It was a garment designed solely to tempt a man—to tempt the very devil. The neckline was no more revealing than a ball gown, but somehow it hinted of so much more. The fabric was so thin as to be almost translucent, and he could see the faint outline of her nipples puckering underneath.

“Good evening, Richard,” she said, and it was only then that he realized he’d been struck utterly dumb.

“Iris,” he croaked.

She smiled awkwardly, and he saw that her hands were fluttering at her sides, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them.

“You look lovely,” he said.

“Thank you.”

Her hair was down. It rippled down her back in soft waves, ending just a bit above her elbows. He’d forgotten how badly he wanted to know how long it was.

“It’s my first night at Maycliffe,” she said shyly.

“It is,” he agreed.

She swallowed, obviously waiting for him to take the lead.

“You must be tired,” he blurted out, grasping the only excuse he could think of in the heat of his desire.

“A little.”

“I will not bother you.”

She blinked. “What?”

He stepped forward, steeling himself for what he must do. What he must do, and then what he must not do.

He kissed her, but only on the forehead. He knew his limits. “I will not be a brute,” he said, trying to make his voice soft and reassuring.

“But—” Her eyes were huge, bewildered.

“Good night, Iris,” he said quickly.

“But, I—”

“Until tomorrow, my love.”

Then he fled.

Like the coward he was.

Chapter Twelve

AS A MARRIED lady, it was Iris’s prerogative to take her breakfast in bed, but when she woke the following morning, she gritted her teeth determinedly and got herself dressed.

Richard had rejected her.

He had rejected her.

This was not some roadside inn, too “dusty” for a wedding night. They were in their home, for heaven’s sake. He had flirted with her all evening. He had kissed her hand, charmed her with his witty conversation, and then, after she’d donned a sheer nightgown and brushed her hair until it shone, he told her she looked tired?

She had stared at the door between their rooms for untold minutes after he left. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until she’d suddenly gulped back a huge, awful sob and realized that her nightgown—the one she now swore she’d never wear again—was wet with tears.

Then all she could think was that he must have heard her through the door. And how that made it so much worse.

Iris had always known that she did not possess the sort of beauty that drove men to passion and poetry. Perhaps in some other land, women were revered for their utterly colorless skin and lightly ginger hair, but not here in England.