“That’s just the thing,” Iris said with renewed enthusiasm. “Frances loves it. She adores unicorns. She’s quite convinced they are real, and I think she would become one if she were so able.”

“It appears she has taken the first step toward that noble goal,” Richard said. “With your kind assistance.”

“Ah, that. I’m rather hoping no one tells Aunt Charlotte that I was the one to wield the glue.”

Richard had a feeling she was out of luck there. “Is there any chance it will remain a secret?”

“None whatsoever. But I shall cling to my false hope. With any luck, we shall have a terrible scandal tonight, and no one will notice that Frances has gone to bed with her horn still attached.”

Richard started to cough. And then kept coughing. Good Lord, was that dust in his throat or a boulder of guilt?

“Are you all right?” Iris asked, her face drawn with concern.

He nodded, unable to voice his answer. Dear God, a scandal. If she only knew.

“Shall I fetch you something to drink?”

He nodded again. He needed to pour liquid down his throat almost as much as he needed not to look at her for a moment.

She would be happy in the end, he told himself. He would be a good husband to her. She would want for nothing.

Except the choice in marrying him.

Richard groaned. He had not expected to feel so bloody guilty about what he was going to do.

“Here you are,” Iris said, holding out a crystal goblet. “A bit of sweet wine.”

Richard nodded his thanks and took a fortifying sip. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Iris made a sympathetic noise and motioned to the woodsy piano. “The air is probably dusty from all those twigs Harriet brought in. She was out collecting them in Hyde Park for hours yesterday.”

He nodded again, draining his glass before setting it down on a nearby table. “Will you sit with me?” he asked, realizing that while he had assumed she would, he owed her the politeness of an invitation.

“I would be delighted,” she said with a smile. “You shall probably need someone to translate, in any case.”

His eyes grew wide with alarm. “Translate?”

She laughed. “No, no, don’t worry, it’s in English. It’s only . . .” She laughed again, her smile wide in her face. “Harriet has her own singular style.”

“You’re very fond of your family,” he observed.

She started to make a reply, but then something caught her attention behind him. He turned to see what she was looking at, but she’d already started saying, “My aunt is signaling. I think we’re meant to take our seats.”