The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (19 page)

“Of course they did!”

“How?”

“If I had to play, she had to play.”

He laughed. “You don't think that sounds just a tiny bit childish?”

Iris ground her teeth with frustration. How dare he laugh? “I think
you've
never got up on a stage and humiliated yourself in front of everyone you know. And worse, quite a few you don't.”

“You didn't know me,” he murmured, “and look what happened.”

She said nothing.

“If not for the musicale,” he said lightly, “we would not be wed.”

Iris had no idea how to interpret that.

“Do you know what I saw when I attended the musicale?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Don't you mean what you heard?” she muttered.

“Oh, we all know what I heard.”

She smiled at that, even though she didn't want to.

“I saw a young woman hiding behind her cello,” he continued. “A young woman who actually
knew
how to play that cello.”

Her eyes flew to his.

“Your secret is safe with me,” he said with an indulgent smile.

“It's not a secret.”

He shrugged.

“But you know what is?” she asked, suddenly eager to share. She wanted him to know. She wanted him to know
her
.

“What?”

“I
hate
playing the cello,” she said with great feeling. “It's not even just that I dislike playing in the concerts, although I do. I
loathe
the concerts, loathe them in a way I could never begin to articulate.”

“Actually, you're doing a fairly good job of it.”

She gave him a sheepish smile. “I really do hate playing the cello, though. You could set me down in an orchestra of the finest virtuosos—not that they'd ever allow a woman to play—and I'd still hate it.”

“Why do you do it?”

“Well, I don't anymore. I don't have to now that I'm married. I shall never pick up a bow again.”

“It's good to know I'm good for something,” he quipped. “But honestly, why
did
you do it? And don't say you had to. Sarah got out of it.”

“I could never be so dishonest.”

She waited for him to say something, but he only frowned, glancing to the side as if lost in thought.

“I played the cello,” she said, “because it was expected of me. And because it made my family happy. And despite what I say about them, I love them dearly.”

“You do, don't you,” he murmured.

She looked at him earnestly. “Even after all that, I consider Sarah one of my dearest friends.”

He regarded her with a curiously steady expression. “You obviously possess a high capacity for forgiveness.”

Iris felt herself draw back as she considered this. “I never thought so,” she said.

“I hope you do,” he said quietly.

“I beg your pardon?” Surely she could not have heard that correctly.

But he had already got to his feet and was holding out his hand. “Come, the day awaits.”

“Y
OU WANT
HOW
many baskets?”

Richard pretended not to notice Mrs. Hopkins's dumbfounded expression. “Just eighteen,” he said jovially.

“Eighteen?” she demanded. “Do you know how long something like that takes?”

“It would be a difficult task for anyone but you,” he demurred.

The housekeeper narrowed her eyes, but he could tell she liked the compliment.

“Don't you think it's an excellent idea to bring baskets to the tenants?” he said, before she could come up with another protest. He tugged Iris forward. “It was Lady Kenworthy's idea.”

“I thought it would be a nice gesture,” Iris said.

“Lady Kenworthy is all that is generous,” Mrs. Hopkins said, “but—”

“We'll help,” Richard suggested.

Her mouth fell open.

“Many hands make light work, isn't that something you used to say?”

“Not to you,” the housekeeper retorted.

Iris stifled a laugh. Charming little traitor, she was. But Richard was in far too good a mood to take offense. “The dangers of having servants who've known you since school days,” he murmured in her ear.

“School days!” Mrs. Hopkins scoffed. “I've known you since you were in—”

“I know exactly how long you've known me,” Richard cut in. He didn't need Mrs. Hopkins mentioning his time in nappies in front of Iris.

“I would like to help, actually,” Iris said. “I am eager to meet the tenants, and I do think that the gifts would be more meaningful if I helped to pack them myself.”

“I don't know that we even have eighteen baskets,” Mrs. Hopkins grumbled.

“Surely they don't need to be actual
baskets
,” Iris said. “Any sort of container would do. And I'm sure you will know the best things with which to fill them.”

Richard just grinned, admiring his wife's easy handling of the housekeeper. Each day—no, each hour—he learned something new about her. And with each revelation, he realized just how lucky he was that he had chosen her. It was so strange to think that he probably would not have looked twice in her direction if he hadn't found himself forced to find a bride so quickly.

It was difficult to recall just what he'd thought he'd wanted in a wife. A substantial dowry, of course. He'd had to give that up, but now, as he watched Iris make herself at home in Maycliffe's kitchen, it no longer seemed so urgent. If the repairs he needed to make to the house had to wait a year or two, so be it. Iris was not the sort to complain.

He thought about the women he had considered before Iris. He could not remember much about them, just that they had always seemed to be dancing or flirting or tapping his arm with a fan. They were women who demanded attention.

Whereas Iris earned it.

With her fierce intelligence and her quiet, sly humor, she had a way of sneaking up on his thoughts. She surprised him at every turn.

Who would have thought that he'd
like
her so well?

Like.

Who liked a wife? In his world, wives were tolerated, indulged, and if one was very lucky, desired. But liked?

If he hadn't married Iris, he'd want her for a friend.

Well, he would, except for the complication of wanting so badly to take her to bed he could barely think straight. The night before, when he'd gone in to bid her good night, he'd almost lost control. He'd wanted to become her husband truly, he'd wanted her to know that he wanted
her
. He'd seen her face after he kissed her on the forehead. She was confused. Hurt. She'd thought he didn't desire her.

Didn't desire her?

It was so far from the truth as to be almost laughable. What would she think if she knew he lay awake at night, taut and burning with need as he imagined all the ways he wanted to bring her pleasure. What would she say if he told her how much he longed to bury himself within her, to imprint himself upon her, to make her understand that she was
his
, that he wanted her to be his, and he would gladly be hers.

“Richard?”

He turned at the sound of his wife's voice. Or rather, he turned partway. His wicked thoughts had left their mark upon his body, and he was relieved that he could conceal himself behind the counter.

“Did you say something?” she asked.

Did he?

“Well, you made a sound,” she said with a shrug.

He could only imagine. Good Lord,
how
was he going to get through the next few months?

“Richard?” she said again. She looked amused, perhaps a little delighted at having caught him woolgathering. When he did not immediately reply, she shook her head with a smile and turned back to her work.

He watched her for a few moments, then dipped his hands in a nearby bowl of water and discreetly patted his face. When he was feeling sufficiently cooled, he walked over to where Iris and Mrs. Hopkins were sorting through items.

“What are you putting in that one?” he asked, peeking over Iris's shoulder as she placed items into a small wooden crate.

Iris glanced up at him only briefly. She was clearly enjoying her work. “Mrs. Hopkins said that the Millers likely need some new linens.”

“Dishcloths?” It seemed a rather plain gift to him.

“It's what they need,” Iris said. But then she flashed him a smile. “We're also adding some biscuits just as soon as they come out of the oven. Because it's always nice to get some things you
want
, too.”

Richard stared at her for the longest moment.

Self-consciously, she checked her dress, then touched her cheek. “Do I have something on my face? I was helping with the jam . . .”

She had nothing on her face, but he leaned forward and lightly kissed the corner of her mouth. “Right here,” he murmured.

She touched the spot where he'd kissed her. She gazed at him with an expression of wonder, as if she wasn't sure what had just happened.

He wasn't sure, either.

“It's all better now,” he told her.

“Thank you. I—” A faint blush stole over her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

And it was.

For the next two hours Richard pretended to help with baskets. Iris and Mrs. Hopkins had everything well in hand, and when he tried to make a suggestion, it was either waved away or considered and found wanting.

He didn't mind. He was happy to assume the position of biscuit-tester (uniformly excellent, he was happy to inform Cook), and watch Iris assume her role as mistress of Maycliffe.

Finally, they had a collection of eighteen baskets, boxes, and bowls, each carefully packed and labeled with the surname of a tenant family. No two gifts were the same; the Dunlops, with four boys between the ages of twelve and sixteen, were given a hefty portion of food, while one of Marie-Claire's old dolls was placed in the basket for the Smiths, whose three-year-old daughter was recovering from croup. The Millers got their dishcloths and biscuits, and the Burnhams a hearty ham and two books—a study of land management for the eldest son, who had recently taken over the farm, and a romantic novel for his sisters.

And maybe for the son, too, Richard thought with a grin. Everyone could use a romantic novel every now and then.

Everything was loaded into a wagon, and soon Richard and Iris were on their way, bound for all four corners of Maycliffe Park.

“Not the most glamorous of conveyances,” he said with a rueful smile, as they bumped along the road.

Iris put her hand on her head as a stiff wind threatened to steal her bonnet. “I don't mind. Goodness, can you imagine trying to transport all this in a barouche?”

He didn't have a barouche, but there seemed little reason to mention this, so instead he said, “You should tie your bonnet strings. You won't have to keep holding your hat.”

“I know. I've just always found it uncomfortable. I don't like the feeling of them tight under my chin.” She looked over at him with a sparkle in her eye. “You should not be so hasty to offer advice. Your hat is affixed upon your head in no way whatsoever.”

As if on cue, the wagon took a bump just as the wind picked up again, and he felt his top hat rising from his head.

“Oh!” Iris yelped, and without thinking she grabbed his hat and pushed it back down. They had been sitting next to each other, but the movement brought them even closer, and when he slowed the horses and allowed himself to look at her, her face was tipped up toward his, radiant and very, very close.

“I think . . .” he murmured, but as he gazed into her eyes, made even more vivid under the bright blue sky, his words fell away.

“You think . . . ?” she whispered. Her hand was still on his head. Her other hand was on her head, and it would have been the most ridiculous position if it weren't so utterly wonderful.

The horses ambled to a stop, clearly confused by his lack of direction.

“I think I might need to kiss you,” Richard said. He touched her cheek, the pad of his thumb stroking softly across her milky skin. She was so beautiful. How was it possible he hadn't realized just how beautiful until this very moment?

The space between them melted into nothingness, and his lips found hers, soft and willing, breathless with wonder. He kissed her slowly, languorously, giving himself time to discover the shape of her, the taste, the texture. It was not the first time he'd kissed her, but it felt brand-new.

There was something exquisitely innocent in the moment. He did not crush her to his body; he did not even wish to. This was not a kiss of possession, nor one of lust. It was something else entirely, something born of curiosity, of captivation.

Softly, he deepened the kiss, letting his tongue glide along the silken skin of her lower lip. She sighed against him, her body softening as she welcomed his caress.

She was perfect. And sweet. And he had the strangest sense that he could stay there all day, his hand on her cheek, her hand on his head, touching nowhere else but at their lips. It was almost chaste, almost spiritual.

But then a bird cawed loudly in the distance, its sharp call piercing the moment. Something changed. Iris grew still, or maybe she simply breathed again, and with a shaky exhale, Richard managed to pull himself a few inches away. He blinked, then blinked again, trying to bring the world into focus. His universe had shrunk to this one woman, and he could not seem to see anything but her face.

Her eyes were filled with amazement, the same expression, he thought, that must be in his own. Her lips were gently parted, offering him the tiniest peek at her pink tongue. It was the strangest thing, but he felt no urge to kiss her. He wanted just to look at her. He wanted to watch the emotions wash across her face. He wanted to watch her eyes as the pupils adjusted to the light. He wanted to memorize the shape of her lips, to learn how quickly her eyelashes swept up and down when she blinked.