“You will let her marry him, won’t you?”
“I don’t see how I have any choice. The baby needs a father . . . The baby has a father.” He looked up sharply. “He did not force himself on her?”
“No,” Iris said. “He did not.”
“Of course he didn’t.” He shook his head. “He would not do that. I know him that well at least.”
“Then you like him?”
“I do. I’ve said as much. It’s just . . . he has . . .” He sighed. “I suppose this is why she did not say anything. She thought I would not approve.”
“That, and she feared for Marie-Claire.”
“Oh, God,” Richard groaned. He had not even thought of Marie-Claire. It would be impossible for her to make a good match after this.
“No, no, don’t worry,” Iris said, her entire face perking with excitement. “I’ve taken care of that. I figured it all out. We’ll send her to London. My mother will sponsor her.”
“Are you sure?” Richard could not identify this strange, clenching in his chest. He was utterly humbled by her, by her brilliance, her caring heart. She was everything he had not even realized he needed in a woman, and somehow, miraculously, she was his.
“My mother has not been without an unmarried daughter of marrying age since 1818,” Iris said with wry grin. “She’s not going to know what to do with herself once Daisy is gone and out of the house. Trust me, you don’t want to see her when she’s bored. She’s an absolute nightmare.”
Richard laughed.
“I’m not joking.”
“I did not think you were,” he told her. “I’ve met your mother, you recall.”
Iris’s lips curved in a rather sly manner. “She and Marie-Claire will do well together.”
He nodded. Mrs. Smythe-Smith would surely do a better job than he ever had. He looked back over at Iris. “You do realize I’m going to have to kill Fleur before I let her marry him.”
His wife smiled at such nonsense. “Just forgive her. I have.”
“I thought you said you were not a model of Christian charity and forgiveness.”
She shrugged. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”
Richard took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Do you think you might be able to forgive me?”
“I already have,” she whispered.
Relief washed over him with such force it was a wonder he remained able to stand. But then he looked into her eyes, her pale lashes still wet with tears, and he was gone. He took her face in his hands and brought her to him, kissing her with all the urgency of a man who has faced the precipice and survived.
“I love you,” he said roughly, his words kisses in themselves. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too.”
“I never thought I would hear you say that.”
“I love you.”
“Again,” he ordered.
“I love you.”
He brought her hands to his mouth. “I worship you.”
“Is this a contest?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m going to worship you right now.”
“Right . . . now?” She glanced at the window. The afternoon sun was streaming in, relentlessly bright and cheerful.
“I’ve waited far too long,” he growled, sweeping her into his arms. “And so have you.”
Iris let out a little squeal of surprise as he dropped her onto the bed. It was only a few inches to the mattress, but it was enough to give her a little bounce, and enough for him to take the moment to cover her body with his, reveling in the primitive sensation of having her pinned beneath him.
She was at his mercy.
She was his to love.
“I adore you,” he murmured, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. He kissed the delicate hollow over her collarbone, reveling in her soft mewl of pleasure. His fingers found the lacy edge of her bodice. “I have dreamed of this.”
“So have I,” she said tremulously, gasping when she heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric.
“Sorry,” he said, glancing cursorily at the small tear at the bodice of her frock.
“No you’re not.”
“I’m not,” he agreed cheerfully, taking the edge of the fabric between his teeth.
“Richard!” she nearly shrieked.
He looked up. God, he was like a dog with a bone, and he didn’t care one bit.
Her lips quivered with unspent laughter. “Don’t make it worse.”