He wasn’t sure, either.

“It’s all better now,” he told her.

“Thank you. I—” A faint blush stole over her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

And it was.

For the next two hours Richard pretended to help with baskets. Iris and Mrs. Hopkins had everything well in hand, and when he tried to make a suggestion, it was either waved away or considered and found wanting.

He didn’t mind. He was happy to assume the position of biscuit-tester (uniformly excellent, he was happy to inform Cook), and watch Iris assume her role as mistress of Maycliffe.

Finally, they had a collection of eighteen baskets, boxes, and bowls, each carefully packed and labeled with the surname of a tenant family. No two gifts were the same; the Dunlops, with four boys between the ages of twelve and sixteen, were given a hefty portion of food, while one of Marie-Claire’s old dolls was placed in the basket for the Smiths, whose three-year-old daughter was recovering from croup. The Millers got their dishcloths and biscuits, and the Burnhams a hearty ham and two books—a study of land management for the eldest son, who had recently taken over the farm, and a romantic novel for his sisters.

And maybe for the son, too, Richard thought with a grin. Everyone could use a romantic novel every now and then.

Everything was loaded into a wagon, and soon Richard and Iris were on their way, bound for all four corners of Maycliffe Park.

“Not the most glamorous of conveyances,” he said with a rueful smile, as they bumped along the road.

Iris put her hand on her head as a stiff wind threatened to steal her bonnet. “I don’t mind. Goodness, can you imagine trying to transport all this in a barouche?”

He didn’t have a barouche, but there seemed little reason to mention this, so instead he said, “You should tie your bonnet strings. You won’t have to keep holding your hat.”

“I know. I’ve just always found it uncomfortable. I don’t like the feeling of them tight under my chin.” She looked over at him with a sparkle in her eye. “You should not be so hasty to offer advice. Your hat is affixed upon your head in no way whatsoever.”

As if on cue, the wagon took a bump just as the wind picked up again, and he felt his top hat rising from his head.

“Oh!” Iris yelped, and without thinking she grabbed his hat and pushed it back down. They had been sitting next to each other, but the movement brought them even closer, and when he slowed the horses and allowed himself to look at her, her face was tipped up toward his, radiant and very, very close.

“I think . . .” he murmured, but as he gazed into her eyes, made even more vivid under the bright blue sky, his words fell away.