He gave it a little squeeze and then lifted it a few inches, as if he were going to bring her fingers to his lips. But then he seemed to change his mind, and instead he twined their hands and led her to the door.

“Good night,” he said, but he didn’t release her hand.

“Good night,” she said, but she didn’t try to pull away.

“Iris . . .”

She looked up. He was going to kiss her. She could see it in his eyes, hot and heavy with need.

“Iris,” he said again, and she did not say no.

His warm fingers touched her jaw, tipping her face toward his. Still, he waited, and finally she could do nothing else but dip her chin, barely a nod, really, but he felt it.

Slowly, so slowly she was certain the world had time to turn twice on its axis, his face moved toward hers. Their lips met, the touch soft and electric. He brushed against her, the light friction sending ripples of sensation to the very center of her being.

“Richard,” she whispered, and maybe he could hear the love in her voice. Maybe in that moment she didn’t care.

Her lips parted, but he did not deepen the kiss. Instead he rested his forehead on hers.

“You should go,” he said.

She allowed herself one more moment, then stepped back.

“Thank you,” he said.

She nodded, placing her hand on the doorframe as she moved around him.

Thank you, he’d said.

Something in her heart shifted. Soon, she thought. Soon she would be ready to forgive.

RICHARD WATCHED HER GO.

He watched her glide down the hall and disappear around the corner to the stairs. There was little to light the darkened hallway, but what there was seemed to catch on her pale hair like spun starlight.

She was such a contradiction. So ethereal in looks and so pragmatic in mind. He loved that about her, the way she was so relentlessly sensible. He wondered if perhaps that was part of what had initially drawn him to her. Had he thought that her innate rationality would allow her to get over the fundamental insult of their marriage? That she’d just shrug and say, Quite right, that makes sense.

What a fool he’d been.

Even if she did forgive him, and he was beginning to think that she might, he could never forgive himself.

He had wounded her deeply. He had chosen her for his wife for the most reprehensible of reasons. It was only fitting that now he should love her so ardently.

So hopelessly.

He did not see how she could ever love him, not after what he’d done. But he had to try. And maybe it would be enough that he loved her.

Maybe.

Chapter Twenty-three

The following morning

“IRIS? IRIS?”

Iris pried open an eye. Just one, mind you; the other was firmly closed and pressed hard into her pillow.