

He hoped it was fury. Because there was guilt enough already, and he had a feeling it would soon turn to acid.

“Richard,” Iris said, placing a hand on his arm. “I'm sure there is a good reason for their absence.” But her smile was forced.

Richard turned to Cresswell, and snapped, “Why are they not down?” There was no excuse for this. The rest of the household had had time to exit and assemble. His sisters had four good legs between them. They could bloody well have descended the stairs to meet their new sister.

“Miss Kenworthy and Miss Marie-Claire are not at Maycliffe, sir. They're with Mrs. Milton.”

They were with his aunt? “What? Why?”

“She arrived yesterday to collect them.”

“To collect them,” Richard repeated.

The butler's expression remained impassive. “Mrs. Milton declared herself of the opinion that newlyweds deserve a honeymoon.”

“If we were having a honeymoon, it wouldn't be
here,
” Richard muttered. What, were they to take up rooms in the east of the house and pretend they were at the seashore? The wind coming through would give a good approximation of Cornwall. Or the Arctic.

Cresswell cleared his throat. “I believe they are to return in two weeks' time, sir.”

“Two weeks?” That would not do.

Iris's hand on his arm gave a little squeeze. “Who is Mrs. Milton?”

“My aunt,” he said distractedly.

“She left you a letter,” Cresswell said.

Richard's eyes snapped back to the butler's face. “My aunt? Or Fleur?”

“Your aunt. I placed it atop your correspondence in your study.”

“Nothing from Fleur?”

“I am afraid not, sir.”

He was going to bloody well strangle her. “Nothing even to pass along?” he pressed the butler. “A verbal message?”

“Not that I am aware.”

Richard took a breath, trying to regain his equilibrium. This was not how he had anticipated their homecoming. He'd thought—Well, in truth he hadn't really thought of much, except that his sisters would be here, and he would be able to begin the next phase of his plan.

As horrifying as that was.

“Sir Richard,” came Iris's voice.

He turned, blinking. She'd called him
sir
again, something he was coming to detest. It was a gesture of respect, and if he'd done anything to earn that, it would be lost soon.

She tilted her head awkwardly toward the servants, who were still standing stiffly at attention. “Perhaps we should continue with the introductions?”

“Yes, of course.” He managed a tightly false smile before turning toward his housekeeper. “Mrs. Hopkins, will you introduce Lady Kenworthy to the maids?”

Hands clasped stiffly behind his back, Richard followed the two ladies as they greeted each maid. He did not intercede; this was Iris's moment, and if she was to assume her proper role at Maycliffe, he could not be seen as undermining her authority.

Iris handled the introductions with aplomb. She looked slight and pale next to the hearty Mrs. Hopkins, but her posture was straight and firm, and she greeted each maid with grace and poise.

She did him proud. But then again, he'd known she would.

Cresswell took over when the ladies had finished, presenting each footman and groom. When they were done, the butler turned to Richard, and said, “Your rooms have been prepared, sir, and a light luncheon awaits at your convenience.”

Richard held out his arm to Iris but continued to speak to Cresswell. “I trust that Lady Kenworthy's rooms have been readied?”

“To your specifications, sir.”

“Excellent.” Richard looked down at Iris. “Everything has been cleaned and aired out, but we have not redecorated. I supposed that you would wish to choose the colors and fabrics yourself.”

Iris smiled her thanks, and Richard gave a silent prayer that her tastes did not run to brocades imported from France. Maycliffe was once again profitable, but they were by no means rolling in funds. There was a reason his original plan had been to find a bride with a generous dowry. Iris had come with but two thousand pounds. Nothing to sneeze at, but also nothing that would restore the estate to its former glory.

She could redecorate her rooms, though. It was the least he could do.

Iris glanced up at Maycliffe, and as her eyes swept over the red brick façade he loved so well, he wondered what
she
saw. Did she see the charm of the Dutch gables or sad state of the glass in their circular windows? Would she love the history of the ancient home or would she find the hodgepodge of architectural styles jarring and unrefined?

It was his home, but could she ever see it as hers?

“Shall we go inside?” he asked her.

She smiled. “I would like that.”

“Perhaps a tour of the house?” he suggested. He knew he should ask if she wished to rest, but he was not ready to take her to her rooms.
Her
bedchamber was connected to
his
bedchamber, and both were in possession of large, comfortable beds, neither of which he could use in the manner he would like.

The last three days had been hell.

Or more specifically, the last three nights.

The Kings Arms had been the worst. They'd been given separate rooms, as he'd requested ahead of time, but the proprietor, eager to please the newlyweds, had shown them to his finest suite. “With connecting doors!” he'd proclaimed with a grin and a wink.

Richard hadn't realized a door could be so thin. He'd heard Iris's every movement, every cough and sigh. He'd heard her blaspheme when she'd stubbed her toe, and he'd known the exact moment she climbed into bed. The mattress had groaned, even under her slim frame, and it had not taken his imagination long to leap from his room to hers.

Her hair would be down. He'd never seen it such, and he'd found himself wondering at all hours of the day how long it was. She always wore it in a loose bun at her nape. He'd never given much thought to ladies' hairstyles before, but with Iris, he could see every pin against her soft, pale hair. Fourteen had been required to secure her tresses that morning. It seemed a great number. Did it somehow indicate the length?

He wanted to touch it, to run his fingers through it. He wanted to see it in the moonlight, sparkling silver like the stars. He wanted to feel it whispering across his skin as she brought her lips to—

“Richard?”

He blinked. It took him a moment to remember that they were standing in the courtyard in front of Maycliffe.

“Is something amiss?” Iris asked.

“Your hair,” he blurted out.

She blinked. “My hair?”

“It's lovely.”

“Oh.” She blushed, self-consciously touching the tendrils at the nape of her neck. “Thank you.” Her eyes darted to the side and then back up through her pale lashes. “I had to do it myself.”

He stared at her blankly.

“I'll need to hire a maid,” she explained.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“I've practiced on my sisters, but I'm not very proficient on myself.”

He had no idea what she was talking about now.

“It took me a dozen pins to do what my former maid could do with five.”

Fourteen
.

“I beg your pardon?”

Oh dear God, he had
not
just said that aloud. “We will find a new lady's maid posthaste,” he said firmly. “Mrs. Hopkins can help you. You can begin the search today if you like.”

“If you don't mind,” Iris said, as he finally led her through Maycliffe's front door, “I think I would like to rest before touring the house.”

“Of course,” he said. She'd been in a carriage for six hours. It only stood to reason she'd wish to lie down.

In her bedroom.

In a bed.

He groaned.

“Are you sure you're well?” she asked. “You seem very strange.”

That was one word for it.

She touched his arm. “Richard?”

“Never better,” he croaked. He turned to his valet, who had followed them in. “I believe I need to refresh myself as well. Perhaps a bath?”

His valet nodded, and Richard leaned forward, adding in a low voice, “Nothing too warm, Thompson.”

“Bracing, sir?” Thompson murmured in response.

Richard gritted his teeth. Thompson had been with him for eight years, long enough to show such cheek.

“Will you show me the way?” Iris asked.

Would he show her the way?

“To my room?” she clarified.

He stared at her. Stupidly.

“Could you show me to my room?” she asked again, looking up at him with a perplexed expression.

It was official. His brain had stopped working.

“Richard?”

“My correspondence,” he said suddenly, grasping onto the first excuse he could think of. He desperately needed
not
to be alone in a bedroom with Iris. “I really need to check on that first.”

“Sir,” Cresswell began, undoubtedly to remind him that he employed a perfectly good secretary.