“It doesn’t matter what I think,” Iris said, even though in this, she agreed with him. Fleur was mad to think she could withstand the hardship and scorn she would suffer as an unwed mother. Almost as mad as Richard was to think he could pass off her child as his and not have it rain unhappiness later. If it was a girl, they might make it work, but if Fleur had a boy . . .

Clearly they needed to find that girl a husband. Iris still didn’t understand why no one else seemed to see this. Fleur flat out refused to consider marriage, and Richard kept saying that there was no one suitable. But Iris had trouble believing this. Perhaps they lacked the funds to buy Fleur a well-connected husband who would be willing to accept her child, but why couldn’t she wed a vicar? Or a soldier? Or even someone in trade?

This was no time for snobbery.

“What matters,” Iris continued, “is what Fleur thinks, and she wants to be a mother.”

“Stupid, stupid girl,” Richard said harshly, the words a bitter hiss on his lips.

“I cannot disagree there,” Iris said.

He looked at her in surprise.

“You did not marry a paragon of Christian charity and forgiveness,” she said sardonically.

“Apparently not.”

Iris was silent for a moment, then she said, almost dutifully, “I will still support her. And I will love her as a sister.”

“Like you do Daisy?” he quipped.

Iris stared. Then she laughed. Or maybe she snorted. Either way, it was indisputably the sound of humor, and she brought one of her hands to her mouth, barely able to believe herself. “I do love Daisy,” she said, bringing her hand back down to the flat plane of her collarbone. “Truly.”

A faint smile played across Richard’s face. “You have the capacity for more charity and forgiveness than you give yourself credit.”

Iris snorted again. Daisy was vexing.

“If Daisy has given you something about which to smile,” he said softly, “then I must love her, too.”

Iris looked at him and sighed. He looked tired. His eyes had always been deeply set, but the shadows beneath them were more pronounced. And the crinkles at the corners . . . the ones that formed so merrily when he smiled . . . now they were weary grooves.

This hadn’t been easy for him, either.

She looked away. She didn’t want to feel sympathy.

“Iris,” Richard said, “I only wanted—damn.”

“What is it?” She turned back around, following his gaze toward the path from the house. “Oh . . .”

Fleur was approaching, storming toward them with angry strides.

“She doesn’t look happy,” Iris said.

“No, she does not,” Richard said quietly, and then he sighed. It was a sad, exhausted sound, and Iris cursed her own heart for breaking.