Iris reached out and squeezed her hands. “Go find him. Go tell him he is to be a father.”

“He will be angry,” Fleur whispered. “That I didn’t tell him. He will be furious.”

“He has every right to be. But if he loves you, he will understand.”

“Yes,” Fleur said, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself. “Yes. Yes, I think he will.”

“Go,” Iris said, taking Fleur by the shoulders and pointing her toward the opening in the rose bower. “Go.”

Fleur started to leave, then turned around suddenly and threw her arms around Iris. Iris tried to return the embrace, but before she could so much as move, Fleur was racing away, skirts hitched and hair streaming, ready to embark upon her new life.

Chapter Twenty-five

THERE WAS A certain irony at play, Richard thought. Here he was, ready to declare himself, to transform his life, to throw himself at the mercy of his wife, and he couldn’t bloody find her.

“Iris!” he bellowed. He’d skidded down across the western fields after one of the grooms had said he’d seen her heading in that direction, but the only sign of her was a half-eaten scone near the hedgerow, currently under vicious attack by a small murder of crows.

More irritated than discouraged, he tramped back up the hill to the house, which he tore through in record time, crashing through doors and scaring the dickens out of no fewer than three housemaids. Finally, he came across Marie-Claire, who was sulking in the main hall. He took one look at her pose—arms crossed tight, toe tapping with angry irritation—and he decided he wanted no knowledge of whatever had brought her to that point.

He did, however, need her assistance. “Where is my wife?” he demanded.

“I don’t know.”

He let out a noise. It might have been a growl.

“I don’t!” Marie-Claire protested. “I was with her earlier, but she ran away.”

Richard felt his heart contract. “She ran away?”

“She tripped me,” Marie-Claire said. With considerable affront.

Wait . . . what? Richard tried to make sense of this. “She tripped you?”

“She did! We were leaving the orangery, and she stuck out her foot and tripped me. I could have been seriously injured.”

“Were you?”

Marie-Claire scowled. And said most grudgingly, “No.”

“Where did she go?”

“Well, I don’t exactly know,” Marie-Claire snipped, “as I was busy making sure I could still walk.”

Richard rubbed his brow. It really shouldn’t be this difficult to find one slip of a girl. “Why were you at the orangery?” he asked.

“Looking for Fle—” Marie-Claire clamped her mouth shut, although Richard couldn’t imagine why. Normally he’d be suspicious. Right now he simply didn’t have the patience.

“What did she want with Fleur?”

Marie-Claire’s mouth clamped firmly into a line.