Mrs. Hopkins shook her head. “Marie-Claire. I got the impression that Lady Kenworthy had not perhaps intended to be up and about so early.”

Early? Iris?

“Not early to me, mind you,” Mrs. Hopkins went on. “It was gone past ten before I saw her. She did miss breakfast.”

“She didn’t take a tray in her room?”

Mrs. Hopkins clucked disapprovingly. “Marie-Claire was rushing her out the door. I made sure to give her something to eat on the walk, though.”

“Thank you.” Richard wondered if he ought to make a comment about a woman in Iris’s “condition” needing to eat properly. It seemed the sort of thing a caring husband might do.

But instead he heard himself saying, “Did they mention where they might be going?”

“Just for a walk, I think. It does my heart good to see them acting like sisters.” The housekeeper leaned in, her smile warm and maternal. “I do like your lady, sir.”

“I like her, too,” Richard murmured. He thought about the evening they had met. He had not originally been planning to attend her family’s musicale; he had not even been invited. It was only when Winston Bevelstoke had described the event to him that he’d thought it might be a good opportunity to look for a bride.

Iris Smythe-Smith was surely the happiest accident of his life.

When he had kissed her the night before, he had been consumed with the most exquisite sense of longing. It wasn’t merely desire, although that had certainly been present in abundance. He had been nearly overcome with the need to feel the warmth of her body, to breathe the same air.

He wanted to be near her. He wanted to be with her, in every sense of the word.

He loved her. He loved Iris Kenworthy with every last drop of his soul, and he might well have destroyed their only chance at lasting happiness.

He had been so sure that he was doing the right thing. He had been trying to protect his sister. He had been willing to sacrifice his very birthright to save Fleur’s reputation.

But now Fleur seemed hell-bent on her own destruction. He did not know how he could save a woman who did not want saving. He had to try, though. He was her brother, blood-sworn to protect her. But maybe there was another way.

There had to be another way.

He loved Iris far too much for there not to be another way.

IRIS HAD CROSSED the fields of Maycliffe in record time, but when she reached the orangery, Fleur was nowhere to be found. This was probably for the best. It took Iris the better part of an hour to rid herself of Marie-Claire, who had clearly not found the threat of a cricket bat sufficient deterrence to leave well enough alone.