“Many times,” he answered, but he still seemed distracted. She waited a moment, pretending to straighten her gloves, until he cleared his throat and said, “It’s a three-day journey to Maycliffe, there’s no getting around that. I always stay at the same two inns on the journey north.”

“And on the journey south?” she quipped.

He blinked, his brow furrowed with either confusion or disdain. Honestly, she could not be sure which.

“It was a joke,” she started to say, since it only stood to reason that he’d have to take the same route to London as from. But she cut herself off after two words, and just said, “Never mind.”

His eyes remained on her face for a penetratingly long moment, then he held out his arm, and said, “Come.”

She looked up at the festively painted sign that hung from the inn. The Dusty Goose. Really? She was to spend her wedding night in a coaching inn called The Dusty Goose?

“I trust it meets with your satisfaction?” Richard asked politely as he led her inside.

“Of course.” Not that she could or would have said anything else. She looked about. It was a charming spot, actually, with diamond-crossed Tudor windows and fresh flowers at the desk.

“Ah, Sir Richard!” exclaimed the innkeeper, bustling over to greet them. “You made very good time.”

“The roads held up well despite this morning’s rain,” Richard said congenially. “It was a most pleasant journey.”

“I expect that is more due to the company than the roads,” the innkeeper said with a knowing smile. “I wish you joy.”

Richard tilted his head toward the innkeeper in salute, then said, “Allow me to introduce my new wife, Lady Kenworthy. Lady Kenworthy, this is Mr. Fogg, esteemed proprietor of the Dusty Goose.”

“I am honored to meet you, ma’am,” Mr. Fogg said. “Your husband is our favorite guest.”

Richard gave him a half smile. “A frequent one, at least.”

“Your inn is lovely,” Iris said. “I see no dust, however.”

Mr. Fogg grinned. “We do our best to keep the geese outside.”

Iris laughed, and was dearly grateful for it. The sound had become almost unfamiliar.

“Shall I show you to your rooms?” the innkeeper asked. “Mrs. Fogg has prepared supper for you. Her very best roast, with cheese, potatoes, and Yorkshire puddings. I can have it served in the private dining room whenever you wish.”

Iris smiled her thanks and followed Mr. Fogg up the stairs.

“Here we are, my lady,” he said, opening a door at the far end of the hall. “It is our finest chamber.”

It was indeed very fine for a coaching inn, Iris thought, with a large four-poster bed and a window facing south.