Impulsively, Richard took Iris’s hand and brought it to his lips for a brief kiss. No one would accuse him of ignoring his wife in public. “You must rest, my darling.”

Iris’s lips parted with surprise. Had he not yet called her his darling? Bloody hell, he should have done.

“Will an hour be sufficient?” he asked her, or rather, he asked her lips, which were still delightfully pink and parted. Good Lord, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to slide his tongue in and taste her very essence, and—

“Two!” he blurted out. “You’ll need two.”

“Two?”

“Hours,” he said firmly. “I do not wish to overtax you.” He looked over at Mrs. Hopkins. “Ladies are very delicate.”

Iris frowned adorably, and Richard bit back a curse. How could she look adorable when she frowned? Surely that was an anatomical impossibility.

“Shall I see you to your bedchamber, Lady Kenworthy?” Mrs. Hopkins inquired.

“I would appreciate that, thank you,” Iris replied, her eyes still pinned suspiciously on Richard.

He gave her a wan smile.

Iris followed Mrs. Hopkins down the hall, but before they turned the corner, he heard her say, “Do you consider yourself delicate, Mrs. Hopkins?”

“No indeed, my lady.”

“Good,” Iris said in a crisp voice. “Neither do I.”

Chapter Eleven

BY EVENING, RICHARD had come up with a new plan. Or rather, a modification. One he really should have considered from the beginning.

Iris was going to be angry with him. Spectacularly angry. There was no getting around that.

But perhaps he could lessen the blow?

Cresswell had said that Fleur and Marie-Claire would be gone for two weeks. That wasn’t going to work, but a week could be managed. He could have his sisters fetched home after only seven days; that would be easy enough to arrange. His aunt lived but twenty miles away.

And in the meantime . . .

One of Richard’s many regrets was that he had not had the time to properly court his new wife. Iris still did not know the reason for their hasty marriage, but she was no idiot; she could see that something was not quite right. If Richard had had just a little more time back in London, he could have wooed her the way a woman ought to be wooed. He could have shown her that he delighted in her company, that she made him laugh, that he could make her laugh. He could have stolen a few more kisses and awakened the desire that he was certain lay deep in her soul.

And then, after all that, when he dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him, Iris would not have hesitated. She would have gazed into his eyes, found whatever sort of love she had been longing for, and she would have said yes.

Maybe thrown herself into his arms.

Blinking back tears of happiness.