She nodded, even though she was not facing him. He could discern the movement, she was sure. And she no longer trusted her voice.

“I shall knock before I go down,” he said, and then she heard the door click behind him.

Iris held herself still, not even breathing. She wasn’t sure why. Perhaps some part of her needed for him to be away, farther away than a simple click of the door. She needed him to cross the hall, enter his own chamber, close that door behind him.

She needed all of that between them.

And then she could cry.

RICHARD CLOSED IRIS’S door, walked carefully across the hall, opened his own door, shut it, locked it, and then let out a stream of invective so fluent, so spectacularly creative that it was a wonder lightning did not smite the entire Dusty Goose on the spot.

What the hell was he going to do?

Everything had been going to plan. Everything. He’d met Iris, he’d got her to marry him, and they were on their way north. He hadn’t exactly told her everything yet—very well, he hadn’t really told her much of anything yet, but he’d never planned to do so until they arrived at Maycliffe and met his sisters, anyway.

That he’d found a wife who was so intelligent and agreeable was a relief. That she was attractive was a lovely bonus. He had not, however, anticipated that he would want her.

Not like this.

He’d kissed her in London, and he’d quite liked it—enough to know that bedding her would be no hardship. But enjoyable as the experience was, he’d had no difficulty stopping when the time came. His pulse had quickened, and he’d felt the first stirrings of desire, but it had been nothing that was not easily tamed.

Then Iris had tripped while exiting the carriage. He’d caught her, of course. He was a gentleman; it was instinct. He would have done so for any lady.

But when he touched her, when his hands settled on the curve of her small waist, and her body slid along his as he lowered her to the ground . . .

Something inside of him had caught fire.

He did not know what had changed. Was it something primitive, something deep in the heart of him that now knew she was his?

He’d felt like an idiot, stunned and frozen, unable to remove his hands from her hips. His blood pounded through his veins, and his heart beat so loudly he could not believe she did not hear it. And all he could think was—

I want her.

And it wasn’t just the usual I-haven’t-been-with-a-woman-in-a-few-months sort of want. It was electric, an instant bolt of desire so strong it stole the breath from his body.

He’d wanted to tilt her face toward his and kiss her until she was gasping with need.