Iris glanced up at Maycliffe, and as her eyes swept over the red brick façade he loved so well, he wondered what she saw. Did she see the charm of the Dutch gables or sad state of the glass in their circular windows? Would she love the history of the ancient home or would she find the hodgepodge of architectural styles jarring and unrefined?

It was his home, but could she ever see it as hers?

“Shall we go inside?” he asked her.

She smiled. “I would like that.”

“Perhaps a tour of the house?” he suggested. He knew he should ask if she wished to rest, but he was not ready to take her to her rooms. Her bedchamber was connected to his bedchamber, and both were in possession of large, comfortable beds, neither of which he could use in the manner he would like.

The last three days had been hell.

Or more specifically, the last three nights.

The Kings Arms had been the worst. They’d been given separate rooms, as he’d requested ahead of time, but the proprietor, eager to please the newlyweds, had shown them to his finest suite. “With connecting doors!” he’d proclaimed with a grin and a wink.

Richard hadn’t realized a door could be so thin. He’d heard Iris’s every movement, every cough and sigh. He’d heard her blaspheme when she’d stubbed her toe, and he’d known the exact moment she climbed into bed. The mattress had groaned, even under her slim frame, and it had not taken his imagination long to leap from his room to hers.

Her hair would be down. He’d never seen it such, and he’d found himself wondering at all hours of the day how long it was. She always wore it in a loose bun at her nape. He’d never given much thought to ladies’ hairstyles before, but with Iris, he could see every pin against her soft, pale hair. Fourteen had been required to secure her tresses that morning. It seemed a great number. Did it somehow indicate the length?

He wanted to touch it, to run his fingers through it. He wanted to see it in the moonlight, sparkling silver like the stars. He wanted to feel it whispering across his skin as she brought her lips to—

“Richard?”

He blinked. It took him a moment to remember that they were standing in the courtyard in front of Maycliffe.

“Is something amiss?” Iris asked.

“Your hair,” he blurted out.

She blinked. “My hair?”

“It’s lovely.”

“Oh.” She blushed, self-consciously touching the tendrils at the nape of her neck. “Thank you.” Her eyes darted to the side and then back up through her pale lashes. “I had to do it myself.”

He stared at her blankly.

“I’ll need to hire a maid,” she explained.

“Oh, yes, of course.”