“I believe you spent several seasons in town a few years back,” Mr. Smythe-Smith countered. “Who had charge of your sisters, then?”

“They lived with our aunt. I lacked the maturity to properly fulfill my duties.”

“Forgive me if I doubt your maturity now.”

Richard forced himself to hold silent. If he had a daughter, he would be just as livid. He thought of his own father, wondered what he would think of this night’s work. Bernard Kenworthy had loved his family—Richard had never doubted that—but his approach to fatherhood could best be described as benign neglect. If he were alive, what would he have done? Anything?

But Richard was not his father. He could not tolerate inaction.

“Two months will be perfectly acceptable,” Iris’s mother said. “There is no reason you cannot go to your estate and then return for the wedding. To be honest, I would prefer it that way.”

“I wouldn’t,” Iris said.

Her parents looked at her in shock.

“Well, I wouldn’t.” She swallowed, and Richard’s heart ached at the tension he saw in her small frame. “If the decision is made,” she said, “I would rather move forward.”

Her mother took a step toward her. “Your reputation—”

“—might very well already be in tatters. If that’s the case, I would much rather be in Yorkshire where I don’t know anyone.”

“Nonsense,” her mother said dismissively. “We will wait to see what happens.”

Iris met her mother’s eyes with a remarkably steely gaze. “Have I no say in the matter?”

Her mother’s lips trembled, and she looked to her husband.

“It shall be as she wishes,” he said after a pause. “I can see no reason to force her to wait. The Lord knows she and Daisy will be at each other’s throats the entire time.” Mr. Smythe-Smith turned to Richard. “Iris is not pleasant to live with when she is in ill humor.”

“Father!”

He ignored her. “And Daisy is not pleasant to live with when she is in good humor. The planning of a wedding will make this one”—he jerked his head toward Iris—“miserable and the other one ecstatic. I should have to move to France.”

Richard did not so much as smile. Mr. Smythe-Smith’s humor was of the bitterest sort and did not want laughter.

“Iris,” the older gentleman said. “Maria.”

They followed him to the door.

“I shall see you in two days’ time,” Iris’s father said to Richard. “I expect you will have a special license and settlements prepared.”

“I would do no less, sir.”

As she left the room, Iris looked over her shoulder, and their eyes met.

Why? she seemed to ask him. Why?

In that moment, he realized she knew. She knew that he had not been overcome with passion, that this forced marriage had been—albeit poorly—orchestrated.

Richard had never felt so ashamed.

Chapter Eight

The following week