by Julia Quinn
“No,” he said quickly, moving away from her before he changed his mind and gave in to the harsh need raging through his body. She had not hurt him. Far from it. But he was going to hurt her. It was inevitable. Every single thing he’d done since that moment he’d first seen her at her family’s musicale . . .
It had all been leading to one moment.
How could he let her give of herself so intimately when he knew what was about to happen?
She would hate him. And then she would hate herself for having done this, for having all but serviced him.
“Was I doing it wrong?” she asked, her pale blue eyes steady on his.
Good God, she was direct. He’d thought that was what he loved so much about her, but right now it was killing him.
“No,” he said. “You weren’t . . . that is to say . . .” He could not tell her that she’d been so utterly perfect, he thought he might lose his mind. She’d made him feel things he’d never imagined possible. The touch of her lips, her tongue . . . the soft whisper of her breath . . . It had been transcendent. He had been clenching the sheets beneath him just to keep himself from flipping her over and burying himself inside her warmth.
He forced himself to sit up. It was easier to think that way, or maybe it just put a little more space between them. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out what to say. She was staring at him like a lost little bird, waiting with an almost preternatural stillness.
He pulled the sheet up, covering his arousal. There was no reason he could not tell her the truth now, no reason except his own cowardice. But he did not want to. Was it so very weak of him to want just a few more days of her good opinion?
“I don’t expect you to do such a thing,” he finally said. It was the worst sort of evasion, but he didn’t know what else to say.
She regarded him with a blank stare, followed by a soft furrowing of her brow. “I don’t understand.”
Of course she didn’t. He sighed. “Most wives don’t do”—he waved a pathetic hand in the air—“that.”
He face instantly flushed. “Oh,” she said, her voice achingly hollow. “You must think—I didn’t know—I’m so—”
“Stop, please,” he begged, grasping her hand. He did not think he could bear it if she actually apologized. “You did nothing wrong. I promise. Quite the opposite,” he said before he thought to censor himself.
She scrambled off the bed, but not before he saw the confusion on her face.
“It’s just . . . it’s quite a lot . . . so early in our marriage . . .” He let his words trail off. It was the only thing to do. He had no idea how to complete the sentence. Good God, he was an ass.
“This is all too much,” he said, hoping she did not hear the slight pause before he added, “for you.”
He jerked himself to his feet, cursing as he hastily refastened his breeches. What kind of man was he? He’d taken the worst sort of advantage. For the love of God, he still had his bloody boots on.
He looked at her. Her lips were parted, still swollen from his kisses. But the desire was gone from her eyes, replaced by something he could not quite name.
Something he did not want to identify.
He raked his hand through his hair. “I think I should go.”
“You didn’t eat,” she said. Her voice sounded flat. He hated that.
“It doesn’t matter.”
She nodded, but he was fairly certain neither of them knew why. “Please,” he whispered, allowing himself one last touch. His fingers gently caressed her brow, then paused to cup her cheek in his hand. “Please know one thing. You have done nothing wrong.”
She did not speak. She just stared at him with those huge blue eyes, not even looking confused. Just . . .
Resigned. And that was even worse.
“It’s not you,” he said. “It’s me.” He had a feeling he was making this worse with every word, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He swallowed, waiting again for her to say something, but she did not.
“Good night,” he said softly. He bowed with his head and left the room. Never in his life had he felt so awful doing the right thing.
Two days later
RICHARD WAS SITTING in his study, nursing a second glass of brandy, when he saw a carriage coming up the drive, its windows glinting in the late-afternoon sun.
His sisters?
He’d sent word to his aunt that Fleur and Marie-Claire could not be permitted to stay the full two weeks, but still, he wasn’t expecting them today.
Setting his glass down, he walked over to the window and peered out for a closer look. It was indeed his aunt’s carriage. He closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t sure why they were back early, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
It was time.
He could not decide whether to greet them alone or with Iris, but in the end it did not matter; Iris was reading in the drawing room, and she called out to him as he walked by.
“Is that a carriage in the drive?”
“My sisters,” he confirmed.
“Oh.”
That’s all she said. Oh. He had a feeling she’d soon be saying quite a bit more.
He paused in the doorway, watching as she slowly set her book down. She’d been curled on the blue sofa with her legs tucked under her, and she had to pause to put her feet back in her slippers before standing.
“Do I look all right?” she asked, smoothing her dress.
“Of course,” he said distractedly.
Her lips pressed together.
“You look lovely,” he said, taking in her green-striped frock and softly pinned hair. “Forgive me. My mind is elsewhere.”
She seemed to accept his explanation and took his arm when he offered it. She did not quite meet his eyes. They had not spoken of what had happened in her room the two nights before, and it appeared they were not going to do so anytime soon.
When Iris had come down for breakfast the previous morning he had been sure their conversation would be stilted, if they spoke at all. But as always, she had surprised him. Or maybe he had surprised himself. Whatever the case, they had spoken of the weather, and of the book Iris was reading, and a problem the Burnhams were having with flooding in one of their fields. It had all been very smooth.
But it had not felt right.
When they spoke, it felt almost . . . careful. As long as they restricted their conversation to trivialities, they could pretend that nothing had changed. They both seemed to recognize that eventually they would run out of impersonal topics, and so they measured their words, doling them out like treasures.
But that was all about to end.
“I did not think they were expected until Thursday,” Iris said, allowing him to lead her from the room.
“Nor did I.”
“Why do you sound so grim?” she asked, after a brief pause.
Grim did not even begin to cover it. “We should wait for them in the drive,” he said.
She nodded, ignoring the fact that he did not answer her question, and they headed out the front door. Cresswell was already standing at attention in the drive, along with Mrs. Hopkins and the two footmen. Richard and Iris took their places just as the carriage pulled up behind his aunt’s prized team of dappled grays.
The door to the carriage was opened, and Richard immediately stepped forward to assist his sisters. Marie-Claire bounced down first, giving his hand a little squeeze as she descended. “She is in a beastly mood,” she said without preamble.
“Wonderful,” Richard muttered.
“You must be Marie-Claire,” Iris said brightly. She was anxious, though. Richard could see it in the way her hands were clasped tightly together in front of her. He’d noticed that she did that to keep herself from bunching the fabric of her dress in her fingers when she was nervous.
Marie-Claire gave a small curtsy. At fourteen she was already taller than Iris, but her face still held the roundness of childhood. “I am. Please forgive us for returning e
arly. Fleur wasn’t feeling well.”
“No?” Iris inquired, peering toward the open carriage door. There was still no sign of Fleur.
Marie-Claire looked over at Richard while Iris wasn’t watching and made a retching motion.
“In the carriage?” he could not help but ask.
“Twice.”
He winced, then stepped up on the stool that had been laid beside the carriage door and peered inside. “Fleur?”
She was huddled in the corner, miserable and pale. She looked like she’d been sick twice in the carriage. Smelled like it, too.
“I’m not talking to you.”
Bloody hell. “So it’s like this, then.”
She turned away, her dark hair obscuring her face. “I would prefer to have one of the footmen assist me from the carriage.”
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the raging headache he knew would soon have his skull in a vise. He and Fleur had been at odds about this for well over a month. There was only one acceptable solution. He knew this, and it infuriated him that she refused to accept what must be done.
He sighed wearily. “For the love of God, Fleur, put aside your irritation for one minute and let me help you out of the carriage. It smells like a hospital in here.”
“I’m not irritated,” she spat.
“You’re irritating me.”
She drew back at the insult. “I want a footman.”
“You will take my hand,” he ground out.
For a moment he thought she would hurl herself out the opposite door just to vex him, but she must have retained at least an ounce of the sense she’d once displayed, because she looked up, and snarled, “Fine.” With a purposeful lack of grace, she slapped her hand onto his and allowed him to assist her out of the carriage. Iris and Marie-Claire were standing side by side, pretending not to watch.
“Fleur,” Richard said in a dangerous voice, “I would like to introduce you to your new sister. My wife, Lady Kenworthy.”
Fleur looked at Iris. There was an awful silence.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” Iris said, holding out her hand.
Fleur did not take it.
For the first time in his life, Richard almost hit a woman. “Fleur,” he said warningly.
With a disrespectful purse of her lips, Fleur made a curtsy. “Lady Kenworthy.”
“Please,” Iris said, her eyes flicking nervously to Richard before settling back on Fleur. “I hope you will call me Iris.”
Fleur gave her a withering stare, then turned to Richard. “It isn’t going to work.”
“Don’t do this here, Fleur,” he warned her.
She jerked her arm out toward Iris. “Look at her!”
Iris took a little step back. Richard had a feeling she did not even realize she’d done it. Their eyes met, hers bewildered, his exhausted, and he silently pleaded with her not to ask, not yet.
But Fleur wasn’t done. “I’ve already said—”
Richard grabbed her by the arm and hauled her away from the others. “This is not the time or the place.”
She stared at him mutinously, then yanked her arm free. “I’ll be in my room, then,” she said, and stalked off toward the house. But she stumbled on the bottom step and would have fallen if Iris had not leapt forward to catch her.
For a moment the two women remained frozen as if in a tableau. Iris kept her hand on Fleur’s elbow, almost as if she realized that the younger woman was unsteady, that she’d been unsteady for weeks and needed some sort of human contact.
“Thank you,” Fleur said grudgingly.
Iris took a step back, her hands returning to their tightly clasped position in front of her. “It was nothing.”
“Fleur,” Richard said in a commanding voice. It was not a tone he’d often used with his sisters. Perhaps he should have done.
Slowly, she turned.
“Iris is my wife,” he stated. “Maycliffe is her home now, as much as it is ours.”
Fleur’s eyes met his. “I could never overlook her presence here. I assure you.”
And then Richard did the strangest thing. He reached out and took Iris’s hand. Not to kiss it, not to lead her somewhere.
Just to hold it. To feel her warmth.
He felt her fingers lace through his, and he tightened his grip. He did not deserve her. He knew it. Fleur knew it, too. But for this one awful moment, with his entire life crashing around him, he was going to hold his wife’s hand and pretend she would never let go.
Chapter Eighteen
FOR MUCH OF her life, Iris had made a conscious choice to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t that she had nothing to say; put her in a roomful of cousins and she’d run on at the mouth all night. Her father had once said she was a born strategist, always looking two steps ahead, and maybe this was why she had always recognized the value of choosing when to speak. Never, however, had she been truly rendered speechless. Truly, flabbergastedly, she-could-not-even-think-in-complete-sentences, speechless.
But now, as she watched Fleur Kenworthy disappear into Maycliffe, Richard’s hand still improbably twined with her own, all Iris could think was—Whhaaaaa?
No one moved for at least five seconds. The first to wake up was Mrs. Hopkins, who mumbled something about making sure Fleur’s room was ready before hurrying into the house. Cresswell, too, made a swift and discreet exit, ushering the two footmen along with him.
Iris held herself totally still, her only movement her eyes as they darted back and forth between Richard and Marie-Claire.
What on earth had just happened?
“I’m sorry,” Richard said, releasing her hand. “She is not usually like that.”
Marie-Claire snorted. “It would be more accurate to say she’s not always like that.”
“Marie-Claire,” he snapped.
He looked exhausted, Iris thought. Utterly wrecked.
Marie-Claire crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a dark stare at her brother. “She’s been awful, Richard. Just awful. Even Aunt Milton lost her patience with her.”
Richard turned sharply toward her. “Does she . . .”
Marie-Claire shook her head.
Richard exhaled.
Iris kept watching. And listening. Something strange was going on, some sort of hidden conversation beneath their scowls and shrugs.
“I don’t envy you, Brother.” Marie-Claire looked at Iris. “Or you.”
Iris started. She’d almost thought they’d forgotten her presence. “What is she talking about?” she asked Richard.
“Nothing,” he bit off.
Well, that was clearly a lie.
“Or me, really,” Marie-Claire continued. “I’m the one who has to share a room with her.” She groaned dramatically. “It’s going to be a long year.”
“Not now, Marie-Claire,” Richard warned.
The siblings shared a look that Iris could not even begin to interpret. They had the same eyes, she realized, the same way of narrowing them to make a point. Fleur, too, although hers had a greenish hue, where Richard’s and Marie-Claire’s were dark and brown.
“You have lovely hair,” Marie-Claire said suddenly.
“Thank you,” Iris said, trying not to blink at the sharp change of subject. “So do you.”
Marie-Claire let out a little laugh. “No I don’t, but it’s very kind of you to say so.”
“But it’s just like your brother’s,” Iris said, darting a mortified look at Richard when she realized what she’d said. He was looking at her strangely, as if he didn’t know what to make of her accidental compliment.
“You must be weary after your journey,” Iris said, trying to salvage the moment. “Would you like to rest?”
“Er . . . yes. I suppose so,” Marie-Claire said, “although I’m not sure my bedchamber will be very restful just now.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Richard said grimly.
“Now?” Iris asked. She almost suggested that he wait until Fleur had had time
to calm down, but what did she know? She hadn’t a clue what was happening. A quarter of an hour ago she’d been peacefully reading a novel. Now she felt as if she were living in one.
And she was the only character who did not seem to know the plot.
Richard stared up at the house, his expression stark. Iris watched as his mouth flattened into a hard, forbidding line. “It’s got to be done,” he muttered. Without further farewell, he stalked off into the house, leaving Iris and Marie-Claire alone in the drive.
Iris cleared her throat. This was awkward. She smiled at her new sister, the kind where you can’t quite manage to show your teeth, but it’s not really insincere because truly, you’re trying.
Marie-Claire smiled back in precisely the same way.
“It’s a nice day,” Iris finally said.
Marie-Claire nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Sunny.”
“Yes.”
Iris realized she was rocking on her feet, up to her toes and back to her heels. She clamped herself back into place. What on earth was she supposed to say to this girl?
But in the end she didn’t have to say anything. Because Marie-Claire turned and looked at her with an expression that Iris greatly feared was pity.
“You don’t know, do you?” the younger girl said softly.
Iris shook her head.
Marie-Claire glanced over her shoulder, staring at absolutely nothing before turning back to Iris. “I’m sorry.”
Then she, too, walked into the house.
And Iris just stood in the drive.
Alone.
“OPEN THE DOOR, FLEUR!”
Richard pounded his fist against the wood, oblivious to the shock reverberating down his arm.
Fleur made no response, not that he’d thought she would.
“Fleur!” he roared.
Nothing.
“I’m not leaving this spot until you open the door,” he growled.
At that he heard footsteps, followed by, “Then I hope you don’t need to use the chamber pot!”
He was going to kill her. Surely no older brother had ever been pushed quite so far.
He took a breath, then let it out in a lengthy exhale. Nothing would come of his bad temper. One of them needed to act like an adult. He flexed his fingers, straight out, then back into fists. The bite of his nails in his palms had a paradoxically calming effect.
