A jolly homecoming this would be.
Richard had sent word ahead to alert the household of the approximate time of their arrival. Iris was well enough acquainted with country house life to know that a swift rider would be watching for them a few miles out. By the time their carriage arrived at Maycliffe, the entire household would be lined up to greet them.
Richard spoke of the upper servants with great affection; given his charm and amiability, Iris could only imagine that this feeling was returned in equal measure. The servants would take one look at her, and it would not matter if she was trying to be fair-minded and kind. It would not matter if she smiled at her husband and appeared happy and pleased with her new home. They would be watching her closely and would see it in her eyes. She was not in love with her husband.
And perhaps more importantly, he was not in love with her.
There would be gossip. There was always gossip when the master of an estate married, but she was a complete unknown in Yorkshire, and given the rushed nature of the wedding, the whispers about her would be intense. Would they think she had trapped him into marriage? It could not be further from the truth, and yet— “Do not worry.”
Iris looked up at the sound of Richard’s voice, thankful that he had broken the vicious cycle of her thoughts. “I’m not worried,” she lied.
He quirked a brow. “Allow me to rephrase. There is no need for you to worry.”
Iris folded her hands primly in her lap. “I did not think there was.”
Another lie. She was getting good at this. Or maybe not. From Richard’s expression, it was clear he did not believe her.
“Very well,” she acceded. “I am a little nervous.”
“Ah. Well, there probably is reason for that.”
“Sir Richard!”
He grinned. “Sorry. I could not resist. And if you recall, I would prefer that you not call me sir. At least not when we are alone.”
She tilted her head, deciding he deserved the ambiguity of such a response.
“Iris,” he said, his voice gentle, “I would be a cad if I did not recognize that you have had to make all of the adjustments in our union.”
Not all, Iris thought acerbically. And certainly not the biggest. In fact, one might say that a rather important part of her had not been adjusted in the least. The second night of their journey had passed much the same as the first: in separate bedchambers. Richard had repeated what he’d said before, that she did not deserve a wedding night in a dusty inn.
Never mind that the Royal Oak was every bit as spotless as the Dusty Goose had been. The same went for the Kings Arms, where they’d slept the final night of their journey. Iris knew that she should feel honored that her husband held her in such regard, that he would put her comfort and well-being above his needs, but she couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the man who had kissed her so passionately at Pleinsworth House barely a week before. He had seemed so overcome by her nearness, so wholly unable to restrain himself.
And now . . . Now that they were married and he had no reason to hold his passions . . .
It made no sense.
But then again, neither had marrying her, and he’d done that with alacrity.
She bit her lip.
“I have asked much of you,” he said.
“Not so much,” she muttered.
“What was that?”
She gave her head a little shake. “Nothing.”
He let out a breath, the only signal that this conversation might be even a little difficult for him. “You have moved halfway across the country,” he said. “I have taken you away from all you hold dear.”
Iris managed a tight smile. Was this meant to reassure her?
“But I do believe,” he continued, “that we will suit very well. And I hope that you will come to view Maycliffe as home.”
“Thank you,” she said politely. She appreciated that he was making such an effort to make her feel welcome, but it wasn’t doing much to soothe her nerves.
“My sisters will be most eager to meet you.”
Iris hoped that was true.
“I wrote to them about you,” he continued.
She looked up in surprise. “When?” she asked. He would have had to have done so immediately following their engagement if the news was to reach Maycliffe before she did.
“I sent an express.”
Iris nodded, even as she returned her gaze to the window. That would have done it. Express riders were dear, but well worth it if one needed a missive to arrive quickly. She wondered what he might have written about her. How might he describe his intended bride after barely a week of acquaintance? And to his sisters, no less?