She was starting to feel at home here, strange as that seemed. At home with a husband who would not bed her, a sister who hated her (sometimes) for trying to save her from ruin, and another sister who . . . who . . .
She thought about that. There really wasn’t much to say about Marie-Claire. Iris hadn’t shared more than two words with her since that first day. She ought to rectify that. It’d be nice if at least one of Richard’s sisters didn’t (sometimes) see her as the devil incarnate.
At the bottom of the stairs Iris turned right toward the library. It was just down the hall, past the drawing room and Richard’s study. She rather liked his study, she decided. She hadn’t had much occasion to enter the masculine sanctuary recently, but it was warm and comfortable and with the same southerly view she had from her bedroom.
She paused for a moment to adjust her grip on her candleholder, then squinted. Was that a light down the hall or just her own candle, throwing off flickers and shadows meant to tease and deceive? She held still, held her breath, even, then moved forward again, stepping lightly.
“Iris?”
She froze. There was nothing for it. She nudged herself forward and peered into Richard’s study. He was sitting in a chair by the fire, a half-filled glass of something alcoholic in his hand.
He tipped his tousled head in her direction. “I thought that might be you.”
“I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?”
“Not at all,” he said, smiling up at her from his comfortable spot. Iris thought he might be a little bit drunk. It was very unlike him not to rise when a lady entered a room.
It was also a little odd that he was smiling at her. Given the way they’d parted and all.
She clutched her small pile of books to her chest. “I was getting something to read,” she said, motioning toward the library.
“I’d assumed.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
He shrugged. “Nor I.”
“Yes, I see.”
His mouth curled into a lazy half smile. “Witty conversationalists, we two.”
Iris let out a little laugh. Strange that they could find their humor again now that the house was abed. Or maybe not so strange. She’d been in a contemplative mood all day, ever since her unexpected rapprochement with Fleur. They had not agreed on anything, not really, but Iris thought they had been able to find the good in each other nonetheless.
Surely she ought to be able to find the same with Richard.
“Penny for them,” the man in question said.
Iris looked up with arched brows. “I have enough pennies, thank you.”
He clutched his hand to his heart. “Wounded! And with coin.”
“Without coin, actually,” Iris corrected. Because it was the sort of thing she could never let pass.
He grinned.
“It’s important to be precise in all things,” she said, but she was grinning, too.
He chuckled at that, then held up his glass. “Drink?”
“What is it?”
“Whiskey.”
Iris blinked in surprise. She’d never heard of a man offering a woman a sip of whiskey.
Immediately, she wanted some.
“Just a little,” she said, setting her books down on a table. “I don’t know if I’ll like it.”
Richard chuckled as he poured a finger of the amber liquid into a glass. “If you don’t like this, you don’t like whiskey.”
She gave him a questioning glance as she took a seat in the straight-backed chair across from him.
“It’s the best there is,” he said without modesty. “It’s not hard to get the really good stuff here, as close to Scotland as we are.”
She peered down at her glass and took a little sniff. “I did not realize you were such a connoisseur.”
He shrugged. “I seem to be drinking a lot of it lately.”
Iris looked away.
“Didn’t say that to blame you, by the way.” He paused, presumably to take a drink. “Believe me when I say that I know this is a quagmire of my own making.”
“And Fleur’s,” Iris said quietly.
His eyes found hers, and the corner of his mouth tipped up. Just a bit. Just enough to thank her for recognizing that. “And Fleur’s,” he agreed.
They sat in silence for several minutes, Richard downing his glass of whiskey while Iris carefully sipped hers. She liked it, she decided. It was hot and cold at the same time. How else could one describe something that burned until it made you shiver?
She spent more time looking at her drink than at her husband, allowing herself to study his face only when his eyes closed and he leaned his head against the back of the chair. Was he asleep? She didn’t think so. No one could fall asleep that quickly, especially upright.
She raised her glass to her lips, experimenting with trying a larger sip. It went down even more smoothly, although that could be the result of all the whiskey that had gone down before it.
Richard still had his eyes closed. He was definitely not asleep, she decided. His lips pressed together and relaxed, and she realized she recognized the expression. He did that when he was thinking. Well, of course he was always thinking, that’s what humans did, but he did that when he was thinking about something particularly vexing.
“Am I such a bad person?” he asked, his eyes remaining shut.
Iris’s lips parted in surprise. “Of course not.”
He let out a little sigh and finally opened his eyes. “I didn’t used to think so.”
“You’re not,” she said again.
He regarded her for a long moment, then nodded. “Good to know.”