The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (37 page)

“Can I come with you?”

That
was enough to stop him. “What? Why?”

Marie-Claire's mouth opened and closed a few times. “I just . . . Well, I have nothing to do.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “You are a terrible liar.”

“That's not true! I'm a very good liar.”

“Is this really a conversation you wish to have with your elder brother and guardian?”

“No, but—” She gasped. “There's Fleur!”

“What? Where?” Richard followed her gaze to the left, and sure enough, there was Fleur, flat out sprinting across the field. “What the devil has got into her?” he muttered.

Marie-Claire gasped again, this one a longer, more gossipy sound. Rather like a deflating accordion.

Richard shaded his eyes as he squinted down toward Fleur. She looked upset. He probably should go after her.

“Bye!”

Before Richard could blink, Marie-Claire had taken off at a run after Fleur.

Richard turned back toward the orangery, then thought the better of it. Iris was probably wherever Fleur had just been. Revising his course to the south, he headed down the hill and once again bellowed Iris's name.

H
E DIDN'T FIND
her. He checked the strawberry patch he knew Fleur liked down near the stream, doubled back to his mother's rose briar, which did show signs of recent occupancy, and then finally gave up and headed back to the house. His ridiculous route had leached some of the urgency from his search, and by the time he entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him, he was more exasperated than anything else. He reckoned he'd walked three miles at least, half of it along the same path, and now here he was, back in his bedroom with nothing to—

“Richard?”

He swung around. “Iris?”

She was standing in the doorway that connected their bedrooms, her hand resting nervously on the frame. “Mrs. Hopkins said you were looking for me?”

He almost laughed.
Looking for her
. Somehow that seemed a monstrous understatement.

Her head tilted as she watched with a mix of curiosity and concern. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” He stared at her, wondering if he'd ever regain his ability to speak in multisyllabic words. It was just that when she stood there, the soft rosy hues of her bedroom like a morning cloud behind her, she was so beautiful.

No, not beautiful. Beautiful didn't come close.

He didn't know the word. He didn't know if there was a word to describe what he felt in that moment, how he saw the lines of his own heart when her eyes met his.

He wet his lips, but he could not seem able even to
try
to speak. Instead he was gripped by the most disconcerting urge to kneel before her like some medieval knight, to take her hand and pledge his devotion.

She took a step into his room, and then another, but there she paused. “Actually,” she said, the word tumbling quickly from her lips, “I needed to speak with you, too. You won't believe wh—”

“I'm sorry,” he blurted out.

She blinked in surprise, and her voice was tiny and bewildered when she said, “What?”

“I'm sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I'm sorry. When I came up with the plan, I didn't think . . . I didn't know that . . .” He raked his hand through his hair. Why was this so hard? He'd taken the time to think out his words. The whole time he'd been crisscrossing the fields and bellowing her name he'd been practicing them in his head, testing them out, measuring each syllable. But now, faced with the clear blue eyes of his wife, he was lost.

“Richard,” she said, “I must tell—”

“No, please.” He swallowed. “Let me continue. I beg you.”

She went still, and he could see in her eyes that she was startled to see him so humbled.

He said her name, or at least he thought he did. He had no recollection of crossing the room, but somehow he was there before her, taking her hands in his.

“I love you,” he said. It wasn't what he had meant to say, not yet anyway, but there it was, more important and more precious than anything.

“I love you.” He dropped to his knees. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes, but even if I knew how to make it stop, I wouldn't because the pain is at least
some
thing.”

Her eyes shone bright with tears, and he saw her tender pulse fluttering in her throat.

“I love you,” he said again, because he wasn't sure how to stop saying it. “I love you, and if you will allow me, I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.” He stood, never letting go of her hands, and his eyes met hers in a solemn vow. “I will earn your forgiveness.”

She licked her trembling lips. “Richard, you don't—”

“No, I do.
I hurt you
.” It pained him to say it out loud, such a stark, bleak acknowledgment. “I lied to you, and I tricked you, and—”

“Stop,” she pleaded. “Please.”

Was that forgiveness he saw in her eyes? Even a shred of it?

“Listen to me,” he said, taking one of her hands tightly in his. “You don't have to do it. We'll find some other way. I'll convince Fleur to marry someone else, or I'll scrape together the funds, and we'll find a way for her to pass herself off as a widow. I won't be able to see her as often as I'd like, but—”

“Stop,” Iris cut in, placing a finger against his lips. She was smiling. Her lips were quivering, but she was most definitely smiling. “I mean it. Stop.”

He shook his head, not understanding.

“Fleur lied,” she said.

He froze. “What?”

“Not about the baby, but about the father. It wasn't William Parnell.”

Richard blinked, trying to make sense of this. “Then who?”

Iris caught her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes shifting to the side with hesitation.

“For the love of God, Iris, if you do not tell me—”

“John Burnham,” she blurted out.

“What?”

“John Burnham, your tenant.”

“I
know
who he is,” he said, far more sharply than he'd meant. “I just—” His brow furrowed, and his mouth went slack, and he was sure he looked like some bloody idiot about to be fitted with a dunce cap, but—“John Burnham? Really?”

“Marie-Claire told me.”

“
Marie-Claire
knew?”

Iris nodded.

“I'm going to throttle her.”

Iris gave a hesitant frown. “To be fair, she wasn't
sure
. . .”

He looked at her in disbelief.

“Fleur didn't tell her,” she explained. “Marie-Claire figured it out on her own.”

“She figured it out,” he said, feeling more like that dunce-capped idiot than ever, “and I didn't?”

“You're not her sister,” Iris said, as if that ought to explain everything.

He rubbed his eyes. “Dear God. John Burnham.” He looked at her, trying to blink the disbelief from his face. “John. Burnham.”

“You will let her marry him, won't you?”

“I don't see how I have any choice. The baby needs a father . . . The baby
has
a father.” He looked up sharply. “He did not force himself on her?”

“No,” Iris said. “He did not.”

“Of course he didn't.” He shook his head. “He would not do that. I know him that well at least.”

“Then you like him?”

“I do. I've said as much. It's just . . . he has . . .” He sighed. “I suppose this is why she did not say anything. She thought I would not approve.”

“That, and she feared for Marie-Claire.”

“Oh, God,” Richard groaned. He had not even thought of Marie-Claire. It would be impossible for her to make a good match after this.

“No, no, don't worry,” Iris said, her entire face perking with excitement. “I've taken care of that. I figured it all out. We'll send her to London. My mother will sponsor her.”

“Are you sure?” Richard could not identify this strange, clenching in his chest. He was utterly humbled by her, by her brilliance, her caring heart. She was everything he had not even realized he needed in a woman, and somehow, miraculously, she was his.

“My mother has not been without an unmarried daughter of marrying age since 1818,” Iris said with wry grin. “She's not going to know what to do with herself once Daisy is gone and out of the house. Trust me, you don't want to see her when she's bored. She's an absolute nightmare.”

Richard laughed.

“I'm not joking.”

“I did not think you were,” he told her. “I've met your mother, you recall.”

Iris's lips curved in a rather sly manner. “She and Marie-Claire will do well together.”

He nodded. Mrs. Smythe-Smith would surely do a better job than he ever had. He looked back over at Iris. “You do realize I'm going to have to kill Fleur before I let her marry him.”

His wife smiled at such nonsense. “Just forgive her. I have.”

“I thought you said you were not a model of Christian charity and forgiveness.”

She shrugged. “I'm turning over a new leaf.”

Richard took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Do you think you might be able to forgive me?”

“I already have,” she whispered.

Relief washed over him with such force it was a wonder he remained able to stand. But then he looked into her eyes, her pale lashes still wet with tears, and he was gone. He took her face in his hands and brought her to him, kissing her with all the urgency of a man who has faced the precipice and survived.

“I love you,” he said roughly, his words kisses in themselves. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.”

“I never thought I would hear you say that.”

“I love you.”

“Again,” he ordered.

“I love you.”

He brought her hands to his mouth. “I worship you.”

“Is this a contest?”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I'm going to worship you right now.”

“Right . . . now?” She glanced at the window. The afternoon sun was streaming in, relentlessly bright and cheerful.

“I've waited far too long,” he growled, sweeping her into his arms. “And so have you.”

Iris let out a little squeal of surprise as he dropped her onto the bed. It was only a few inches to the mattress, but it was enough to give her a little bounce, and enough for him to take the moment to cover her body with his, reveling in the primitive sensation of having her pinned beneath him.

She was at his mercy.

She was his to love.

“I adore you,” he murmured, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. He kissed the delicate hollow over her collarbone, reveling in her soft mewl of pleasure. His fingers found the lacy edge of her bodice. “I have dreamed of this.”

“So have I,” she said tremulously, gasping when she heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric.

“Sorry,” he said, glancing cursorily at the small tear at the bodice of her frock.

“No you're not.”

“I'm not,” he agreed cheerfully, taking the edge of the fabric between his teeth.

“Richard!” she nearly shrieked.

He looked up. God, he was like a dog with a bone, and he didn't care one bit.

Her lips quivered with unspent laughter. “Don't make it worse.”

He grinned wolfishly, tugging gently with his teeth. “Like this?”

“Stop!”

He released the fabric and used his hands to push her dress down, revealing one perfect breast. “Like this?”

Her only answer was the quickening of her breath.

“Or like this?” he asked huskily, taking her into his mouth.

Iris let out a keening cry, and her hands sank into his hair.

“Definitely like this,” he murmured, teasing her with his tongue.

“Why do I feel that . . . ?” she whispered helplessly.

He looked up in bemusement and echoed, “Why do you feel it?”

Her flush spread from her cheeks to her neck and down. “Why do I feel it . . . down . . .
there
?”

Maybe he was a rogue. Maybe he was just very very wicked, but he could only lick his lips and whisper, “Where?”

She shuddered with desire, but did not speak.

He slid her slipper from her foot. “Here?”

She shook her head.

His hand slid up her slender calf to the inside of her knee. “Here?”

“No.”

He smiled to himself. She was enjoying their game, too. “What about”—he brought his fingers higher, resting them at the soft crease between her hip and her thigh—“here?”

She swallowed, and her voice was barely audible when she whispered, “Almost.”

He moved closer to his goal, trailing the tips of his fingers through the soft thatch covering her womanhood. He wanted to look at her again, see the impossibly blond curls in light of day, but that would have to wait. He was too busy watching her face as he slid his finger inside her.

“Richard,” she gasped.

He groaned. She was so wet and ready for him. But she was tiny, and as they both well knew, still a virgin. He would have to make love to her with great care, moving slowly and with a gentleness at complete odds with the raging fire burning within.

“What you do to me,” he whispered, taking a moment to regain at least a portion of his composure.

She smiled up at him, and there was something so sunny and open in her expression . . . He felt it echo across his own face until he was grinning like a loon, almost laughing with the sheer joy of her company.

“Richard?” she said, her grin right there in her voice.

“I'm just so happy.” He sat up to yank his shirt over his head. “I can't help it.”

She touched his face, her small hand light and delicate along the line of his jaw.

“Stand up,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Stand up.” He eased himself off the bed, then tugged at her hand until she followed suit.