“It would make me feel better.”

Iris gritted her teeth. Why did he have to be so nice?

“I shall send for a doctor,” he said, as they crossed the threshold.

“No, please don’t.” Good God, what was a doctor going to say? That she had a broken heart? That she was mad to think her husband would ever care for her?

He let go of her arm and let out a sigh as his eyes searched her face. “Iris, clearly something is wrong.”

“I’m just tired.”

He did not say anything, just looked at her with a steady gaze, and she knew what he was thinking. She had not seemed the least bit tired in the drawing room.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, relieved that her voice was starting to sound more like its usual matter-of-fact self. “I promise.”

His lips pressed together, and Iris could see that he did not know whether to believe her. Finally, he said, “Very well,” and he placed his hands gently on her shoulders and leaned down—

To kiss her! Iris’s breath caught, and in one deluded moment of bliss she closed her eyes, tilting her face toward his. She longed for this, for his lips on hers, for the hot touch of his tongue on the soft skin at the corner of her mouth.

“Richard,” she whispered.

His lips touched her forehead. It was not the kiss of a lover.

Humiliated, she wrenched herself away, turning toward the wall, the window, anywhere but him.

“Iris . . .”

“Please,” she choked out, “just go away.”

He did not speak, but nor did he leave the room. She would have heard his footsteps. She would have felt his loss.

She hugged her arms to her body, silently begging him to obey her.

And then he did. She heard him turn, heard the unmistakable sound of his boot on the carpet. She was getting what she wanted, what she’d asked for, but it was all so wrong. She needed to understand. She needed to know.

She whirled around.

He stopped, his hand already on the door handle.

“Why?” she said brokenly. “Why?”

He did not turn around.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”

“I’m not,” he said quietly.

“Then don’t pretend you do not understand the question.”

She stared at his back, watching as his posture grew ever more rigid. The hand at his side tensed into a claw, and if she had any sense, she would not have pushed him. But she was tired of being sensible, so she said, “You chose me. Out of everyone in London, you chose me.”

He did not move for several seconds. Then, with precise motions, he shut the door and turned around to face her. “You could have declined,” he said.

“We both know that isn’t true.”

“Are you so unhappy, then?”