The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy by Julia Quinn Page B

not his father. He could not tolerate inaction.
    â€œTwo months will be perfectly acceptable,” Iris’s mother said. “There is no reason you cannot go to your estate and then return for the wedding. To be honest, I would prefer it that way.”
    â€œI wouldn’t,” Iris said.
    Her parents looked at her in shock.
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t.” She swallowed, and Richard’s heart ached at the tension he saw in her small frame. “If the decision is made,” she said, “I would rather move forward.”
    Her mother took a step toward her. “Your reputation—”
    â€œâ€”might very well already be in tatters. If that’s the case, I would much rather be in Yorkshire where I don’t know anyone.”
    â€œNonsense,” her mother said dismissively. “We will wait to see what happens.”
    Iris met her mother’s eyes with a remarkably steely gaze. “Have I no say in the matter?”
    Her mother’s lips trembled, and she looked to her husband.
    â€œIt shall be as she wishes,” he said after a pause. “I can see no reason to force her to wait. The Lord knows she and Daisy will be at each other’s throats the entire time.” Mr. Smythe-Smith turned to Richard. “Iris is not pleasant to live with when she is in ill humor.”
    â€œFather!”
    He ignored her. “And Daisy is not pleasant to live with when she is in good humor. The planning of a wedding will make this one”—he jerked his head toward Iris—“miserable and the other one ecstatic. I should have to move to France.”
    Richard did not so much as smile. Mr. Smythe-Smith’s humor was of the bitterest sort and did not want laughter.
    â€œIris,” the older gentleman said. “Maria.”
    They followed him to the door.
    â€œI shall see you in two days’ time,” Iris’s father said to Richard. “I expect you will have a special license and settlements prepared.”
    â€œI would do no less, sir.”
    As she left the room, Iris looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met.
    Why? she seemed to ask him. Why?
    In that moment, he realized she knew. She knew that he had not been overcome with passion, that this forced marriage had been—albeit poorly—orchestrated.
    Richard had never felt so ashamed.

Chapter Eight
    The following week
    I RIS WOKE UP to thunder on the morning of her wedding, and by the time her maid arrived with breakfast, London was awash with rain.
    She walked to her window and peered out, letting her forehead rest against the cool glass. Her wedding was in three hours. Maybe the weather would clear by then. There was an odd little patch of blue off in the distant sky. It looked lonely. Out of place.
    But hopeful.
    It didn’t really matter, she supposed. She wasn’t going to get wet. The ceremony was to be held by special license in her family’s drawing room. Her journey to marriage consisted of two corridors and a flight of stairs.
    She did hope that the roads would not be washed-out. She and Sir Richard were due to depart for Yorkshire that very afternoon. And while Iris was understandably nervous about leaving her home and all that was familiar to her, she’d heard enough of wedding nights to know that she did not wish to spend hers under her parents’ roof.
    Sir Richard did not maintain a home in London, she had discovered, and his rented apartments were not suitable for a new bride. He wanted to take her home, to Maycliffe Park, where she would meet his sisters.
    A nervous laugh bubbled through her throat. Sisters. It figured he’d have sisters. If there was one thing in her life that had never been lacking, it was sisters.
    A knock on her door jolted her from her thoughts, and after Iris bid her enter, her mother came into the room.
    â€œDid you sleep well?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith asked.
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œI would be surprised if you had. It