Guilt pricked along his spine. Didn’t all ladies dream about their weddings? Fleur and Marie-Claire used to spend hours imagining theirs. For all he knew, they still did.

He took a breath. Iris wasn’t going to get her dream wedding, and if all went according to plan, she wasn’t even going to get a proper proposal.

She deserved better.

He swallowed, tapping his hand nervously against his thigh. Iris was still laughing, oblivious to his suddenly serious mien.

“Iris,” he said suddenly, and she turned toward him with surprise in her eyes. Maybe it was the tone of his voice, or maybe the fact that it was the first time he called her by her given name.

He put his hand at the small of her back and led her away from the still-open doorway to the drawing room. “Might I have a moment of your time?”

Her brows came together, and then they rose. “Of course,” she said, somewhat haltingly.

He took a breath. He could do this. It wasn’t what he’d planned, but it was a better way. This one thing, he thought, he could do for her.

He dropped down to one knee.

She gasped.

“Iris Smythe-Smith,” he said, taking her hand in his, “will you make me the happiest man alive and consent to be my wife?”

Chapter Seven

IRIS WAS STRUCK dumb. She opened her mouth, but apparently it wasn’t to say anything. The back of her throat tightened and closed, and she just stared down at him, thinking—

This can’t be happening.

“I imagine this is a surprise,” Richard said in a warm voice, stroking the back of her hand with his fingers. He was still on bended knee, gazing up at her as if she were the only woman in all creation.

“Ahdebadeba . . .” She couldn’t speak. She well and truly could not speak.

“Or perhaps it isn’t.”

No, it is. It really is.

“We have known each other but a week, but you must be aware of my devotion.”

She felt her head shaking, but she had no idea if that meant yes or no, and either way, she wasn’t sure which question she was answering.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast.

“I could not wait any longer,” he murmured, coming to his feet.

“I—I don’t—” She wet her lips. She’d found her voice, but she still could not manage a complete sentence.

He brought her fingers to his lips, but instead of kissing the back of her hand, he turned it gently over and laid a featherlight kiss on the inside of her wrist.

“Be mine, Iris,” he said, his voice husky with what she thought might be desire. He kissed her again, allowing his lips to brush along her tender skin. “Be mine,” he whispered, “and I will be yours.”