Iris peeked out the window at her family, gathered together in front of her home. No, not her home. Not any longer. She felt the mortifying prick of tears in her eyes and dug hastily in her beaded reticule for a handkerchief. She barely had her bag open, however, before Sir Richard leaned forward, proffering his own.

There was no point in denying her tearfulness, Iris supposed as she took the handkerchief. He could see her well enough. “I’m sorry,” she said as she dabbed her eyes. Brides weren’t meant to cry on their wedding days. Surely it could not portend anything good.

“You have nothing for which to apologize,” Sir Richard said kindly. “I know this has all been quite an upheaval.”

She gave him the best smile she could manage, which wasn’t much of one, really. “I was just thinking . . .” She motioned to the window. The carriage had not yet begun to move, and if she tilted her head just so, she could see what had once been her bedroom window. “It’s no longer my home.”

“I hope you will like Maycliffe.”

“I’m sure I will. Your descriptions are lovely.” He had told her of the grand staircase and secret passageways. A room where King James I had slept. There was an herb garden near the kitchen and an orangery in the back. It wasn’t attached to the house, though, and he’d told her that he’d long thought of connecting them.

“I shall do my best to make you happy,” he said.

She appreciated that he said that here, where they had no audience. “As shall I.”

The carriage began to move, its pace slow in the congested streets of London.

“How long shall we travel today?” Iris asked.

“About six hours in total, if the roads were not too affected by this morning’s rain.”

“Not such a long day.”

He smiled in agreement. “This close to town there are plenty of opportunities to take a rest, should you need one.”

“Thank you.”

It was by far the most polite, proper, and boring conversation they had ever had. Ironic, that.

“Do you mind if I read?” Iris asked, reaching into her reticule for a book.

“Not at all. I envy you, as a matter of fact. I am wholly unable to read in a moving carriage.”

“Even when you are facing forward?” She bit her lip. Good heavens, what was she saying? He would construe that to mean she wished for him to come sit next to her.

Which was not what she was saying at all.

Not that she would mind.

Which wasn’t to say that she desired it.

She was completely indifferent. Really. She did not care one way or another where he chose to sit.