The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

by Julia Quinn

  He watched her with visible amusement. “Do you always wake so slowly?”

  “No.” She pulled herself into a sitting position. At some point during the ride she’d slumped completely onto her side. “Sometimes I’m slower.”

  He chuckled at that. “I shall take that under advisement. No important meetings for Lady Kenworthy before noon.”

  Lady Kenworthy. She wondered how long it would take to grow used to it.

  “I can usually be relied upon to be coherent by eleven,” Iris returned. “Although I must say, the best part of being married is going to be having my breakfast in bed.”

  “The best part?”

  She blushed, and the sudden import of her words finally woke her up. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “That was thoughtless—”

  “Think nothing of it,” he cut in, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Her husband was not one to take ready insult. A very good thing that was, as Iris was not always one to consider her words before she spoke them.

  “Shall we go?” Richard asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  He hopped down and held out his hand. “Lady Kenworthy.”

  That was twice he’d called her by her new name in the same number of minutes. She knew that many gentlemen did such a thing in the early days of marriage as a sign of endearment, but it made her uncomfortable. He meant well, she knew, but it only served to remind her how very much her life had changed in the space of a week.

  Still, she must try to make the best of her situation, and that started with making pleasant conversation. “Have you stayed here before?” she asked as she accepted his hand.

  “Yes, I—Whoa!”

  Iris wasn’t quite sure how it happened—maybe she hadn’t managed to shake all of the pins and needles from her foot—but she slipped on the carriage step, and she let out a startled cry as her stomach lurched up against her heart, which returned the favor by launching into a full sprint.

  And then, before she could even try to catch her balance, she was caught by Richard, who held her securely as he set her down.

  “Goodness,” she said, glad to have her feet firmly on the ground. She placed one hand on her heart, trying to calm herself.

  “Are you all right?” He did not seem to notice that his hands were still on her waist.

  “Quite well,” she whispered. Why was she whispering? “Thank you.”

  “Good.” He gazed down at her. “I shouldn’t want . . .”

  His words trailed off, and for a heavy second they stared into each other’s eyes. It was the strangest, warmest sensation, and when he stepped abruptly away, Iris felt off-balance and out of sorts.

  “I shouldn’t want you to injure yourself.” He cleared his throat. “Is what I meant to say.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced over at the inn, its hive of activity a stark contrast to the two of them, who were still as statues. “You were saying something,” she prompted. “About the inn?”

  He stared at her with a blank expression.

  “I had asked if you had stayed here before,” she reminded him.

  “Many times,” he answered, but he still seemed distracted. She waited a moment, pretending to straighten her gloves, until he cleared his throat and said, “It’s a three-day journey to Maycliffe, there’s no getting around that. I always stay at the same two inns on the journey north.”

  “And on the journey south?” she quipped.

  He blinked, his brow furrowed with either confusion or disdain. Honestly, she could not be sure which.

  “It was a joke,” she started to say, since it only stood to reason that he’d have to take the same route to London as from. But she cut herself off after two words, and just said, “Never mind.”

  His eyes remained on her face for a penetratingly long moment, then he held out his arm, and said, “Come.”

  She looked up at the festively painted sign that hung from the inn. The Dusty Goose. Really? She was to spend her wedding night in a coaching inn called The Dusty Goose?

  “I trust it meets with your satisfaction?” Richard asked politely as he led her inside.

  “Of course.” Not that she could or would have said anything else. She looked about. It was a charming spot, actually, with diamond-crossed Tudor windows and fresh flowers at the desk.

  “Ah, Sir Richard!” exclaimed the innkeeper, bustling over to greet them. “You made very good time.”

  “The roads held up well despite this morning’s rain,” Richard said congenially. “It was a most pleasant journey.”

  “I expect that is more due to the company than the roads,” the innkeeper said with a knowing smile. “I wish you joy.”

  Richard tilted his head toward the innkeeper in salute, then said, “Allow me to introduce my new wife, Lady Kenworthy. Lady Kenworthy, this is Mr. Fogg, esteemed proprietor of the Dusty Goose.”

  “I am honored to meet you, ma’am,” Mr. Fogg said. “Your husband is our favorite guest.”

  Richard gave him a half smile. “A frequent one, at least.”

  “Your inn is lovely,” Iris said. “I see no dust, however.”

  Mr. Fogg grinned. “We do our best to keep the geese outside.”

  Iris laughed, and was dearly grateful for it. The sound had become almost unfamiliar.

  “Shall I show you to your rooms?” the innkeeper asked. “Mrs. Fogg has prepared supper for you. Her very best roast, with cheese, potatoes, and Yorkshire puddings. I can have it served in the private dining room whenever you wish.”

  Iris smiled her thanks and followed Mr. Fogg up the stairs.

  “Here we are, my lady,” he said, opening a door at the far end of the hall. “It is our finest chamber.”

  It was indeed very fine for a coaching inn, Iris thought, with a large four-poster bed and a window facing south.

  “We have but two rooms with private washing chambers,” Mr. Fogg continued, “but, of course, we have saved this one for you.” He opened another door, displaying a small windowless room with a chamber pot and a copper tub. “One of our maids will draw you a hot bath, should you wish it.”

  “I will let you know, thank you,” Iris said. She wasn’t sure why she was so eager to make a good impression on an innkeeper of all people, except that her husband seemed quite fond of him. And, of course, there was no reason to be rude to someone who was so clearly going out of his way to please her.

  Mr. Fogg bowed. “Very well. I shall leave you, ma’am. I am sure you wish to rest after your journey. Sir Richard?”

  Iris blinked in confusion as he led Richard to the door.

  “You’re just across the hall,” Mr. Fogg continued.

  “Very good,” Richard said.

  “You’re—” Iris caught herself before she blurted something embarrassing. Her husband had reserved separate rooms for their wedding night?

  “Ma’am?” Mr. Fogg asked, turning back to her in question.

  “It’s nothing,” Iris said quickly. There was no way she was going to let on that she had been surprised by the sleeping arrangements.

  Surprised and . . . And relieved. And maybe a little bit hurt, too.

  “If you will just open my room for me,” Richard said to Mr. Fogg, “I can make my way there myself. In the meantime, I would like a private word with my wife.”

  The innkeeper bowed and took his leave.

  “Iris,” Richard said.

  She didn’t turn toward him, exactly, but she did glance in his direction. And tried to smile.

  “I would not do you the dishonor of demanding a wedding night at a roadside inn,” he said in a stiff voice.

  “I see.”

  He seemed to be waiting for a lengthier reply, so she added, “That is very considerate of you.”

  He was silent for a moment, his right hand tapping awkwardly against his thigh. “You have been rushed into this.”

  “Nonsense,” she said crisply, forcing a touch of levity into her voice. “I have known you all of two weeks. I can name
half a dozen marriages that have been forged on slighter acquaintances.”

  He lifted a brow. A very sardonic one, and not for the first time Iris wished she weren’t so bloody pale. Even if she could raise a single brow, no one would be able to see it.

  He bowed. “I will take my leave.”

  She turned away, pretending to fuss with something in her reticule. “Please.”

  There was another uncomfortable silence.

  “I shall see you for supper?” he inquired.

  “Of course.” She had to eat, didn’t she?

  “Will a quarter of an hour suffice?” His voice was scrupulously polite.

  She nodded, even though she was not facing him. He could discern the movement, she was sure. And she no longer trusted her voice.

  “I shall knock before I go down,” he said, and then she heard the door click behind him.

  Iris held herself still, not even breathing. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps some part of her needed for him to be away, farther away than a simple click of the door. She needed him to cross the hall, enter his own chamber, close that door behind him.

  She needed all of that between them.

  And then she could cry.

  RICHARD CLOSED IRIS’S door, walked carefully across the hall, opened his own door, shut it, locked it, and then let out a stream of invective so fluent, so spectacularly creative that it was a wonder lightning did not smite the entire Dusty Goose on the spot.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  Everything had been going to plan. Everything. He’d met Iris, he’d got her to marry him, and they were on their way north. He hadn’t exactly told her everything yet—very well, he hadn’t really told her much of anything yet, but he’d never planned to do so until they arrived at Maycliffe and met his sisters, anyway.

  That he’d found a wife who was so intelligent and agreeable was a relief. That she was attractive was a lovely bonus. He had not, however, anticipated that he would want her.

  Not like this.

  He’d kissed her in London, and he’d quite liked it—enough to know that bedding her would be no hardship. But enjoyable as the experience was, he’d had no difficulty stopping when the time came. His pulse had quickened, and he’d felt the first stirrings of desire, but it had been nothing that was not easily tamed.

  Then Iris had tripped while exiting the carriage. He’d caught her, of course. He was a gentleman; it was instinct. He would have done so for any lady.

  But when he touched her, when his hands settled on the curve of her small waist, and her body slid along his as he lowered her to the ground . . .

  Something inside of him had caught fire.

  He did not know what had changed. Was it something primitive, something deep in the heart of him that now knew she was his?

  He’d felt like an idiot, stunned and frozen, unable to remove his hands from her hips. His blood pounded through his veins, and his heart beat so loudly he could not believe she did not hear it. And all he could think was—

  I want her.

  And it wasn’t just the usual I-haven’t-been-with-a-woman-in-a-few-months sort of want. It was electric, an instant bolt of desire so strong it stole the breath from his body.

  He’d wanted to tilt her face toward his and kiss her until she was gasping with need.

  He’d wanted to cup his hands on her bottom and squeeze and lift until she had no choice but to wrap her legs around him.

  And then he’d wanted to push her back against a tree and own her.

  Good Lord. He wanted his wife. And he couldn’t have her.

  Not yet.

  Richard swore again as he wrenched off his coat and flung himself onto his bed. Damn! He did not need such a complication. He was going to have to tell her to lock her bloody door when they took up residence at Maycliffe.

  He swore yet again. He didn’t even know if there was a lock on the connecting door between the master’s and mistress’s bedrooms.

  He’d have to install one.

  No, that would cause talk. Who the hell added a lock to a connecting bedroom door?

  Not to mention Iris’s feelings. He had seen in her eyes that she’d been surprised that he did not plan to visit her on their wedding night. He was quite certain she was at least somewhat relieved—he did not flatter himself that she had fallen desperately in love with him in so short a time. Even if she had, she was hardly the sort to approach the marriage bed without trepidation.

  But she was also hurt. He had seen that, too, despite her attempts to hide it. And why shouldn’t she be? For all she could tell, her husband did not find her appealing enough to take to bed on their wedding night.

  He let out a grim laugh. Nothing could have been further from the truth. God only knew how long it was going to take for his traitorous body to settle down enough to escort her to supper.

  Oh yes, that would be genteel. Here, take my arm, but do ignore my raging erection.

  Someone really needed to invent a better pair of breeches.

  He lay on his back, thinking unamorous thoughts. Anything to direct his mind to something other than the delicate flare of his wife’s hip. Or the soft pink of her lips. It was a color that would have been ordinary on anyone else, but against Iris’s pale skin . . .

  He swore. Again. This was not the way this was supposed to go. Bad thoughts, unappealing thoughts . . . Let’s see, there was that time he’d got food poisoning at Eton. Very bad fish, that was. Salmon? No, pike. He’d vomited for days. Oh, and the pond at Maycliffe. It would be cold this time of year. Very cold. Balls-numbingly cold.

  Bird-watching, Latin conjugation, his great-aunt Gladys (God rest her soul). Spiders, soured milk, plague.

  Bubonic plague.

  Bubonic plague on his cold, numb . . .

  That did the trick.

  He checked his pocket watch. Ten minutes had passed. Possibly eleven. Certainly enough time to warrant hauling his pathetic self off the bed and making himself presentable.

  With a groan, Richard pulled his coat back on. He should probably change for supper, but surely such rules could be relaxed while traveling. And besides, he’d already told his valet that he would not need his services until he retired for the evening. He hoped Iris had not thought she must don a more formal gown. It had not occurred to him to tell her so.

  At precisely the correct time, he rapped upon her door. She opened it immediately.

  “You did not change,” he blurted out. Like an idiot.

  Her eyes widened as if she feared she had made an error. “Was I meant to?”

  “No, no. I’d meant to tell you not to bother.” He cleared his throat. “But I forgot.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. Awkwardly. “Well, I didn’t. Change, that is.”

  “I see.”

  Richard made a note to compliment himself on his sparkling wit.

  She stood there.

  So did he.

  “I brought a shawl,” she said.

  “Good idea.”

  “I thought it might get cold.”

  “It might.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought.”

  He stood there.

  So did she.

  “We should eat,” he said suddenly, holding out his arm. It was dangerous to touch her, even under such innocent circumstances, but he was going to have to get used to it. He could hardly refuse to offer her his escort for the next however many months.

  He really needed to find out how many months. Exactly how many months.

  “Mr. Fogg was not exaggerating about his wife’s roast,” he said, struggling for something utterly innocuous. “She is a splendid cook.”

  He might have imagined it, but he thought Iris looked relieved that he had initiated a bit of ordinary conversation. “That will be lovely,” she said. “I’m quite hungry.”

  “Did you not eat in the carriage?”

  She shook her head. “I meant to, but I fell asleep.”

  “I’m sorry I was not there to entert
ain you.” He bit his tongue. He knew exactly how he’d have liked to entertain her, even if she was innocent of such activities.

  “Don’t be silly. You do not do well in carriages.”

  True. But then again, he had never taken a long carriage ride with her.

  “I imagine you will wish to ride alongside the carriage again tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I think it would be best.” For so many reasons.

  She nodded. “I might have to find another book to read. I’m afraid I shall finish this one up rather more quickly than expected.”

  They reached the door to the private dining room, and Richard stepped forward so that he might open it for her. “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “Another book by Miss Austen. Mansfield Park.”

  He held out her chair. “I am not familiar with it. I do not think my sister has read it.”

  “It is not as romantic as her others.”

  “Ah. That explains it. Fleur would not like it, then.”

  “Is your sister such a romantic?”

  Richard started to open his mouth, then paused. How to describe Fleur? She was not exactly his favorite person these days. “I think she is, yes,” he finally said.

  Iris seemed amused by this. “You think?”

  He felt himself smile, sheepishly. “It’s not the sort of thing she discusses with her brother. Romance, I mean.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She shrugged and stabbed a potato with her fork. “I certainly would not discuss it with mine.”

  “You have a brother?”

  She gave him a startled look. “Of course.”

  Damn, he should have known that. What sort of man did not know that his wife had a brother?

  “John,” she said. “He’s the youngest.”

  This was even more of a surprise. “You have a brother named John?”

  At that she laughed. “Shocking, I know. He should have been a Florian. Or a Basil. It’s really not fair.”

  “What about William?” he suggested. “For Sweet William?”

  “That would have been even more cruel. To have a flower’s name and still be so utterly normal.”

  “Oh, come now. Iris isn’t Mary or Jane, but it isn’t so uncommon.”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “It’s that there are five of us. What is common and ordinary becomes awful in bulk.” She looked down at her food, her eyes dancing with amusement.