Iris gave her an awkward smile. It was difficult to feel like the mistress of the house when the master so clearly had other ideas.

She made her way downstairs, trying to act as if she did not notice that all the servants were watching her—and pretending not to. It was a strange little dance they were all doing, herself most of all.

She wondered how long it would take until she was no longer the “new” mistress of Maycliffe. A month? A year? And would her husband spend the entirety of that time avoiding her bedchamber?

She sighed, then stopped walking for a moment, then told herself she was being silly. She’d never expected a passionate marriage, so why was she pining over one now? She had become Lady Kenworthy, as strange as it seemed, and she had a reputation to uphold.

Iris straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the breakfast room.

Only to find it empty.

Bloody hell.

“Oh! Lady Kenworthy!” Mrs. Hopkins came bustling into the room. “Annie just told me you’ll be wanting your breakfast downstairs this morning.”

“Er, yes. I hope that won’t be a problem.”

“Not at all, my lady. We still have the sideboard laid from when Sir Richard ate.”

“He has already been down then?” Iris wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be disappointed.

“Not even a quarter of an hour ago,” the housekeeper confirmed. “I believe he thought you would be taking your breakfast in bed.”

Iris just stood there with nothing to say.

Mrs. Hopkins gave her a bit of a secret smile. “He asked us to put a flower on your tray.”

“He did?” Iris asked, hating the way her voice seemed to gulp from her throat.

“It’s a pity we have no irises. They bloom so early, they do.”

“This far north?” Iris asked.

Mrs. Hopkins nodded. “They come up each year on the west lawn. I like the purple ones myself.”

Iris was just about to agree with her when she heard footsteps in the hall, brisk and determined. It could only be Richard. No servant would ever move about a house with so little regard to noise.

“Mrs. Hopkins,” he said, “I’m going—Oh.” He saw Iris and blinked. “You’re awake.”

“As you see.”

“You had told me you were a late riser.”

“Not today, apparently.”

He clasped his hands behind his back, then cleared his throat. “Have you eaten?”

“No, not yet.”

“You didn’t want breakfast in your room?”

“No,” Iris said, wondering if she’d ever had such a stilted conversation in her life. What happened to the man who had been so charming the night before? The one she’d thought would visit her bed?

He tugged at his cravat. “I was planning to visit tenants today.”

“May I come with you?”