The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (32 page)

“I will,” Richard practically exploded. “But that doesn't mean it's easy. And she”—he flung his arm toward Fleur—“is not helping.”

“I did not ask this of you!” Fleur cried. Her voice was shaking, but it didn't sound like rage anymore. She sounded, Iris realized, like a woman about to shatter.

“That's enough, Richard,” Iris suddenly announced.

He turned to her with irritated bewilderment. “What?”

Iris put her arm around Fleur. “She needs to lie down.”

Fleur let out a few wretched gasps and then crumpled against Iris's side, sobbing.

Richard looked dumbstruck. “She was just yelling at me,” he said to no one in particular. And then to Fleur, “You were just yelling at me.”

“Go away,” Fleur sobbed, her words echoing through Iris's body.

Richard stared at the two of them for a long moment, then cursed under his breath. “Now you're on her side, I see.”

“There aren't any
sides
,” Iris said, despite the fact that she had no idea which of them he meant was on the other's side. “Don't you understand? This is a horrible situation. For everyone.
No one
will emerge with heart intact.”

Their eyes met; no, their eyes clashed, and Richard finally turned on his heel and stalked away. Iris watched him disappear over the rise, then let out her breath in a long, shaky whoosh.

“Are you all right?” she asked Fleur, who was still hiccuping in her arms. “No, don't answer that. Of course you're not all right. None of us is.”

“Why won't he listen to me?” Fleur whispered.

“He believes that he is acting in your best interest.”

“But he's not.”

Iris sucked in her breath, trying to keep her voice even as she said, “He's certainly not acting in his own best interest.”

Fleur pulled back and looked up at her. “Nor yours.”

“Certainly not mine,” Iris said, her agreement caustic at best.

Fleur's mouth flattened into a sullen line. “He does not understand me.”

“I don't either,” Iris admitted.

Fleur touched her hand to her flat abdomen. “I love—I'm sorry, I
loved
the father. The baby is born of that love. I can't just give him up.”

“You
loved
him?” Iris asked. How was that possible? If even half of what Richard said was true, William Parnell had been a terrible person.

Fleur looked toward her feet, mumbling, “It is difficult to explain.”

Iris just shook her head. “Don't even try. Come, shall we head back to the house?”

Fleur nodded, and they began walking. After a few minutes she said, completely without fervor, “I still hate you, you know.”

“I know,” Iris said. She reached out and gave the younger girl's hand a squeeze. “I still hate you, too, sometimes.”

Fleur looked over at her with an almost hopeful expression. “You do?”

“Sometimes.” Iris reached down and plucked a blade of grass. She put it between her thumbs, trying to make a whistle. “I don't really want to have your baby, you know.”

“I can't imagine why you would.”

They resumed walking, Iris taking about six steps before saying, “You're not going to ask me why I'm doing it?”

Fleur shrugged. “Doesn't really matter, does it?”

Iris thought about that for a moment. “No, I suppose not.”

“I know you mean well.”

Iris nodded absently, keeping the pace up the hill.

“Aren't you going to return the sentiment?” Fleur asked.

Iris turned her head sharply. “That you mean well?”

Fleur's lips pressed peevishly together.

“I suppose you do,” Iris finally capitulated. “I will confess I find your motives utterly baffling, but I suppose you
mean
well.”

“I don't want to marry a stranger.”

“I did.”

Fleur stopped in her tracks.

“Well, almost one, anyway,” Iris allowed.

“You weren't pregnant with another man's child.”

Good heavens, the girl was exasperating. “No one is saying you should deceive your bridegroom,” Iris told her. “I'm sure there is someone who will leap at the chance to align himself with Maycliffe.”

“And I shall be made to feel
grateful
for the rest of my life,” Fleur said bitterly. “Have you considered that?”

“No,” Iris said quietly. “I had not.”

They reached the edge of the west lawn, and Iris squinted up at the sky. It was still overcast, but the clouds had grown thinner. The sun might well yet make an appearance. “I'm going to stay outside,” she said.

Fleur looked up, too. “Won't you want a shawl?”

“Yes, I suppose I will.”

“I can have one of the maids bring one down.”

It was as clear a gesture of friendship as Iris had ever seen. “That would be most helpful, thank you.”

Fleur nodded and entered the house.

Iris walked over to bench and sat down, waiting for the sun.

B
Y NIGHTFALL
I
RIS
was a bit more at ease. She had spent the rest of the day in her own company, feeling only the tiniest pang of guilt when she elected to take her evening meal in her room. After the morning's interactions with Richard and Fleur, she rather thought she'd earned the right to abstain from conversation for a day or so. The entire exchange had been exhausting.

But sleep proved elusive, no matter how weary she felt, and sometime after midnight she gave up the attempt, threw back her covers, and padded across her bedchamber to the petite writing desk Richard had had brought up the week before.

She looked down at the small selection of books lying on the desktop. She'd finished them all except the history of Yorkshire, which had stubbornly refused to get the least bit interesting, even in the chapter about the War of the Roses. How the author managed to make that dull she'd never know, but she had given up trying to find out.

Gathering the books in her arms, she shoved her feet in her night slippers and headed for the door. She wouldn't wake anyone if she tiptoed down to the library.

The servants had long since retired, and the house was very quiet. Still, Iris stepped gently, grateful for the soft carpets that muffled her footsteps. At home she'd known every creaky board and squeaky door hinge. She hadn't had a chance yet to learn the same for Maycliffe.

She paused in her steps, frowning. That was not right. She had to stop thinking of her parents' house as home. Maycliffe was her home now. She needed to get used to that.

She supposed she was starting to feel that way, at least a little bit. Even with all the drama—and heavens, there was a
lot
of drama—Maycliffe was starting to settle into her heart. The sofa in the drawing room was
her
sofa now, no question about that, and already she'd grown accustomed to the unique song of the yellow-bellied birds that nested near her window. She wasn't sure what they were called, only that they didn't have them in London.

She was starting to feel at home here, strange as that seemed. At home with a husband who would not bed her, a sister who hated her (sometimes) for trying to save her from ruin, and another sister who . . . who . . .

She thought about that. There really wasn't much to say about Marie-Claire. Iris hadn't shared more than two words with her since that first day. She ought to rectify that. It'd be nice if at least one of Richard's sisters didn't (sometimes) see her as the devil incarnate.

At the bottom of the stairs Iris turned right toward the library. It was just down the hall, past the drawing room and Richard's study. She rather liked his study, she decided. She hadn't had much occasion to enter the masculine sanctuary recently, but it was warm and comfortable and with the same southerly view she had from her bedroom.

She paused for a moment to adjust her grip on her candleholder, then squinted. Was that a light down the hall or just her own candle, throwing off flickers and shadows meant to tease and deceive? She held still, held her breath, even, then moved forward again, stepping lightly.

“Iris?”

She froze. There was nothing for it. She nudged herself forward and peered into Richard's study. He was sitting in a chair by the fire, a half-filled glass of something alcoholic in his hand.

He tipped his tousled head in her direction. “I thought that might be you.”

“I'm sorry. Did I disturb you?”

“Not at all,” he said, smiling up at her from his comfortable spot. Iris thought he might be a little bit drunk. It was very unlike him not to rise when a lady entered a room.

It was also a little odd that he was smiling at her. Given the way they'd parted and all.

She clutched her small pile of books to her chest. “I was getting something to read,” she said, motioning toward the library.

“I'd assumed.”

“I couldn't sleep,” she said.

He shrugged. “Nor I.”

“Yes, I see.”

His mouth curled into a lazy half smile. “Witty conversationalists, we two.”

Iris let out a little laugh. Strange that they could find their humor again now that the house was abed. Or maybe not so strange. She'd been in a contemplative mood all day, ever since her unexpected rapprochement with Fleur. They had not agreed on anything, not really, but Iris thought they had been able to find the good in each other nonetheless.

Surely she ought to be able to find the same with Richard.

“Penny for them,” the man in question said.

Iris looked up with arched brows. “I have enough pennies, thank you.”

He clutched his hand to his heart. “Wounded! And with coin.”

“Without coin, actually,” Iris corrected. Because it was the sort of thing she could never let pass.

He grinned.

“It's important to be precise in all things,” she said, but she was grinning, too.

He chuckled at that, then held up his glass. “Drink?”

“What is it?”

“Whiskey.”

Iris blinked in surprise. She'd never heard of a man offering a woman a sip of whiskey.

Immediately, she wanted some.

“Just a little,” she said, setting her books down on a table. “I don't know if I'll like it.”

Richard chuckled as he poured a finger of the amber liquid into a glass. “If you don't like this, you don't like whiskey.”

She gave him a questioning glance as she took a seat in the straight-backed chair across from him.

“It's the best there is,” he said without modesty. “It's not hard to get the really good stuff here, as close to Scotland as we are.”

She peered down at her glass and took a little sniff. “I did not realize you were such a connoisseur.”

He shrugged. “I seem to be drinking a lot of it lately.”

Iris looked away.

“Didn't say that to blame you, by the way.” He paused, presumably to take a drink. “Believe me when I say that I know this is a quagmire of my own making.”

“And Fleur's,” Iris said quietly.

His eyes found hers, and the corner of his mouth tipped up. Just a bit. Just enough to thank her for recognizing that. “And Fleur's,” he agreed.

They sat in silence for several minutes, Richard downing his glass of whiskey while Iris carefully sipped hers. She liked it, she decided. It was hot and cold at the same time. How else could one describe something that burned until it made you shiver?

She spent more time looking at her drink than at her husband, allowing herself to study his face only when his eyes closed and he leaned his head against the back of the chair. Was he asleep? She didn't think so. No one could fall asleep that quickly, especially upright.

She raised her glass to her lips, experimenting with trying a larger sip. It went down even more smoothly, although that could be the result of all the whiskey that had gone down before it.

Richard still had his eyes closed. He was definitely not asleep, she decided. His lips pressed together and relaxed, and she realized she recognized the expression. He did that when he was thinking. Well, of course he was always thinking, that's what humans did, but he did that when he was thinking about something particularly vexing.

“Am I such a bad person?” he asked, his eyes remaining shut.

Iris's lips parted in surprise. “Of course not.”

He let out a little sigh and finally opened his eyes. “I didn't used to think so.”

“You're not,” she said again.

He regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. “Good to know.”

Iris wasn't sure what to say to that, so she took another sip of her whiskey, tipping it back to get the last few drops.

“More?” Richard inquired, holding up the decanter.

“I probably shouldn't,” she said, but she held out her glass all the same.

He poured, this time two fingers.

She regarded her glass, holding it up level with her eyes. “Will this make me drunk?”

“Probably not.” He cocked his head, his mouth twisting as if he were doing arithmetic in his head. “But I suppose it could do. You're small. Did you eat supper?”

“I did.”

“You should be all right, then.”

Iris nodded and looked back down at her glass, giving it a little swirl. They sipped in silence for another minute, then she said, “You should not think you are a bad person.”

He quirked a brow.

“I'm enormously angry with you, and I think you're making a mistake, but I do understand your motives.” She looked down at her whiskey, momentarily mesmerized by the way it seemed to flicker and glow in the candlelight. Her voice, when she found it again, was pensive. “No one who loves his sisters so well could ever be a bad person.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then—“Thank you.”

“It does you credit, I suppose, that you are willing to make such a sacrifice.”