Richard clenched his teeth until his jaw shook. Why could she not see reason? He was trying to protect her, to give her a chance at a happy, respectable life.

Fleur gave him a scornful glance. “Did you really think she was going to smile, and say, ‘As you wish, sir?’”

“I will deal with my wife as I see fit,” he bit off.

Fleur snorted.

“My God,” he exploded. “You have absolutely no—” He cut himself off, raking a hand through his hair as he wrenched himself away, turning to face the window. “Do you think I like this?” he nearly hissed. He clutched the sill with whitened fingers. “Do you think I enjoyed deceiving her?”

“Then don’t.”

“The damage is done.”

“But you can fix it. All you have to do is tell her she doesn’t have to steal my child.”

He whirled around. “It’s not steal—” He caught the triumphant look on her face, and said, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

Fleur gave him a stony stare. “I assure you, I enjoy nothing about this.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her. Behind her eyes she was just as broken as Iris. The pain in her face . . . Had he put it there? No. No. He was trying to help her, to save her from the ruined existence with which that bastard Parnell had left her.

His hands curled into fists. If that bloody rotter hadn’t gone and died, he would have killed him. No, he would have marched him to the church with Fleur and then killed him. He thought of how his sister had once been, full of dreams and romance. She used to lie in the grass by the orangery and read in the sunshine. She used to laugh.

“Make me understand,” he pleaded. “Why do you resist this? Don’t you realize this is your only hope for a respectable life?”

Fleur’s lips trembled, and for the first time that afternoon, she looked unsure of herself. He saw in her face the child she’d once been, and it broke his heart anew.

“Why can you not set me up somewhere as a young widow?” she asked. “I can go to Devon. Or Cornwall. Somewhere where we don’t know a soul.”

“I haven’t the money to provide you with a proper household,” Richard said, shame at his financial constraints making his voice hard. “And I will not allow you to live in poverty.”

“I don’t need much,” Fleur said. “Just a little cottage, and—”

“You think you don’t need much,” Richard cut in. “But you don’t know. You’ve lived your whole life with servants. You’ve never had to shop for your food or stoke your own fires.”

“Neither have you,” she shot back.

“This isn’t about me. I’m not the one who will be off in a leaky cottage, worrying over the price of meat.”