The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy

His eyes flared, but other than that, his expression remained inscrutable.

“Please,” she said.

For a moment he seemed lost in thought, but then he straightened his shoulders and regarded the view through the window with renewed purpose. “Right there,” he said, motioning with his chin, “in that field, just beyond the trees. We hold a harvest festival there each year.”

“We do?” Iris echoed. “Oh, that’s lovely. I should like to be involved in the planning.”

“I’m sure you will be.”

“Is it in the autumn?”

“Yes, November usually. I always—” He stiffened, and then his head jerked a little, almost as if he were dislodging a thought from his head. “There’s a path over there, too,” he said, quite clearly changing the subject. “It leads to Mill Farm.”

Iris wanted to learn more about the harvest festival, but it was clear he wasn’t going to say more, so instead she politely asked, “Mill Farm?”

“One of my tenant farms,” he explained. “The largest of them, actually. The son recently took over from his father. I hope he makes a good go of it. The father never did.”

“Oh.” Iris didn’t really have anything to add to that.

“You know,” Richard said, turning to her quite suddenly, “I might say that of the two of us, your observations are the more valuable. You may be able to see deficiencies I do not.”

“I see nothing deficient, I assure you.”

“Nothing?” he murmured, and his voice touched her like a caress.

“But of course I know little about the running of an estate,” she said quickly.

“How strange to have lived the whole of your life in London,” he mused.

She cocked her head to the side. “Not so strange if that is all you’ve known.”

“Ah, but it is not all you’ve known, is it?”

Iris felt her brow furrow, and she turned toward him. A mistake. He was closer than she’d realized, and for a moment she forgot what she was going to say.

One of his brows rose in question.

“I—” Why was she staring at his mouth? She wrenched her gaze upward, to his eyes, which were crinkled with amusement.

“Did you wish to say something?” he murmured.

“Just that I . . . ah . . .” What had she been going to say? She turned back to the window. “Oh!” She turned back to Richard. Still a mistake, but at least this time she didn’t forget what she meant to say. “What do you mean by it’s not all I’ve known?”

He gave a little shrug. “Surely you’ve spent time in the country at your cousins’ homes.”

“Well, yes, but it’s hardly the same thing.”

“Perhaps, but it would be enough to inform an opinion on life in the country versus that in the city, would it not?”

“I suppose,” Iris acceded. “To be honest, I’d never really given it thought.”

He looked at her intently. “Do you think you will enjoy living in the country?”

Iris swallowed, trying not to notice that his voice had deepened with the question. “I do not know,” she replied. “I hope so.”

She felt his hand slip down to hers, and before she realized what was happening, she’d turned again to face him as he raised her fingers to his lips. “I hope so, too,” he said.

His eyes met hers over their hands, and in a flash she realized—He’s seducing me.

He was seducing her. But why? Why would he feel the need? She had never given him any indication that she would refuse his advances.

“I hope you are hungry,” he said, still holding her hand.

“Hungry?” she echoed dumbly.

“For supper?” He smiled with amusement. “Cook has prepared a feast.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She cleared her throat. “I am hungry, I think.”

“You think?” he teased.

She took a breath. Forced her heart to beat a little more slowly. “I am quite sure,” she said.

“Excellent.” He tipped his head toward the door. “Shall we?”

BY THE TIME Iris retired for the evening she was nearly jumping out of her skin. Richard had been charming all through supper; she could not remember the last time she’d laughed so much. The conversation had been marvelous, the food delicious, and the way he had looked at her . . .

It was as if she were the only woman in the world.

She supposed she was, in a way. She was certainly the only woman in the house. Apart from the servants, they were the only two in residence, and she, who had always allowed herself to stand at the side and observe, could be nothing but the center of attention.

It was disconcerting and marvelous. And now it was terrifying.

She was back in her own room, and surely at any moment he would knock on the door that connected their bedchambers. He would be in his dressing gown, his legs bare, his cravat missing from his neck.

There would be skin. So much more skin than she had ever seen on a gentleman.

Iris still didn’t have a lady’s maid, so the girl who’d styled her hair had come in to help her prepare for bed. Iris had been mortified when she’d pulled out one of the nightgowns that had been purchased for her trousseau. It was ridiculously thin and alarmingly revealing, and even though Iris had gone to stand by the fire, she could not seem to get rid of the gooseflesh dancing along her arms.

He would come to her tonight. Surely, he would come to her. And she would finally feel like a wife.

ON THE OTHER side of the door, Richard squared his shoulders. He could do this. He could do this.