With a groan, Richard pulled his coat back on. He should probably change for supper, but surely such rules could be relaxed while traveling. And besides, he’d already told his valet that he would not need his services until he retired for the evening. He hoped Iris had not thought she must don a more formal gown. It had not occurred to him to tell her so.

At precisely the correct time, he rapped upon her door. She opened it immediately.

“You did not change,” he blurted out. Like an idiot.

Her eyes widened as if she feared she had made an error. “Was I meant to?”

“No, no. I’d meant to tell you not to bother.” He cleared his throat. “But I forgot.”

“Oh.” She smiled. Awkwardly. “Well, I didn’t. Change, that is.”

“I see.”

Richard made a note to compliment himself on his sparkling wit.

She stood there.

So did he.

“I brought a shawl,” she said.

“Good idea.”

“I thought it might get cold.”

“It might.”

“Yes, that’s what I thought.”

He stood there.

So did she.

“We should eat,” he said suddenly, holding out his arm. It was dangerous to touch her, even under such innocent circumstances, but he was going to have to get used to it. He could hardly refuse to offer her his escort for the next however many months.

He really needed to find out how many months. Exactly how many months.

“Mr. Fogg was not exaggerating about his wife’s roast,” he said, struggling for something utterly innocuous. “She is a splendid cook.”

He might have imagined it, but he thought Iris looked relieved that he had initiated a bit of ordinary conversation. “That will be lovely,” she said. “I’m quite hungry.”

“Did you not eat in the carriage?”

She shook her head. “I meant to, but I fell asleep.”

“I’m sorry I was not there to entertain you.” He bit his tongue. He knew exactly how he’d have liked to entertain her, even if she was innocent of such activities.

“Don’t be silly. You do not do well in carriages.”

True. But then again, he had never taken a long carriage ride with her.

“I imagine you will wish to ride alongside the carriage again tomorrow?” she asked.

“I think it would be best.” For so many reasons.

She nodded. “I might have to find another book to read. I’m afraid I shall finish this one up rather more quickly than expected.”

They reached the door to the private dining room, and Richard stepped forward so that he might open it for her. “What are you reading?” he asked.

“Another book by Miss Austen. Mansfield Park.”

He held out her chair. “I am not familiar with it. I do not think my sister has read it.”

“It is not as romantic as her others.”

“Ah. That explains it. Fleur would not like it, then.”

“Is your sister such a romantic?”