The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

But it did mean she was left alone, and as the evening wore on, and the light grew dimmer, she could not even escape into the pages of her book. Now that they had left London behind, their pace was swifter, and the horses fell into a steady, soothing rhythm. She must have fallen asleep, because one moment she was somewhere in Buckinghamshire, and the next someone was gently shaking her shoulder and calling her name.

“Iris? Iris?”

“Mmmbrgh.” She never had woken up well.

“Iris, we’ve arrived.”

She blinked a few times until her husband’s face came into focus in the dim evening light. “Sir Richard?”

He smiled indulgently. “I should think you might be able to dispense with the ’Sir.’”

“Mmmmfh. Yes.” She yawned, shaking out her hand, which had fallen asleep. Her foot, too, she realized. “All right.”

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.”