The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

by Julia Quinn

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement. The door to the drawing room was still open. He was at an odd angle to it; he could see only a sliver of the interior. But he had a feeling that Lady Pleinsworth would exit at any moment, and—

  “I must kiss you!” he cried out, and he pulled Iris roughly into his arms. He heard her gasp with shock, and it tore painfully through him, but he had no choice. He had to go back to his original plan. He kissed her mouth, her jaw, her lovely exposed neck, and then—

  “Iris Smythe-Smith!”

  He jumped back. Strangely, he did not have to feign surprise.

  Lady Pleinsworth rushed over. “What in the name of God is happening here?”

  “Aunt Charlotte!” Iris stumbled back, trembling like a frightened deer. Richard saw her eyes go from her aunt to someone behind her, and with an increasing sense of dread he realized that the Ladies Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances had also come into the hall and were staring at them with openmouthed shock.

  Dear God, now he was responsible for the corrupting of children.

  “Get your hands off my niece!” Lady Pleinsworth thundered.

  Richard thought it best not to point out that he had already done so.

  “Harriet,” Lady Pleinsworth said, never taking her eyes off Richard. “Go fetch your aunt Maria.”

  Harriet gave a jerky nod and did her bidding.

  “Elizabeth, summon a footman. Frances, go to your room.”

  “I can help,” Frances protested.

  “Your room, Frances. Now!”

  Poor Frances, who was still wearing her horn, had to hold it with both hands as she ran off.

  When Lady Pleinsworth spoke again, her voice was deadly. “Both of you, in the drawing room. This instant.”

  Richard stepped aside to allow Iris to pass. He had not thought she could possibly look more pale than normal, but her skin was positively bloodless.

  Her hands were shaking. He hated that her hands were shaking.

  A footman arrived just as they entered the drawing room, and Lady Pleinsworth pulled him aside and spoke to him in a low voice. Richard presumed she was sending him with a message for Iris’s father.

  “Sit,” Lady Pleinsworth ordered.

  Iris sank slowly into a chair.

  Lady Pleinsworth turned her imperious stare on Richard. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I cannot be seated while you remain standing, your ladyship.”

  “I give you leave,” she bit off.

  He took a seat. It went against everything in his nature, to sit meekly and silent, but he knew this was what had to happen. He just wished Iris didn’t look so hollow, so troubled and ashamed.

  “Charlotte?”

  He heard Iris’s mother’s voice coming from the hall. She stepped into the room, followed by Harriet, still holding her shepherdess’s crook.

  “Charlotte, what is going on? Harriet said . . .” Mrs. Smythe-Smith’s words trailed off as she took in the tableau. “What has happened?” she asked, her voice low.

  “I have sent for Edward,” Lady Pleinsworth said.

  “Father?” Iris said tremulously.

  Lady Pleinsworth whirled to face her. “You did not think you could act as you did without repercussion?”

  Richard shot to his feet. “She is blameless in this.”

  “What. Happened?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said again, each word sharply pronounced.

  “He has compromised her,” Lady Pleinsworth said.

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith gasped. “Iris, how could you?”

  “This is not her fault,” Richard cut in.

  “I am not speaking to you,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith snapped. “At least not yet.” She turned to her sister-in-law. “Who knows?”

  “All three of my youngest.”

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith closed her eyes.

  “They won’t say anything!” Iris suddenly exclaimed. “They are my cousins.”

  “They are children!” Lady Pleinsworth roared.

  Richard had had enough. “I must ask you not to speak to her in that tone of voice.”

  “I don’t think you are in any position to be making demands.”

  “Nevertheless,” he said softly, “you will speak to her with respect.”

  Lady Pleinsworth’s brows rose at his impertinence, but she said nothing more.

  “I cannot believe you would behave so foolishly,” Iris’s mother said to her.

  Iris didn’t speak.

  Her mother turned to Richard, her mouth cut into a firm, furious line. “You will have to marry her.”

  “There is nothing that would please me more.”

  “I doubt your sincerity, sir.”

  “That’s not fair!” Iris cried out, jumping to her feet.

  “You defend him?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith demanded.

  “His intentions were honorable,” Iris said.

  Honorable, Richard thought. He was no longer sure what that meant.

  “Oh, really,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith nearly spat. “If his intentions were so hon—”

  “He was in the middle of asking me to marry him!”

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith looked from her daughter to Richard and back, clearly not sure what to make of this development. “I will say nothing more on the subject until your father arrives,” she finally said to Iris. “It should not be long. The night is clear, and if your aunt”—she tipped her head toward Lady Pleinsworth—“has made clear the import of the summons, he will likely come on foot.”

  Richard agreed with her assessment. The Smythe-Smith home was a very short distance away. It would be much faster to walk than to wait for a carriage to be readied.

  The room remained in tense silence for several seconds until Mrs. Smythe-Smith abruptly turned to her sister-in-law. “You must go to your guests, Charlotte. With neither of us there, it will appear very suspicious.”

  Lady Pleinsworth nodded grimly.

  “Take Harriet,” Iris’s mother continued. “Introduce her to some of the gentlemen. She is nearly of age to be out. It will seem the most natural thing in the world.”

  “But I’m still in costume,” Harriet protested.

  “This is no time to be missish,” her mother declared, grabbing her arm. “Come.”

  Harriet stumbled along behind her mother, but not before shooting a sympathetic last glance at Iris.

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith closed the door to the drawing room and then let out a breath. “This is a fine mess,” she said, and not with compassion.

  “I will make arrangements for a special license immediately,” Richard said. He saw no need to tell them that he had already procured one.

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith crossed her arms and began to pace.

  “Mama?” Iris ventured.

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith held up a shaking finger. “Not now.”

  “But—”

  “We will wait for your father!” Mrs. Smythe-Smith snarled. She was shaking with fury, and the expression on Iris’s face told Richard that she had never seen her mother thus.

  Iris stepped back, hugging her arms to her body. Richard wanted to comfort her, but he knew her mother would fly into a rage if he took even one step in her direction.

  “Of all my daughters,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said in a furious whisper, “you are the last one I would have thought might do something like this.”

  Iris looked away.

  “I am so ashamed of you.”

  “Of me?” Iris said in a small voice.

  Richard took a menacing step forward. “I said your daughter is blameless.”

  “Of course she is not blameless,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith snapped. “Was she alone with you? She knows better than that.”

  “I was in the middle of a marriage proposal.”

  “May I assume you have not yet requested a private meeting with Mr. Smythe-Smith to obtain his consent?”

  “I thought to do your daughter the honor of asking her, first.”

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith’s mouth pressed together in an angry line, but she
did not respond. Instead she looked vaguely in Iris’s direction and let out a frustrated “Oh, where is your father?”

  “I’m sure he will be here soon, Mama,” Iris replied quietly.

  Richard prepared himself to jump to Iris’s defense again, but her mother held her tongue. Finally, after several more minutes passed, the door to the drawing room opened, and Iris’s father walked in.

  Edward Smythe-Smith was not an exceptionally tall man, but he carried himself well, and Richard imagined that he had been quite athletic when he was younger. Certainly, he was still strong enough to damage a man’s face, should he decide violence was appropriate.

  “Maria?” he said, looking to his wife as he entered. “What the devil is going on? I received an urgent summons from Charlotte.”

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith wordlessly motioned to the two other inhabitants of the room.

  “Sir,” Richard said.

  Iris looked at her hands.

  Mr. Smythe-Smith did not speak.

  Richard cleared his throat. “I would very much like to marry your daughter.”

  “If I am reading this situation correctly,” Mr. Smythe-Smith said with devastating calm, “you don’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “Nevertheless, it is what I desire.”

  Mr. Smythe-Smith tipped his head toward his daughter but did not look at her. “Iris?”

  “He did ask me, Father.” She cleared her throat. “Before . . .”

  “Before what?”

  “Before Aunt Charlotte . . . saw . . .”

  Richard took a breath, trying to hold himself back. Iris was miserable; she could not even finish her sentence. Couldn’t her father see this? She did not deserve such an interrogation, and yet Richard instinctively knew that if he were to intercede, he would only make it worse.

  But he could not do nothing. “Iris,” he said softly, hoping she would hear his support in his voice. If she needed him, he would take over.

  “Sir Richard asked me to marry him,” Iris said resolutely. But she didn’t look at him. She did not even flick her eyes in his direction.

  “And what,” her father asked, “was your reply?”

  “I—I had not yet made one.”

  “What was your reply going to be?”

  Iris swallowed, clearly uncomfortable with all eyes on her. “I would have said yes.”

  Richard felt his head jerk. Why was she lying? She had told him she needed more time.

  “Then it is settled,” Mr. Smythe-Smith said. “It is not how I would have liked to have seen it come about, but she is of age, she wants to marry you, and indeed, she must.” He looked to his wife. “I assume we will need a speedy wedding.”

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith nodded, letting out a relieved breath. “It is perhaps not so dire. I believe Charlotte has the gossip under control.”

  “Gossip is never under control.”

  Richard could only agree with that.

  “Still,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith persisted, “it is not as dire as it could be. We can still give her a proper wedding. It will look better if it is not so rushed.”

  “Very well.” Mr. Smythe-Smith turned to Richard. “You may marry her in two months’ time.”

  Two months? No. That would not do.

  “Sir, I cannot wait two months,” Richard said quickly.

  Iris’s father’s brows slowly rose.

  “I am needed back at my estate.”

  “You should have considered this before you compromised my daughter.”

  Richard wracked his brain for the best excuse, the one that would most likely give Mr. Smythe-Smith reason to relent. “I am the sole guardian of my two younger sisters, sir. I would be remiss if I did not soon return.”

  “I believe you spent several seasons in town a few years back,” Mr. Smythe-Smith countered. “Who had charge of your sisters, then?”

  “They lived with our aunt. I lacked the maturity to properly fulfill my duties.”

  “Forgive me if I doubt your maturity now.”

  Richard forced himself to hold silent. If he had a daughter, he would be just as livid. He thought of his own father, wondered what he would think of this night’s work. Bernard Kenworthy had loved his family—Richard had never doubted that—but his approach to fatherhood could best be described as benign neglect. If he were alive, what would he have done? Anything?

  But Richard was not his father. He could not tolerate inaction.

  “Two months will be perfectly acceptable,” Iris’s mother said. “There is no reason you cannot go to your estate and then return for the wedding. To be honest, I would prefer it that way.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Iris said.

  Her parents looked at her in shock.

  “Well, I wouldn’t.” She swallowed, and Richard’s heart ached at the tension he saw in her small frame. “If the decision is made,” she said, “I would rather move forward.”

  Her mother took a step toward her. “Your reputation—”

  “—might very well already be in tatters. If that’s the case, I would much rather be in Yorkshire where I don’t know anyone.”

  “Nonsense,” her mother said dismissively. “We will wait to see what happens.”

  Iris met her mother’s eyes with a remarkably steely gaze. “Have I no say in the matter?”

  Her mother’s lips trembled, and she looked to her husband.

  “It shall be as she wishes,” he said after a pause. “I can see no reason to force her to wait. The Lord knows she and Daisy will be at each other’s throats the entire time.” Mr. Smythe-Smith turned to Richard. “Iris is not pleasant to live with when she is in ill humor.”

  “Father!”

  He ignored her. “And Daisy is not pleasant to live with when she is in good humor. The planning of a wedding will make this one”—he jerked his head toward Iris—“miserable and the other one ecstatic. I should have to move to France.”

  Richard did not so much as smile. Mr. Smythe-Smith’s humor was of the bitterest sort and did not want laughter.

  “Iris,” the older gentleman said. “Maria.”

  They followed him to the door.

  “I shall see you in two days’ time,” Iris’s father said to Richard. “I expect you will have a special license and settlements prepared.”

  “I would do no less, sir.”

  As she left the room, Iris looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met.

  Why? she seemed to ask him. Why?

  In that moment, he realized she knew. She knew that he had not been overcome with passion, that this forced marriage had been—albeit poorly—orchestrated.

  Richard had never felt so ashamed.

  Chapter Eight

  The following week

  IRIS WOKE UP to thunder on the morning of her wedding, and by the time her maid arrived with breakfast, London was awash with rain.

  She walked to her window and peered out, letting her forehead rest against the cool glass. Her wedding was in three hours. Maybe the weather would clear by then. There was an odd little patch of blue off in the distant sky. It looked lonely. Out of place.

  But hopeful.

  It didn’t really matter, she supposed. She wasn’t going to get wet. The ceremony was to be held by special license in her family’s drawing room. Her journey to marriage consisted of two corridors and a flight of stairs.

  She did hope that the roads would not be washed-out. She and Sir Richard were due to depart for Yorkshire that very afternoon. And while Iris was understandably nervous about leaving her home and all that was familiar to her, she’d heard enough of wedding nights to know that she did not wish to spend hers under her parents’ roof.

  Sir Richard did not maintain a home in London, she had discovered, and his rented apartments were not suitable for a new bride. He wanted to take her home, to Maycliffe Park, where she would meet his sisters.

  A nervous laugh bubbled through her throat. Sisters. It figured he’d have sisters. If there was one thing in her life that had ne
ver been lacking, it was sisters.

  A knock on her door jolted her from her thoughts, and after Iris bid her enter, her mother came into the room.

  “Did you sleep well?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith asked.

  “Not really.”

  “I would be surprised if you had. It does not matter how well she knows her groom. A bride is always apprehensive.”

  Iris rather thought that it did matter how well a bride knew her groom. Certainly she’d be less nervous—or at least nervous in a different way—if she’d known her intended for more than a fortnight.

  But she did not say this to her mother, because she and her mother did not talk about such things. They spoke of minutiae and the events of the day, of music and sometimes of books, and most of all, of her sisters and cousins and all their babies. But they did not speak of feelings. That was not their way.

  And yet Iris knew she was loved. Her mother might not be the sort to say the words or visit her room with a cup of tea and a smile, but she loved her children with all the fierceness in her heart. Iris had never doubted that, not for a moment.

  Mrs. Smythe-Smith sat on the end of Iris’s bed and motioned for her to come over. “I do wish you had a lady’s maid for your journey,” she said. “It’s not at all how it should be.”

  Iris stifled a laugh at the absurdity of it all. After everything that had happened in the past week, it was the lack of a lady’s maid that was not how it should be?

  “You’ve never been good with hair,” her mother said. “To have to dress it yourself . . .”

  “I will be just fine, Mama,” Iris said. She and Daisy shared a lady’s maid, and when given the choice, the young woman had opted to remain in London. Iris thought it prudent to wait to hire a new maid in Yorkshire. It would make her seem less of an outsider in her new home. Hopefully it would make her feel less of an outsider, too.

  She climbed back onto her bed and leaned against the pillows. She felt very young, sitting here like this. She could not recall the last time her mother had come into her bedchamber and sat upon her bed.

  “I have taught you everything you need to know to properly manage a house,” her mother said.

  Iris nodded.

  “You will be in the country, so that will be a change, but the principles of management will be the same. Your relationship with the housekeeper will be of the utmost importance. If she does not respect you, no one will. She need not fear you—”