by Julia Quinn
“You can’t, really,” he admitted, “except that I will promise that my feelings will not be hurt.”
Iris let out a breath, hardly able to believe she was having such an irregular conversation. “You, Sir Richard, are not a fool.”
He blinked. Then said, “As promised, my feelings are not hurt.”
“And as such,” she continued with a smile—because really, who could have not smiled at that?—“when you take an action, other men will not immediately think you foolish. I imagine there are even a few young gentlemen out there who look up to you.”
“You are too kind,” he drawled.
“To continue,” she said, brooking no interruption, “when you ask a young lady to dance . . . More specifically, a young lady who is not known for dancing, others will wish to know why. They will wonder if you have seen something in her that they have not. And even if they look more closely and still find nothing of interest, they will not wish to be thought ignorant. So they will ask her to dance, too.”
He didn’t say anything right away, so she added, “I suppose you think me cynical.”
“Oh, without a doubt. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
She turned toward him in surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“I think we should conduct a scientific experiment,” he announced.
“An experiment,” she repeated. What on earth was he about?
“Since you have observed my fellow gentlemen as if we were specimens in a rather grandly decorated laboratory, I propose that we make the experiment more formal.” He looked to her for reply, but she was speechless, utterly speechless.
“After all,” he continued, “science requires the gathering and noting of data, does it not?”
“I suppose,” she said suspiciously.
“I shall lead you back toward the dancing. No one will approach you here in the chaperones’ chairs. They’ll suppose you injured. Or ill.”
“Really?” Iris drew back in surprise. Maybe that was part of the reason she was not often asked to dance.
“Well, it’s what I’ve always thought, at any rate. Why else would a young lady be over here?” He glanced in her direction, causing Iris to wonder if perhaps his question had not been hypothetical, but the moment she opened her mouth, he continued with: “I shall lead you back, and leave you be. We shall see how many men ask you to dance.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“And you,” he continued, as if she had not said a word, “must be honest with me. You must tell me truthfully if you are engaged for more dances than usual.”
“I promise to tell the truth,” Iris said, stifling a laugh. He had such a way about him, of saying the silliest thing as if it were of grave importance. She could almost believe this was all in the pursuit of science.
He stood and held out his hand. “My lady?”
Iris set down her empty lemonade glass and stood.
“I trust you are no longer suffering the effects of light-headedness,” he murmured as he led her across the ballroom.
“I believe I shall manage for the rest of the evening.”
“Good.” He bowed. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We are walking, are we not? You did grant me permission to call on you. I thought we might stroll about town if the weather cooperates.”
“And if it doesn’t?” she asked, feeling just a bit saucy.
“Then we shall discuss books. Perhaps”—his head dipped closer to hers—“something your sister has not read?”
She laughed, loud and true. “I am almost hoping for rain, Sir Richard, and I—”
But she was cut off by the approach of a sandy-haired gentleman. Mr. Reginald Balfour. She’d met him before; his sister was good friends with one of hers. But he’d never done more than greet her politely.
“Miss Smythe-Smith,” he said, bowing to her curtsy. “You look exceptionally fine this evening.”
Iris’s hand was still on Sir Richard’s arm, and she could feel him tensing as he tried not to laugh.
“Are you engaged for the next dance?” Mr. Balfour asked.
“I am not,” she said.
“Then may I lead you out?”
She glanced over at Sir Richard. He winked.
NINETY MINUTES LATER, Richard stood near the wall, watching Iris as she danced with yet another gentleman he did not recognize. For all her talk about never dancing every dance, she appeared to be well on her way to that goal tonight. She seemed honestly surprised by the attention. Whether she was enjoying herself, he was not certain. He supposed that even if she weren’t, she would view the evening as an interesting experience, one worthy of her particular brand of observation.
Not for the first time, it occurred to him that Iris Smythe-Smith was highly intelligent. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen her. She was a rational creature. She would understand.
No one seemed to notice him in the shadows, so he took advantage of the moment by mentally ticking through his list. He’d drawn one up when he’d found himself racing back to London a few days earlier. Well, not drawn. He wasn’t so foolish as to write such a thing down. But he’d had ample time on the journey to reflect upon what he needed in a wife.
She could not be spoiled. Or the sort who liked to draw attention to herself.
She could not be stupid. He had good reason to marry quickly, but whomever he chose, he was going to have to live with the lady for the rest of his life.
It would be nice if she was pretty, but it was not imperative.
She ought not be from Yorkshire. All things considered, it would be much easier if she was a stranger to the neighborhood.
She probably could not be rich. He needed someone for whom he might be considered an advantageous match. His wife would never need him as much as he needed her, but it would be easier—at least at the beginning—if she did not realize this.
And above all, she must understand what it meant to value one’s family. That was the only way this was going to work. She had to understand why he was doing this.
Iris Smythe-Smith fit his needs in every way. From the moment he saw her at her cello, desperately wishing that people were not looking at her, she had intrigued him. She’d been out in society for several years, but if she’d received any marriage proposals, he had not heard of them. Richard might not be rich, but he was respectable, and there was no reason for her family to disapprove of him, especially when no other suitors were forthcoming.
And he liked her. Did he wish to throw her over his shoulder, spirit her away, and ravish her? No, but nor did he think it would be unenjoyable when the time came.
He liked her. And he knew enough of marriage to know that this was more than most men had when they went to the altar.
He just wished he had more time. She was too sensible to accept him so soon after their first meeting. And honestly, he didn’t want to be married to the type of female who would act so rashly. He was going to have to force the issue, which was unfortunate.
But, he reminded himself, there was nothing to be done that evening. His only task was to be polite and charming so that when the time came, no one would put up much of a fuss.
He’d already had enough fuss to last a lifetime.
Chapter Five
The following day
“NOT DAISY,” IRIS pleaded. “Please, anyone but Daisy.”
“You cannot walk about London with Sir Richard without a chaperone,” her mother said, adjusting her hairpins as she examined her reflection in her vanity mirror. “You know that.”
Iris had rushed to her mother’s bedchamber the moment she’d learned that Daisy had been asked to accompany her for the day’s outing with Sir Richard. Surely her mother would realize the foolishness of such a plan. But no, Mrs. Smythe-Smith seemed perfectly content with the idea and was acting as if it was all settled.
Iris scooted around to her mother’s other side, positioning herself too close to the mirror to be ignored
. “Then I’ll take my maid. But not Daisy. She won’t hang back. You know she won’t.”
Mrs. Smythe-Smith considered this.
“She will insert herself into every conversation,” Iris pressed. Her mother still looked unconvinced, though, and Iris realized she would need to approach this from a different angle. The your-daughter-is-quite-on-the-shelf-and-this-might-be-her-last-chance angle.
“Mama,” Iris said, “please, you must reconsider. If Sir Richard wishes to know me better, he will certainly meet with no success if Daisy is with us all afternoon.”
Her mother let out a little sigh.
“You know it’s true,” Iris said quietly.
“You do have a point,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said with a frown. “Although I don’t want Daisy to feel left out.”
“She’s four years younger than I am,” Iris protested. “Surely there is time enough for her to find a gentleman of her own.” And then, in a very small voice, she said, “It’s my turn.”
She liked Sir Richard, even if she did not quite trust him. There was something so odd, so unexpected about his attentions toward her. He had quite clearly sought an introduction at the musicale; Iris could not recall the last time that had happened. And then to call upon her the very next day, and to spend so much time at her side at the Mottram ball . . . It was unprecedented.
She did not believe his intentions were less than honorable; she liked to think herself a good judge of character, and whatever his aims, her ruination was not one of them. But nor could she believe that he had been struck by a grand passion. If she were the sort of female who inspired men to fall in love at first sight, surely someone else would have done so by now.
But there could be no harm in seeing him again. He had asked her mother for permission to call upon her, and he had treated her with every courtesy. It was all very proper, and very flattering, and if she’d gone to sleep that night with a picture of him in her mind, surely there was nothing uncommon in that. He was a handsome man.
“Are you certain he does not plan to bring Mr. Bevelstoke with him?” her mother asked.
“Quite. And I shall be honest, I do not think Mr. Bevelstoke has any interest in Daisy.”
“No, I suppose not. She’s far too young for him. Very well, you may take Nettie. She did the same for your sisters on several occasions so she’ll know what to do.”
“Oh, thank you, Mama! Thank you so much!” Surprising even herself, Iris threw her arms around her mother and hugged her. It lasted but a second before they both stiffened and stepped back; theirs had never been a demonstrative relationship.
“I’m sure this will all amount to nothing,” Iris said, because it would not do to get her hopes up anywhere but in her own mind. “But it will certainly go nowhere with Daisy in attendance.”
“I do wish we knew a little more about him,” her mother said with a frown. “He hasn’t been to town for several years now.”
“Were you acquainted with him when Marigold was out?” Iris asked. “Or Rose or Lavender?”
“I believe he was in town when Rose made her debut,” her mother said, referring to Iris’s eldest sister, “but we did not move in the same circles.”
Iris wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“He was young,” her mother said with a flip of her hand. “Matrimony was not on his mind.”
In other words, Iris thought wryly, he’d been a bit wild.
“I did speak to your aunt about him, though,” her mother continued, not bothering to clarify which aunt. Iris supposed it didn’t really matter; they all tended to be equally good sources of gossip. “She said that he came into the baronetcy some years ago.”
Iris nodded. She knew as much.
“His father lived beyond his means.” Mrs. Smythe-Smith’s mouth pinched disapprovingly.
Which likely made Sir Richard a fortune hunter.
“But,” Iris’s mother mused, “that does not seem to be the case with the son.”
A well-principled fortune hunter, then. He had not accrued his own debts; he’d merely had the misfortune of inheriting them.
“He is clearly looking for a wife,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith continued. “There is no other reason a gentleman of his age would return to town after an absence of several years.”
“He has the guardianship of his two younger sisters,” Iris told her. “Perhaps he is finding it difficult without a female influence in the house.” As she said it, though, she could only think that the future Lady Kenworthy would be thrust into quite a challenging position. Hadn’t he said that one of his younger sisters was already eighteen? Old enough so that she would likely not appreciate guidance from her brother’s new wife.
“A sensible man,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith mused. “It does him credit that he can recognize when he requires help. Although one can only wonder why he did not do so years earlier.”
Iris nodded.
“We can only speculate upon the condition of his estate if his father was as much a spendthrift as rumored. I do hope he does not think you have a grand dowry.”
“Mama,” Iris said with a sigh. She didn’t want to talk about this. Not now, at least.
“He wouldn’t be the first to make that error,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said blithely. “With all of our connections to the aristocracy—close connections, mind you—people do seem to think we have more than we do.”
Wisely, Iris held her tongue. When her mother was pontificating on a topic of social importance, it was best not to interrupt.
“We ran into this with Rose, you know. Somehow it got about that she had fifteen thousand. Can you imagine?”
Iris could not.
“Perhaps if we’d had but one daughter,” her mother said. “But with five!” She let out a little laugh, the sort that sounded of disbelief and wishful thinking. “We shall be lucky if your brother inherits anything by the time we get all of you married off.”
“I’m sure John will be very comfortable,” Iris said. Her only brother was three years younger than Daisy and still away at school.
“If he’s lucky, he shall find a girl with fifteen thousand,” her mother said with a caustic laugh. She stood abruptly. “Well. We can sit here all morning speculating over Sir Richard’s motives or we can get on with the day.” She glanced at the clock on her vanity. “I don’t suppose he mentioned when he might arrive?”
Iris shook her head.
“You should make sure you’re ready, then. It will not do to keep him waiting. I know that some women think it best not to appear eager, but you know that I think it’s rude.”
A knock at the door forestalled Iris’s exit, and they both looked up to see a housemaid in the doorway. “Begging your pardon, milady,” she said. “But Lady Sarah is in the drawing room.”
“Ah, well, that’s a pleasant surprise,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said. “I’m sure she’s here to see you, Iris. Run along.”
Iris headed downstairs to greet her cousin, Lady Sarah Prentice, née Lady Sarah Pleinsworth. Sarah’s mother and Iris’s father were siblings, and as they were reasonably close in age, so were their children.
Sarah and Iris were but six months apart and had always been friendly, but they had grown closer since Sarah’s marriage to Lord Hugh Prentice the previous year. They had another cousin who was also their age, but Honoria spent most of her time with her husband in Cambridgeshire, whereas both Sarah and Iris lived in London.
When Iris reached the drawing room, Sarah was sitting on the green sofa, leafing through Pride and Prejudice, which Iris’s mother had obviously left there the day before.
“Have you read this?” Sarah asked without preamble.
“Several times. It’s lovely to see you, too.”
Sarah pulled a face. “We all must have someone with whom we need not stand on ceremony.”
“I tease,” Iris said.
Sarah glanced at the door. “Is Daisy about?”
“I’m sure she’s making herself scarce. She still hasn’t forgiven you for thre
atening to run her through with her own violin bow before the musicale.”
“Oh, that wasn’t a threat. It was an honest attempt. That girl is lucky she has good reflexes.”
Iris laughed. “To what do I owe this visit? Or are you simply starved for my sparkling company?”
Sarah leaned forward, her dark eyes gleaming. “I think you know why I’m here.”
Iris knew exactly what she meant, but nonetheless, she leaned forward, meeting her cousin’s gaze dead-on. “Illuminate me.”
“Sir Richard Kenworthy?”
“What about him?”
“I saw him chase after you at the musicale.”
“He did not chase after me.”
“Oh, yes, he did. It was all my mother could talk about afterward.”
“I find that difficult to believe.”
Sarah shrugged. “I’m afraid you’re in a very sticky spot, dear cousin. With me married and none of my sisters old enough to be out, my mother has determined to fix all of her energies on you.”
“Dear heavens,” Iris remarked, with no sarcasm whatsoever. Her aunt Charlotte took her duties as a matchmaking mother very seriously.
“Not to mention . . .” Sarah went on, her words laced with great drama. “What happened at the Mottram ball? I did not attend, but clearly I should have done.”
“Nothing happened.” Iris fixed her best what-nonsense! expression upon her face. “If you refer to Sir Richard, I simply danced with him.”
“According to Marigold—”
“When did you speak with Marigold?”
Sarah flicked a hand in the air. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But Marigold wasn’t even there last night!”
“She heard it from Susan.”
Iris sat back. “Good Lord, we have too many cousins.”
“I know. Really. But back to the matter at hand. Marigold said that Susan said that you were practically the belle of the ball.”
“That is an exaggeration beyond compare.”
Sarah jabbed her index finger toward Iris with the speed of a practiced interrogator. “Do you deny that you danced every dance?”
“I do deny it.” She had sat out quite a few before Sir Richard had arrived.
