Iris took a deep breath, although whether this was to rein in her temper or summon her courage she did not know. “If he asked me to marry him,” she said, each word enunciated with precision, “I would tell him that I needed time to give him an answer.”

Sarah nodded.

“But he’s not going to ask me.”

Sarah let out a loud peal of laughter. “You have to have the last word, don’t you?”

“He’s not going to ask me.”

Sarah just grinned. “Oh, look, tea has arrived. I’m famished.”

“He’s not going to ask me.” Iris’s voice had taken on a singsong quality.

“I shall leave directly after tea,” Sarah said officiously. “Much as I’d love to make his acquaintance, I wouldn’t want to be here when he arrives. I might get in the way.”

“He’s not going to ask me.”

“Oh, do have a biscuit.”

“He’s not going to ask me,” Iris said again. And then, because she had to, she added, “He’s not.”

Chapter Six

Five days later

Pleinsworth House

IT WAS TIME.

It had been but a week since Richard had first laid eyes on Iris Smythe-Smith, right here in this very house. And now he was going to make her a proposal of marriage.

Of sorts.

He had called upon her every day since the Mottram ball. They had strolled in the park, ordered ices at Gunther’s, shared a box at the opera, and visited Covent Garden. In short, they had done everything a courting couple in London was supposed to do. He was full certain that Iris’s family expected him to ask her to marry him.

Just not quite yet.

He knew that Iris held him in some affection. She might even wonder if she was falling in love. But if he asked for her hand tonight, he was almost certain she would not be prepared to give an immediate answer.

He sighed. This was not how he had imagined getting himself a wife.

He’d come alone this evening; Winston had flatly refused to attend any artistic endeavor produced by the Smythe-Smith family, regardless of Richard’s previous acceptance on his behalf. Now Winston was home with a false head cold, and Richard was standing in the corner, wondering why a piano had been brought into the drawing room.

And why it appeared to have been decorated with twigs.

A quick perusal of the room told him that Lady Pleinsworth had made up programs for the evening, although he did not seem to have been handed one, even though he had arrived nearly five minutes earlier.

“There you are.”

He turned at the soft voice and saw Iris standing before him in a simply adorned gown of pale blue muslin. She wore that color frequently, he realized. It suited her.

“I’m sorry to have left you unattended,” she said. “My assistance was required backstage.”