The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

by Julia Quinn

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  She turned.

  He made a motion toward the sideboard. “Breakfast?”

  “Oh.” She felt her face flush. “Of course. How silly of me.” She walked back to the food and took a plate, nearly jumping when she felt Richard’s breath near her ear.

  “Should I be worried that my presence turns you off your food?”

  She stiffened. Now he was flirting with her? “Excuse me,” she said. He was blocking the sausages.

  He stepped aside. “Do you ride?”

  “Not well,” she admitted. And then, just because she was feeling peevish, she asked, “Do you?”

  He drew back, his eyes startled. And vexed. More vexed than startled. “Of course.”

  She smiled to herself as she took a seat. Nothing got to a gentleman quite like an insult to his horsemanship.

  “You needn’t wait with me,” she said, cutting her sausage with surgical precision. She was trying so hard to appear normal, not that he knew her well enough to know what was normal. But still, it was a matter of pride.

  He slid into the seat across from her. “I am at your disposal.”

  “Are you?” she murmured, wishing that such a comment did not make her pulse race.

  “Indeed. I was about to leave when I saw you. Now I have nothing to do but wait.”

  Iris glanced at him as she spread jam on her toast. He was sprawled in his chair in a most informal manner, leaning back with the lazy grace of a natural athlete.

  “I should bring gifts,” she said, the idea coming to her rather suddenly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Gifts. For the tenants. I don’t know, baskets of food or some such. Don’t you think?”

  He took a second or two to ponder that, then said, “You’re right. It never even occurred to me.”

  “Well, to be fair, you weren’t planning to have me accompany you today.”

  He nodded, smiling at her as she lifted her toast to her mouth.

  She froze. “Is something wrong?”

  “Why would something be wrong?”

  “You’re smiling at me.”

  “I’m not allowed to?”

  “No, I—Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered under her breath. “Never mind.”

  He waved this off. “Consider it forgotten.”

  But he was still smiling at her.

  It made her very uneasy.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  Really? He was going to ask her that?

  “Iris?”

  “As well as can be expected,” she answered. As soon as she found her voice.

  “That doesn’t sound very promising.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a strange room.”

  “By that token, you would have had difficulty sleeping the entire journey.”

  “I did,” she confirmed.

  His eyes clouded with concern. “You should have said something to me.”

  If you’d been in my room, you’d have seen for yourself, she wanted to say. Instead she said, “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  Richard leaned forward and took her hand, which was a little awkward as she’d been reaching for her tea. “I hope you will always feel comfortable coming to me with your problems.”

  Iris tried to keep her face impassive, but she had a feeling she was looking at him as if he were some sort of zoo exhibit. It was lovely that he was acting with such concern, but they were only talking about a few nights of disrupted sleep. “I’m sure I shall,” she said with an uneasy smile.

  “Good.”

  She glanced about the room awkwardly. He was still holding her hand. “My tea,” she finally said, tipping her head in the direction of the cup.

  “Of course. So sorry.” But when he let go, his fingers slid along hers like a caress.

  A little frisson of awareness danced up her arm. He had that lovely, lazy smile on his face again, the one that made her feel rather warm inside. He was trying to seduce her again. She was sure of it.

  But why? Why would he treat her with such warmth only to reject her? He was not that cruel. He could not be.

  She took a hasty sip of her tea, wishing he would stop looking at her so intently. “What was your mother like?” she blurted out.

  That seemed to disconcert him. “My mother?”

  “You’ve never told me about her.” And more to the point, it was not the sort of topic that invited romance. Iris needed a nice innocuous conversation if she was to have any hope of finishing her breakfast.

  “My mother was . . .” He seemed not to know what to say.

  Iris took another bite of her breakfast, watching him with a serene expression as he wrinkled his nose and blinked a few times. Maybe she was at heart a selfish, petty creature, but she was enjoying this. He flustered her all the time. Surely a little turnabout was fair game.

  “She loved to be outside,” he finally said. “She cultivated roses. And other plants, too, but the roses were the only ones I could ever remember the names of.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “A bit like Fleur, I suppose.” His brow came together as he remembered. “Although her eyes were green. Fleur’s are more hazel—a mix of our parents’.”

  “Your father had brown eyes, then?”

  Richard nodded, tipping back in his chair.

  “I wonder what color eyes our children will have.”

  Richard’s chair came down with a thunk, and he spewed tea all over the table. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Lost my balance.”

  Iris looked down at her plate, spotted a bit of tea on her toast, and decided she was done with breakfast, anyway. What a strange reaction, though. Surely Richard wanted children? Every man did. Or at least every man who owned land.

  “Is Maycliffe entailed?” she wondered.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Isn’t it the sort of thing I ought to know?”

  “It is not. Entailed, that is. But yes, something you ought to know,” he acknowledged.

  Iris found herself a new teacup and poured some more. She wasn’t really thirsty, but she found herself strangely loath to release him from this conversation. “Your parents must have been quite relieved that their firstborn was a boy,” she remarked. “They would not want the property to be separated from the title.”

  “I confess I never discussed it with them.”

  “No, I imagine not.” She added a bit of milk to her tea, stirred, and took a sip. “What happens to the title if you die without children?”

  One of his brows rose. “Are you plotting my demise?”

  She gave him a bit of a look. “It seems like another sort of thing I ought to know, don’t you think?”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Distant cousin. I think he lives in Somerset.”

  “You think?” How could he not know?

  “I’ve never met him,” Richard said with a shrug. “You have to go back to our great-great-grandfather to locate a common ancestor.”

  Iris supposed he had a point. She might know a prodigious amount about her overabundance of cousins, but they were first cousins. She wasn’t sure she could locate any of her more distant relations on a map.

  “You have nothing to worry about,” Richard said. “If something were to happen to me, you will be well provided for. I made sure of that in the marriage settlement.”

  “I know,” Iris said. “I read it.”

  “You did?”

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  “Most women don’t.”

  “How would you know?”

  Suddenly, he grinned. “Are we having an argument?”

  Suddenly, his grin turned her insides to mush. “I’m not.”

  He chuckled. “That’s a relief, I must say. I should hate to think we were having an argument, and I missed it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think there’s a chance of that.”

  He leaned forward, tilting his head in question.

 
; “I don’t raise my voice often . . .” Iris murmured.

  “But when you do, it’s a sight to behold?”

  She smiled her acknowledgment.

  “Why do I have the impression that Daisy is the most frequent recipient of your temper?”

  She made a motion with her index finger as if to say—wrong! “That would be incorrect.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Daisy is . . .” She sighed. “Daisy is Daisy. I don’t know how else to describe her. I’ve long thought one of us must have been switched at birth.”

  “Be careful what you wish for,” Richard warned with a smile. “Daisy is the one who looks just like your mother.”

  Iris felt herself smiling in return. “She does, doesn’t she? I favor my father’s side of the family. I’m told I have my great-grandmother’s coloring. Funny how many generations it managed to skip before finding me.”

  Richard nodded, then said, “I still want to know who provokes your temper, if not Daisy.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that she doesn’t provoke my temper. She does. All the time. But it’s rarely something worth getting riled up about in the end. Arguments with Daisy are generally petty things, all snappish and snide.”

  “Who makes you angry, then?” he asked softly. “Who can make you so furious that you’d jump out of your skin if you were able?”

  You, she almost said.

  Except that he hadn’t done. Not really. He’d vexed her, and he’d hurt her feelings, but he’d never reduced her to the sort of rage he was describing.

  And yet, somehow she knew he could.

  He would.

  “Sarah,” Iris said firmly, putting a halt to her dangerous thoughts.

  “Your cousin?”

  She nodded. “I once had a row with her . . .”

  His eyes lit with delight, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. “I must have every detail.”

  Iris laughed. “No, you don’t.”

  “Oh, I’m quite sure I do.”

  “I can’t believe that women are said to be the bigger gossips.”

  “This isn’t gossip,” he protested. “This is my wishing to better understand my bride.”

  “Oh, if that’s the case . . .” She chuckled again. “Very well, it was about the musicale. Honestly, I don’t think you would understand. I don’t think anyone outside my family would.”

  “Try me.”

  Iris sighed, wondering how she could possibly explain. Richard was always so confident, so sure of himself. He couldn’t possibly know how it felt to get up on a stage and make an utter fool of himself, all the while knowing that there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it.

  “Tell me, Iris,” he urged. “I really want to know.”

  “Oh, all right. It was last year.”

  “When she was sick,” Richard cut in.

  Iris looked at him with surprise.

  “You mentioned it to me,” he reminded her.

  “Ah. Well, she wasn’t sick.”

  “I had a feeling.”

  “She faked the whole thing. She said she was trying to get the entire performance canceled, but honestly, she was just thinking of herself.”

  “You told her how you felt?”

  “Oh yes,” Iris replied. “I went to her house the next day. She tried to deny it, but it was clear she wasn’t sick. Even so, she insisted that she had been until six months later at Honoria’s wedding.”

  “Honoria?”

  Oh, right. He didn’t know Honoria. “Another cousin,” she told him. “She’s married to the Earl of Chatteris.”

  “Another musician?”

  Iris’s smile was clearly half grimace. “Depending on your definition of the word.”

  “Was Honoria—I’m sorry, Lady Chatteris—in the concert?”

  “Yes, but she is so lovely and forgiving. I’m sure she still believes that Sarah was ill. She always thinks the best of everyone.”

  “And you don’t?”

  She met his gaze dead-on. “I have a more suspicious nature.”

  “I shall remember that,” he murmured.

  Iris thought it best not continue this thread of the conversation, so she said, “At any rate, Sarah did eventually admit the truth. The night before Honoria’s wedding. I don’t know, she said something about being unselfish, and I simply could not contain myself.”

  “What did you say?”

  Iris winced at the memory. She had spoken the truth, but she had not done it kindly. “I would rather not say.”

  He did not press her to elaborate.

  “That was when she claimed she was trying to get the event canceled,” she said.

  “You don’t believe her?”

  “I believe she considered it when she was making her plans. But no, I do not think it was her primary motive.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters,” she said with a passion that surprised herself. “It matters why we do things. It has to matter.”

  “Even if the results are beneficial?”

  She dismissed this out of turn. “Clearly you’ve moved on to the hypothetical. I’m still talking about my cousin and the musicale. And no, the results were not beneficial. At least not to anyone aside from herself.”

  “But one could say that your experience was unchanged.”

  Iris just looked at him.

  “Consider it this way,” he explained. “If Sarah had not feigned illness, you would have played in the musicale.”

  He glanced at her for confirmation, which she gave.

  “But she did, in fact, pretend to be ill,” he continued. “And the result was that you still played in the musicale.”

  “I don’t see your point.”

  “There was no change in outcome for you. Her actions, while underhanded, did not affect you in the least.”

  “Of course they did!”

  “How?”

  “If I had to play, she had to play.”

  He laughed. “You don’t think that sounds just a tiny bit childish?”

  Iris ground her teeth with frustration. How dare he laugh? “I think you’ve never got up on a stage and humiliated yourself in front of everyone you know. And worse, quite a few you don’t.”

  “You didn’t know me,” he murmured, “and look what happened.”

  She said nothing.

  “If not for the musicale,” he said lightly, “we would not be wed.”

  Iris had no idea how to interpret that.

  “Do you know what I saw when I attended the musicale?” he asked, his voice soft.

  “Don’t you mean what you heard?” she muttered.

  “Oh, we all know what I heard.”

  She smiled at that, even though she didn’t want to.

  “I saw a young woman hiding behind her cello,” he continued. “A young woman who actually knew how to play that cello.”

  Her eyes flew to his.

  “Your secret is safe with me,” he said with an indulgent smile.

  “It’s not a secret.”

  He shrugged.

  “But you know what is?” she asked, suddenly eager to share. She wanted him to know. She wanted him to know her.

  “What?”

  “I hate playing the cello,” she said with great feeling. “It’s not even just that I dislike playing in the concerts, although I do. I loathe the concerts, loathe them in a way I could never begin to articulate.”

  “Actually, you’re doing a fairly good job of it.”

  She gave him a sheepish smile. “I really do hate playing the cello, though. You could set me down in an orchestra of the finest virtuosos—not that they’d ever allow a woman to play—and I’d still hate it.”

  “Why do you do it?”

  “Well, I don’t anymore. I don’t have to now that I’m married. I shall never pick up a bow again.”

  “It’s good to know I’m good for something,” he quipped. “But honestly, why did you do
it? And don’t say you had to. Sarah got out of it.”

  “I could never be so dishonest.”

  She waited for him to say something, but he only frowned, glancing to the side as if lost in thought.

  “I played the cello,” she said, “because it was expected of me. And because it made my family happy. And despite what I say about them, I love them dearly.”

  “You do, don’t you,” he murmured.

  She looked at him earnestly. “Even after all that, I consider Sarah one of my dearest friends.”

  He regarded her with a curiously steady expression. “You obviously possess a high capacity for forgiveness.”

  Iris felt herself draw back as she considered this. “I never thought so,” she said.

  “I hope you do,” he said quietly.

  “I beg your pardon?” Surely she could not have heard that correctly.

  But he had already got to his feet and was holding out his hand. “Come, the day awaits.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “YOU WANT HOW many baskets?”

  Richard pretended not to notice Mrs. Hopkins’s dumbfounded expression. “Just eighteen,” he said jovially.

  “Eighteen?” she demanded. “Do you know how long something like that takes?”

  “It would be a difficult task for anyone but you,” he demurred.

  The housekeeper narrowed her eyes, but he could tell she liked the compliment.

  “Don’t you think it’s an excellent idea to bring baskets to the tenants?” he said, before she could come up with another protest. He tugged Iris forward. “It was Lady Kenworthy’s idea.”

  “I thought it would be a nice gesture,” Iris said.

  “Lady Kenworthy is all that is generous,” Mrs. Hopkins said, “but—”

  “We’ll help,” Richard suggested.

  Her mouth fell open.

  “Many hands make light work, isn’t that something you used to say?”

  “Not to you,” the housekeeper retorted.

  Iris stifled a laugh. Charming little traitor, she was. But Richard was in far too good a mood to take offense. “The dangers of having servants who’ve known you since school days,” he murmured in her ear.

  “School days!” Mrs. Hopkins scoffed. “I’ve known you since you were in—”

  “I know exactly how long you’ve known me,” Richard cut in. He didn’t need Mrs. Hopkins mentioning his time in nappies in front of Iris.