“Sir Richard tells me that you have been at Maycliffe for many years,” Iris continued. “He is most fortunate to . . .”

Her words trailed off as she glanced over at her husband. His normally genial expression had been replaced by one of near rage.

“Richard?” she heard herself whisper. Whatever could have happened to upset him so?

“Where,” he said to the butler, his voice as low and tightly wound as she had ever heard it, “are my sisters?”

RICHARD SEARCHED THE small crowd gathered in the drive, but really, what was the point? If his sisters were here, they would have been standing at the front, a burst of color against the black uniforms of the maids.

Damn it, they should have been out here to greet Iris. It was the worst sort of snub. Fleur and Marie-Claire might be used to having the run of the manor, but Iris was now the mistress of Maycliffe, and everyone—even those born with the surname Kenworthy—needed to get used to that.

Fast.

Furthermore, both of his sisters knew damn well how much Iris was giving up for their family. Even Iris didn’t know the full extent of it.

Any extent of it, really.

Something burned through Richard’s gut, and he really didn’t want to determine whether it was fury or guilt.

He hoped it was fury. Because there was guilt enough already, and he had a feeling it would soon turn to acid.

“Richard,” Iris said, placing a hand on his arm. “I’m sure there is a good reason for their absence.” But her smile was forced.

Richard turned to Cresswell, and snapped, “Why are they not down?” There was no excuse for this. The rest of the household had had time to exit and assemble. His sisters had four good legs between them. They could bloody well have descended the stairs to meet their new sister.

“Miss Kenworthy and Miss Marie-Claire are not at Maycliffe, sir. They’re with Mrs. Milton.”

They were with his aunt? “What? Why?”

“She arrived yesterday to collect them.”

“To collect them,” Richard repeated.

The butler’s expression remained impassive. “Mrs. Milton declared herself of the opinion that newlyweds deserve a honeymoon.”

“If we were having a honeymoon, it wouldn’t be here,” Richard muttered. What, were they to take up rooms in the east of the house and pretend they were at the seashore? The wind coming through would give a good approximation of Cornwall. Or the Arctic.

Cresswell cleared his throat. “I believe they are to return in two weeks’ time, sir.”

“Two weeks?” That would not do.

Iris’s hand on his arm gave a little squeeze. “Who is Mrs. Milton?”

“My aunt,” he said distractedly.

“She left you a letter,” Cresswell said.

Richard’s eyes snapped back to the butler’s face. “My aunt? Or Fleur?”

“Your aunt. I placed it atop your correspondence in your study.”

“Nothing from Fleur?”

“I am afraid not, sir.”