But could she value his family as well as she did her own? She would need to, if he married her.
The door was swung open by a somewhat portly butler who took his and Winston’s cards with a stiff bow. A moment later they were ushered into a small but elegant drawing room, decorated in shades of cream, gold, and green. Richard immediately noticed Iris on the sofa, quietly watching him through her lashes. On another woman the expression might have been flirtatious, but on Iris it was more watchful. Assessing.
She was taking his measure. Richard wasn’t certain how he felt about that. He ought to be amused.
“Mr. Winston Bevelstoke,” the butler announced, “and Sir Richard Kenworthy.”
The ladies rose to greet them, and they gave their attention first to Mrs. Smythe-Smith, as was proper.
“Mr. Bevelstoke,” she said, smiling at Winston. “It has been an age. How is your dear sister?”
“Very well. She is nearing the end of her confinement, else she would have attended last night.” He motioned to Richard. “I do not believe you have been introduced to my good friend, Sir Richard Kenworthy. We were at Oxford together.”
She smiled politely. “Sir Richard.”
He bowed with his head. “Mrs. Smythe-Smith.”
“My two youngest daughters,” she said, motioning to the two ladies behind her.
“I had the honor of making Miss Smythe-Smith’s acquaintance last night,” Richard said, honoring Iris with a small bow.
“Yes, of course you did.” Mrs. Smythe-Smith smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes, and once again Richard had the distinct impression that he was being weighed and measured. Against what yardstick, however, he could not know. It was damned unsettling, and not for the first time he found himself thinking that Napoleon might have been defeated well before Waterloo if only they’d sent the London mamas out to take care of strategy.
“My youngest,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said, tilting her head toward Daisy, “Miss Daisy Smythe-Smith.”
“Miss Daisy,” Richard said politely, bowing over her hand. Winston did the same.
Once the necessary introductions were made, the two gentlemen took their seats.
“How did you enjoy the concert?” Miss Daisy asked.
She seemed to be directing her question to Winston, for which Richard was immeasurably grateful.
“Very much,” he said, after clearing his throat six times. “I can’t remember the last time I, er . . .”
“I imagine you have never heard Mozart played with such fervor,” Iris said, coming to his rescue.
Richard smiled. There was a cleverness to her that was quite appealing.
“No,” Winston said quickly, relief evident in his voice. “It was a singular experience.”
“And you, Sir Richard?” Iris asked. He met her eyes—a very, very light blue, he finally deduced—and to his surprise he saw a flash of impertinence. Was she baiting him?
“I find that I am most grateful that I decided to attend,” he replied.
“That’s no sort of an answer,” she said, her voice too low to be properly heard by her mother.
He quirked a brow. “It’s as much of one as you’re going to get.”
Her mouth opened as if to gasp, but in the end she just said, “Well met, Sir Richard.”
The conversation ambled through predictable topics—the weather, the King, and then the weather again—until Richard took advantage of the banality of their discussion by suggesting a walk in nearby Hyde Park.
“Because the weather is so fine,” he concluded.
“Yes, it is just as I said,” Daisy exclaimed. “The sun is shining uncommonly well. Is it warm outside, Mr. Bevelstoke? I have not yet left the house.”
“Tolerably warm,” Winston replied before shooting Richard a quick but lethal glance. They were even now, or perhaps he was in Winston’s debt. The Smythe-Smith musicale could not be nearly as trying as an hour on the arm of Miss Daisy. And they both knew that Winston would not be the one escorting Iris.
“I was surprised to see you so soon after the concert,” Iris said once they were outside and headed toward the park.
“And I am surprised to hear you say so,” he countered. “Surely I gave no impression of disinterest.”
Her eyes widened. Normally he would not be so forward, but he did not have time for a subtle courtship.
“I am not certain,” she said carefully, “what I have done to earn your regard.”
“Nothing,” he admitted. “But then, regard is not always earned.”