Iris looked down at her plate, spotted a bit of tea on her toast, and decided she was done with breakfast, anyway. What a strange reaction, though. Surely Richard wanted children? Every man did. Or at least every man who owned land.

“Is Maycliffe entailed?” she wondered.

“Why do you ask?”

“Isn’t it the sort of thing I ought to know?”

“It is not. Entailed, that is. But yes, something you ought to know,” he acknowledged.

Iris found herself a new teacup and poured some more. She wasn’t really thirsty, but she found herself strangely loath to release him from this conversation. “Your parents must have been quite relieved that their firstborn was a boy,” she remarked. “They would not want the property to be separated from the title.”

“I confess I never discussed it with them.”

“No, I imagine not.” She added a bit of milk to her tea, stirred, and took a sip. “What happens to the title if you die without children?”

One of his brows rose. “Are you plotting my demise?”

She gave him a bit of a look. “It seems like another sort of thing I ought to know, don’t you think?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Distant cousin. I think he lives in Somerset.”

“You think?” How could he not know?

“I’ve never met him,” Richard said with a shrug. “You have to go back to our great-great-grandfather to locate a common ancestor.”

Iris supposed he had a point. She might know a prodigious amount about her overabundance of cousins, but they were first cousins. She wasn’t sure she could locate any of her more distant relations on a map.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Richard said. “If something were to happen to me, you will be well provided for. I made sure of that in the marriage settlement.”

“I know,” Iris said. “I read it.”

“You did?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Most women don’t.”

“How would you know?”

Suddenly, he grinned. “Are we having an argument?”

Suddenly, his grin turned her insides to mush. “I’m not.”

He chuckled. “That’s a relief, I must say. I should hate to think we were having an argument, and I missed it.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s a chance of that.”

He leaned forward, tilting his head in question.

“I don’t raise my voice often . . .” Iris murmured.

“But when you do, it’s a sight to behold?”

She smiled her acknowledgment.

“Why do I have the impression that Daisy is the most frequent recipient of your temper?”

She made a motion with her index finger as if to say—wrong! “That would be incorrect.”

“Do tell.”

“Daisy is . . .” She sighed. “Daisy is Daisy. I don’t know how else to describe her. I’ve long thought one of us must have been switched at birth.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” Richard warned with a smile. “Daisy is the one who looks just like your mother.”