The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (17 page)

His eyes met hers over their hands, and in a flash she realized—
He's seducing me
.

He was seducing her. But why? Why would he feel the need? She had never given him any indication that she would refuse his advances.

“I hope you are hungry,” he said, still holding her hand.

“Hungry?” she echoed dumbly.

“For supper?” He smiled with amusement. “Cook has prepared a feast.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I am hungry, I think.”

“You think?” he teased.

She took a breath. Forced her heart to beat a little more slowly. “I am quite sure,” she said.

“Excellent.” He tipped his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

B
Y THE TIME
Iris retired for the evening she was nearly jumping out of her skin. Richard had been charming all through supper; she could not remember the last time she'd laughed so much. The conversation had been marvelous, the food delicious, and the way he had looked at her . . .

It was as if she were the only woman in the world.

She supposed she was, in a way. She was certainly the only woman in the house. Apart from the servants, they were the only two in residence, and she, who had always allowed herself to stand at the side and observe, could be nothing but the center of attention.

It was disconcerting and marvelous. And now it was terrifying.

She was back in her own room, and surely at any moment he would knock on the door that connected their bedchambers. He would be in his dressing gown, his legs bare, his cravat missing from his neck.

There would be skin. So much more skin than she had ever seen on a gentleman.

Iris still didn't have a lady's maid, so the girl who'd styled her hair had come in to help her prepare for bed. Iris had been mortified when she'd pulled out one of the nightgowns that had been purchased for her trousseau. It was ridiculously thin and alarmingly revealing, and even though Iris had gone to stand by the fire, she could not seem to get rid of the gooseflesh dancing along her arms.

He would come to her tonight. Surely, he would come to her. And she would finally feel like a wife.

O
N THE OTHER
side of the door, Richard squared his shoulders. He could do this.
He could do this
.

Or maybe he couldn't.

Who was he kidding? If he entered her room, he would take her hand. And if he took her hand, he would bring it to his lips. He would kiss each slender finger before giving them a little tug, and she'd tumble against him, her body warm and innocent and
his
. He'd have to wrap his arms around her; he could not possibly resist. And then he would kiss her the way a woman was meant to be kissed, long and deep, until she whispered his name, her voice a soft plea, begging him to—

He swore viciously, trying to cut his imagination off before it led him to bed. Fat lot of good it did, though. He was
burning
for his wife.

Again.

Still.

The entire evening had been torture. He could not remember anything he'd said at supper, and he could only hope that he'd managed at least a semblance of intelligent conversation. His mind kept wandering to extremely inappropriate places, and every time Iris licked a bit of food from her lips, or smiled at him, or bloody hell, every time she just
breathed,
his body tightened until he was so hard for her he thought he might explode.

If Iris had wondered why they remained at the table for so long after the meal had concluded, she had not said anything. Thank God. Richard didn't really think there was a polite way to say that he needed half an hour just to get his erection to settle down to half-mast.

Good Lord. He deserved this. He deserved every moment of torment for what he was going to do to her, and yet the knowledge wasn't really helping right now. Richard was no sybarite, but nor was he one to deny himself pleasure. And every nerve in his body was begging for it. It was absolutely
insane
how badly he wanted his wife.

The one woman who, by all rights, he ought to be able to take to bed without an ounce of remorse.

It had all seemed so easy when he'd plotted it out that afternoon. He'd charm her all evening, then kiss her passionately good night. He'd make up some romantic nonsense about wanting her to know him better before they made love. One more kiss, and he'd leave her breathless.

Then he'd touch her chin, whisper, “Until tomorrow,” and be gone.

As plans went, it was perfect.

As reality went, it was bollocks.

He let out a long, exhausted breath and raked his hand through his already mussed hair. The connecting door between their rooms was not nearly as soundproof as he'd thought. He could hear Iris moving about, taking a seat at her vanity table, perhaps brushing her hair. She expected him to visit her, and why wouldn't she? They were married.

He had to go in. If he did not, she would be confused. She might even feel insulted. He did not wish to hurt her. Not any more than he was going to, at least.

He took a breath and knocked.

The movements coming from inside her room stilled, and after a long, suspended second, he heard her bid him enter.

“Iris,” he said, keeping his voice easy and smooth. And then he looked up.

He stopped breathing.

He was fairly certain his heart stopped beating.

She was wearing a thin silken gown, the palest of blue. Her arms were bare, and so were her shoulders, save for the narrow straps that held the silk in place.

It was a garment designed solely to tempt a man—to tempt the very devil. The neckline was no more revealing than a ball gown, but somehow it hinted of so much more. The fabric was so thin as to be almost translucent, and he could see the faint outline of her nipples puckering underneath.

“Good evening, Richard,” she said, and it was only then that he realized he'd been struck utterly dumb.

“Iris,” he croaked.

She smiled awkwardly, and he saw that her hands were fluttering at her sides, as if she didn't quite know what to do with them.

“You look lovely,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Her hair was down. It rippled down her back in soft waves, ending just a bit above her elbows. He'd forgotten how badly he wanted to know how long it was.

“It's my first night at Maycliffe,” she said shyly.

“It is,” he agreed.

She swallowed, obviously waiting for him to take the lead.

“You must be tired,” he blurted out, grasping the only excuse he could think of in the heat of his desire.

“A little.”

“I will not bother you.”

She blinked. “What?”

He stepped forward, steeling himself for what he must do. What he must do, and then what he must
not
do.

He kissed her, but only on the forehead. He knew his limits. “I will not be a brute,” he said, trying to make his voice soft and reassuring.

“But—” Her eyes were huge, bewildered.

“Good night, Iris,” he said quickly.

“But, I—”

“Until tomorrow, my love.”

Then he fled.

Like the coward he was.

A
S A MARRIED
lady, it was Iris's prerogative to take her breakfast in bed, but when she woke the following morning, she gritted her teeth determinedly and got herself dressed.

Richard had rejected her.

He had
rejected
her.

This was not some roadside inn, too “dusty” for a wedding night. They were in their home, for heaven's sake. He had flirted with her all evening. He had kissed her hand, charmed her with his witty conversation, and then, after she'd donned a sheer nightgown and brushed her hair until it shone, he told her she looked
tired
?

She had stared at the door between their rooms for untold minutes after he left. She hadn't even realized she was crying until she'd suddenly gulped back a huge, awful sob and realized that her nightgown—the one she now swore she'd never wear again—was wet with tears.

Then all she could think was that he must have heard her through the door. And how that made it so much worse.

Iris had always known that she did not possess the sort of beauty that drove men to passion and poetry. Perhaps in some other land, women were revered for their utterly colorless skin and lightly ginger hair, but not here in England.

But for the first time in her life, she had begun to
feel
beautiful. And it was Richard who had made her feel that way, with his secret glances and warm smiles. Every now and then she would catch him watching her, and she felt special. Treasured.

But that was all a lie. Or she was a fool for seeing things that simply weren't there.

Or maybe she was just a fool, period.

Well. She wasn't going to take this lying down. And she certainly wasn't going to let him see how deeply she'd felt his insult. She was going to go down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. She'd have jam on toast, and she'd read the newspaper, and when she spoke it would be with the sparkling wit for which she'd always intended to be renowned.

And really, it wasn't even as if she was sure that she
wanted
to do all those things married people did in bed, no matter how lovely her cousin Sarah had said it was. But it would have been nice if
he'd
wanted to.

She would at least have given it a try.

The maid who had assisted her the night before must have had other duties to attend to, so Iris dressed herself. She twisted her hair into as neat a bun as she could manage on her own, jammed her feet into her slippers, and stalked out of her room.

She paused as she passed Richard's door. Was he still abed? She took a step closer, tempted to put her ear against the wood.

Stop it!

She was behaving like a fool. Listening at his door. She had no time for this. She was hungry, and she wanted breakfast, and she had a great many things to do today, none of which concerned her husband.

She needed to find a lady's maid, for one. And learn her way about the house. Visit the village. Meet the tenants.

Have tea.

What,
she asked herself. It was important to have tea. She might as well go and become Italian, otherwise.

“I am losing my mind,” she said aloud.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

Iris nearly jumped a foot. A housemaid was at the far end of the hall, standing nervously with a large feather duster clasped in her hands.

“Nothing,” Iris said, trying not to look embarrassed. “I coughed.”

The maid nodded. It wasn't the one who'd dressed her hair, Iris saw.

“Mrs. Hopkins wants to know what time you want your breakfast,” the maid said. She bobbed a little curtsy and didn't quite meet Iris's eyes. “We didn't get a chance to ask you last night, and Sir Richard—”

“I'll take my breakfast downstairs,” Iris interrupted. She didn't want to hear what Sir Richard thought. About anything.

The maid curtsied again. “As you wish.”

Iris gave her an awkward smile. It was difficult to feel like the mistress of the house when the master so clearly had other ideas.

She made her way downstairs, trying to act as if she did not notice that all the servants were watching her—and pretending not to. It was a strange little dance they were all doing, herself most of all.

She wondered how long it would take until she was no longer the “new” mistress of Maycliffe. A month? A year? And would her husband spend the entirety of that time avoiding her bedchamber?

She sighed, then stopped walking for a moment, then told herself she was being silly. She'd never expected a passionate marriage, so why was she pining over one now? She had become Lady Kenworthy, as strange as it seemed, and she had a reputation to uphold.

Iris straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the breakfast room.

Only to find it empty.

Bloody hell.

“Oh! Lady Kenworthy!” Mrs. Hopkins came bustling into the room. “Annie just told me you'll be wanting your breakfast downstairs this morning.”

“Er, yes. I hope that won't be a problem.”

“Not at all, my lady. We still have the sideboard laid from when Sir Richard ate.”

“He has already been down then?” Iris wasn't sure whether she was disappointed. She wasn't sure if she
wanted
to be disappointed.

“Not even a quarter of an hour ago,” the housekeeper confirmed. “I believe he thought you would be taking your breakfast in bed.”

Iris just stood there with nothing to say.

Mrs. Hopkins gave her a bit of a secret smile. “He asked us to put a flower on your tray.”

“He did?” Iris asked, hating the way her voice seemed to gulp from her throat.

“It's a pity we have no irises. They bloom so early, they do.”

“This far north?” Iris asked.

Mrs. Hopkins nodded. “They come up each year on the west lawn. I like the purple ones myself.”

Iris was just about to agree with her when she heard footsteps in the hall, brisk and determined. It could only be Richard. No servant would ever move about a house with so little regard to noise.

“Mrs. Hopkins,” he said, “I'm going—Oh.” He saw Iris and blinked. “You're awake.”

“As you see.”

“You had told me you were a late riser.”

“Not today, apparently.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, then cleared his throat. “Have you eaten?”

“No, not yet.”

“You didn't want breakfast in your room?”

“No,” Iris said, wondering if she'd ever had such a stilted conversation in her life. What happened to the man who had been so charming the night before? The one she'd
thought
would visit her bed?

He tugged at his cravat. “I was planning to visit tenants today.”