“It’s open?” Iris squealed. She yanked herself away.

“I knew I shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered.

“Later,” Iris promised. “We haven’t the time now, anyway.”

“I can be quick,” Richard said hopefully.

Iris gave him a lingering kiss. “I don’t want you to be quick.”

He groaned. “You’re killing me.”

“I promised Bernie we would take him out to try his toy boat on the lake.”

Richard acquiesced with a smile and a sigh, as Iris knew he would. Their son was now three, an adorable little butterball with plump pink cheeks and his father’s dark eyes. He was the center of their world, even if they were not the center of his. That honor went to his cousin Samuel, who at age four was one year older, one year taller, and one year more wily. Fleur’s second son Robbie was six months younger than Bernie and completed the mischievous trio.

The first year of marriage had not been easy for Fleur and John Burnham. As expected, their wedding had caused quite a scandal, and even though they now owned Mill Farm, there were still those who would not let John forget that he had not been born a gentleman.

But Fleur had spoken true when she’d said she had never wished for riches. She and John had made a very happy home, and Iris was grateful that her children would grow up with cousins just down the lane. It was still just Bernie, but she hoped . . . there had been a few signs . . .

Her hand went to her abdomen without her realizing it. She would know soon.

“Well, I suppose we have a ship to launch,” Richard said, holding out his hand as he came to his feet. “I feel I should tell you, though,” he said as Iris rose and took his arm, “I had a similar boat as a boy.”

Iris winced at his tone. “Why do I think this does not end well?”

“Sailing is not in the Kenworthy blood, I’m afraid.”

“Well, that’s all right. I should miss you too much if you took to the sea.”

“Oh, I almost forgot!” Richard dropped her hand. “I have something for you.”

“You do?”

“Wait right there.” He left the room, returning a moment later with his hands behind his back. “Close your eyes.”

Iris rolled them, then closed them.

“Open!”

She did, and then gasped. He was holding a single long-stemmed iris, the most beautiful bloom she’d ever beheld. The color was brilliant—not quite purple, not quite red.

“It’s from Japan,” Richard said, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “We’ve been growing them in the orangery. We’ve had a devil of a time keeping you away.”

“From Japan, though,” Iris said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe—”

“I would go to the ends of the earth,” Richard murmured, leaning down to brush her lips with his.

“For a flower?”