The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

by Julia Quinn

  She looked up with a shy smile. “You truly would not mind if I wrote a novel?”

  “Do you want to write a novel?”

  She thought about this. “Not really.”

  He chuckled. “Why are we having this conversation?”

  “I don’t know.” Iris smiled, first at him and then to herself. Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman still lay in her lap, so she held it up, and asked, “Do you wish for me to continue?”

  “No!” he said forcefully, rising to his feet. He held out a hand. “Come. Let us go for a walk instead.”

  Iris placed her hand in his, trying to ignore the shiver of pleasure that swept across her skin at his touch.

  “How did the dog pull the trigger?” Richard asked. “No, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

  “Are you sure? It’s actually very clever.”

  “Are you planning to teach our hounds?”

  “We have hounds?”

  “Of course.”

  Iris wondered what else she didn’t know about her new home. Loads, probably. She tugged him to a halt in the middle of the hall, gazed up into his eyes, and solemnly said, “I promise not to teach any of our dogs how to fire a weapon.”

  Richard hooted with laughter, prompting more than one servant to poke his head into the hall. “You are a treasure, Iris Kenworthy,” he said, guiding her once again toward the front door.

  A treasure, Iris thought with a touch of angst. Really?

  “Do you like your new name?” he inquired idly.

  “It does roll off the tongue with a bit more ease than Smythe-Smith,” she allowed.

  “I think it suits you,” he said.

  “I should hope so,” she murmured. It was difficult to imagine a name more unwieldy than the one she’d been born with.

  Richard pulled Maycliffe’s heavy front door open, and a chilly burst of wind swirled forth. Iris immediately hugged her arms to herself. It was later than she’d thought, and the air had a bite to it. “Let me run up to my room for a shawl,” she said. “It was silly of me to wear short sleeves.”

  “Silly? Or optimistic?”

  She laughed. “I’m rarely optimistic.”

  “Really?”

  Iris was already halfway up the steps before she realized he was following her.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard someone declare themselves a pessimist with such a merry laugh before,” he mused.

  “I’m not that, either,” she said. At least she didn’t think she was. She didn’t live her life anticipating disaster and disappointment.

  “Not an optimist or a pessimist,” Richard said when they reached the top of the stairs. “What, then, I wonder, are you?”

  “Not a wife,” she muttered.

  He went still. “What did you say?”

  Iris gasped at the retort that had escaped unbidden from her lips. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean . . .” She looked up, then wished she hadn’t. He was regarding her with an inscrutable expression, and she felt awful. Embarrassed and angry and sorry and wronged and probably eight other things she really didn’t have the inclination to discern.

  “I beg your pardon,” she mumbled, dashing off to her room.

  “Wait!” he called out.

  But she didn’t.

  “Iris, wait!”

  She kept going, her feet moving as fast as they possibly could without switching from a walk to a run. But then she tripped—over what, she did not know—and just barely managed to catch her balance.

  Richard was at her side in a heartbeat, his steadying hand at her arm. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said in a clipped voice. She tugged at her arm, but he held firm. She nearly laughed. Or maybe she nearly cried. Now he wanted to touch her? Now he wouldn’t let go?

  “I need to get my shawl,” she mumbled, but she no longer wished to go for a walk. All she wanted to do was crawl into her bed and pull the covers up tight.

  Richard regarded her for several seconds before releasing his grip. “Very well,” he said.

  She tried for a smile but couldn’t manage it. Her hands were shaking, and she suddenly felt ill.

  “Iris,” he said, concern evident in his eyes, “are you sure you’re well?”

  She nodded, then changed her mind and shook her head. “Perhaps I had better lie down.”

  “Of course,” he said, ever the gentleman. “We shall take our walk another time.”

  She tried for that smile again—and failed again—and instead made do with a jerky curtsy. But before she could escape, he took her arm again to guide her to her room.

  “I don’t need help,” she said. “I’m fine, really.”

  “It would make me feel better.”

  Iris gritted her teeth. Why did he have to be so nice?

  “I shall send for a doctor,” he said, as they crossed the threshold.

  “No, please don’t.” Good God, what was a doctor going to say? That she had a broken heart? That she was mad to think her husband would ever care for her?

  He let go of her arm and let out a sigh as his eyes searched her face. “Iris, clearly something is wrong.”

  “I’m just tired.”

  He did not say anything, just looked at her with a steady gaze, and she knew what he was thinking. She had not seemed the least bit tired in the drawing room.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured him, relieved that her voice was starting to sound more like its usual matter-of-fact self. “I promise.”

  His lips pressed together, and Iris could see that he did not know whether to believe her. Finally, he said, “Very well,” and he placed his hands gently on her shoulders and leaned down—

  To kiss her! Iris’s breath caught, and in one deluded moment of bliss she closed her eyes, tilting her face toward his. She longed for this, for his lips on hers, for the hot touch of his tongue on the soft skin at the corner of her mouth.

  “Richard,” she whispered.

  His lips touched her forehead. It was not the kiss of a lover.

  Humiliated, she wrenched herself away, turning toward the wall, the window, anywhere but him.

  “Iris . . .”

  “Please,” she choked out, “just go away.”

  He did not speak, but nor did he leave the room. She would have heard his footsteps. She would have felt his loss.

  She hugged her arms to her body, silently begging him to obey her.

  And then he did. She heard him turn, heard the unmistakable sound of his boot on the carpet. She was getting what she wanted, what she’d asked for, but it was all so wrong. She needed to understand. She needed to know.

  She whirled around.

  He stopped, his hand already on the door handle.

  “Why?” she said brokenly. “Why?”

  He did not turn around.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”

  “I’m not,” he said quietly.

  “Then don’t pretend you do not understand the question.”

  She stared at his back, watching as his posture grew ever more rigid. The hand at his side tensed into a claw, and if she had any sense, she would not have pushed him. But she was tired of being sensible, so she said, “You chose me. Out of everyone in London, you chose me.”

  He did not move for several seconds. Then, with precise motions, he shut the door and turned around to face her. “You could have declined,” he said.

  “We both know that isn’t true.”

  “Are you so unhappy, then?”

  “No,” she said, and she wasn’t, not really. “But that does not negate the fundamental truth of our marriage.”

  “The fundamental truth,” he repeated, his voice as dull and hollow as she’d ever heard it.

  Iris turned away. It was too difficult to locate her courage when she could see his face. “Why did you marry me?” she choked out.

  “I compromised you.”

  “After you had already proposed,” she snapped, star
tled by her own impatience.

  His voice, when he spoke, was tightly controlled. “Most women would consider a proposal of marriage to be a good thing.”

  “Are you telling me I should consider myself lucky?”

  “I said no such thing.”

  “Why did you marry me?” she demanded.

  “I wanted to,” he said with a shrug. “And you said yes.”

  “I had no choice!” she burst out. “You made sure I had no choice.”

  Richard’s hand shot out, circling her wrist like steel. It did not hurt; he was far too gentle for that. But it was clear she could not escape.

  “If you had had a choice,” he said, “if your aunt had not come in, if no one had seen my lips on yours . . .” He paused, and the silence was so heavy and tight that she had to look up.

  “Tell me, Iris,” he said softly, “can you say that your answer would have been different?”

  No.

  She would have asked for time. She had asked for time. But in the end, she would have accepted him. They both knew it.

  The pressure of his hand on her wrist softened, and it felt almost like a caress. “Iris?”

  He was not going to allow her to ignore his question. But she would not give voice to her answer. She glared at him mutinously, her teeth clamped together so tightly she shook. She would not back down. She didn’t know why it was so important that she not answer his question, but it felt as if her very soul hung in the balance.

  Her soul.

  Her very soul.

  Good God, she was as bad as the fictitious Miss Truesdale. Was this what love did? Turned one’s brain to melodramatic rot?

  A pained bubble of laughter burst from her throat. It was a horrible sound, bitter and raw.

  “Are you laughing?” Richard asked.

  “Apparently,” Iris replied, because she could not quite believe it herself.

  “Why on earth?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do.”

  He stared at her. “We were having a perfectly pleasant afternoon,” he finally said.

  “We were,” she agreed.

  “Why are you angry?”

  “I’m not sure that I am,” she replied.

  Again, he just stared at her in disbelief.

  “Look at me,” Iris said, her voice rising with passion. “I am Lady Kenworthy, and I hardly know how it happened.”

  “You stood before a priest, and—”

  “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “Why did you force the wedding? Why did we need to rush?”

  “Does it matter?” he shot back.

  She took a step back. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I think it does.”

  “You are my wife,” he said, his eyes blazing. “I have pledged to you my fidelity and my support. I have granted you all my worldly possessions, I have granted you my name.”

  Iris had never seen him so angry, had never imagined his body so tightly coiled with fury. Her hand itched to slap him, but she refused to demean herself in such a fashion.

  “Why does it matter how it happened?” Richard finished.

  Iris’s lips had come together to form words, but the crack in his voice stopped her. Something was not right. She forced her gaze to his face, her eyes meeting his with uncompromising intensity.

  His eyes held hers . . . and then slid away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HE WAS THE worst sort of bastard.

  Richard knew this, but still he turned for the door. He could tell her the truth. There was no reason he couldn’t except that he was selfish and he was a coward, and damn it all, he wanted just a few more days before her displeasure descended into outright hatred. Was that really so much to ask?

  “I will leave you,” he said stiffly. And he would have done. If nothing had happened, if she’d not said a word, he would have opened the door and taken himself across the house. He would have shut himself in a room with a bottle of brandy and walls thick enough so that he could not hear her cry.

  But then, just as his hand pressed down on the handle of the door, he heard her whisper, “Did I do something wrong?”

  His hand stilled. But his arm trembled.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said. But of course he knew exactly what she meant.

  “It’s—I—”

  He forced himself to turn around. Dear God, it hurt to watch her like this, so awkward and pained. She couldn’t get the sentence out, and if he were any sort of man, he’d figure out some way to spare her this humiliation.

  He swallowed convulsively, searching for words that he knew would not be enough. “You are everything I could ask for in a wife.”

  But the look in her eyes was distrustful.

  He took a long breath. He could not leave her like this. He crossed the room and reached for her hand. Perhaps if he brought it to his lips, if he kissed her . . .

  “No!” She jerked her hand back, her voice as raw as her eyes. “I can’t think straight when you do that.”

  Under normal circumstances, he would have delighted in such an admission.

  Iris looked away, her eyes squeezing shut for a second, just long enough for her head to give a little jerk. “I don’t understand you,” she said in a very low voice.

  “Do you need to?”

  She looked up. “What sort of question is that?”

  He forced a shrug, trying to look casual. “I don’t understand anyone.” Himself, least of all.

  She stared at him for so long he had to fight the urge to shift his weight from foot to foot. “Why did you marry me?” she finally asked.

  “Didn’t we just have this conversation?”

  Her mouth came together in an implacable line. She did not speak. She did not speak for so long that he was compelled to fill the silence.

  “You know why I married you,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

  “No,” she said, “I really don’t.”

  “I compromised you.”

  She gave him a withering glance. “We both know it started long before that.”

  He tried to calculate how long he might be able to feign ignorance.

  “Oh, for the love of God, Richard, please do not insult my intelligence. You kissed me that night with the express purpose of being seen by my aunt. You demean me by insisting otherwise.”

  “I kissed you,” he said hotly, “because I wanted to.” It was the truth. Not the whole truth, but by God, it was part of the truth.

  But Iris snorted with disbelief. “Maybe you did, but the question is why you wanted to.”

  Good God. He raked his hand through his hair. “Why does any man want to kiss a woman?”

  “I really wouldn’t know, now would I?” she practically spat. “Because my husband finds me repulsive.”

  He took a step back, shocked into silence. Finally, because he knew he had to say something, he said, “Don’t be absurd.”

  It was the wrong thing. Her eyes widened as they filled with outrage, and she turned on her heel and stalked away from him.

  But he was faster, and he caught her by the wrist. “I don’t find you repulsive.”

  Her eyes flicked up as she dismissed this. “I may not have the kind of experience you do, but I know what is meant to go on between a husband and wife. And I know that we have not—”

  “Iris,” he cut in, desperate to put a stop to this, “you’re upsetting yourself.”

  Her eyes blazed with icy fury as she yanked her hand away. “Don’t patronize me!”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  He was. Of course he was.

  “Iris,” he began.

  “Do you fancy men? Is that it?”

  His mouth fell open, and he would have taken a breath, except it seemed his throat was no longer connected to his belly, which felt as if it had been punched.

  “Because if you do—”

  “No!” he practically howled. “How do you even know of such a thing?”

&nb
sp; She gave him a flat stare, and he had the uncomfortable impression that she was trying to decide if she believed him. “I know someone,” she finally said.

  “You know someone?”

  “Well, of him,” she mumbled. “My cousin’s brother.”

  “I don’t fancy men,” Richard said tightly.

  “I rather wish you did,” she muttered, glancing off to the side. “At least it would explain—”

  “Enough!” Richard roared. Dear God, how much was a man meant to endure? He did not fancy men, and he did desire his wife. Quite urgently, as a matter of fact. And if he were living anyone’s life but his own, he would make sure she knew that, in every way possible.

  He stepped in close. Close enough to make her uncomfortable. “You think I find you repulsive?”

  “I-I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Allow me to demonstrate.” He took her face in his hands and brought his lips down to hers, burning with all the torment in his heart. He’d spent the past week wanting her, imagining every delicious thing he was going to do with her once he could finally take her to his bed. It had been a week of denial, of torture, of punishing his body in the most primitive way possible, and he had reached his limit.

  He might not be able to do everything he wanted, but by God, she would know the difference between desire and disdain.

  His mouth plundered hers, sweeping, tasting, devouring. It was as if every moment of his life had coalesced into this one kiss, and if he broke contact, even for a moment, even to breathe, it would all disappear.

  The bed. It was all he could think, even though he knew it was a mistake. He had to get her to the bed. He had to feel her under him, to imprint himself upon her body.

  She was his. She had to know that.

  “Iris,” he groaned against her mouth. “My wife.”

  He nudged her backward, and then he did it again, until she was edged up against the bed. She was so slender, such a wispy little thing, but she was kissing him back with a fire that threatened to consume them both.

  No one else knew what lay beneath her placid surface. And no one else would, he vowed. She might give others her breathtaking smile, or even a taste of her sly, subtle wit, but this . . .

  This was his.

  He brought his hands behind her, and then under her, cupping the delightful curve of her bottom. “You are perfect,” he said against her skin. “Perfect in my arms.”