“Oh, yes, of course.”
“I’ve practiced on my sisters, but I’m not very proficient on myself.”
He had no idea what she was talking about now.
“It took me a dozen pins to do what my former maid could do with five.”
Fourteen.
“I beg your pardon?”
Oh dear God, he had not just said that aloud. “We will find a new lady’s maid posthaste,” he said firmly. “Mrs. Hopkins can help you. You can begin the search today if you like.”
“If you don’t mind,” Iris said, as he finally led her through Maycliffe’s front door, “I think I would like to rest before touring the house.”
“Of course,” he said. She’d been in a carriage for six hours. It only stood to reason she’d wish to lie down.
In her bedroom.
In a bed.
He groaned.
“Are you sure you’re well?” she asked. “You seem very strange.”
That was one word for it.
She touched his arm. “Richard?”
“Never better,” he croaked. He turned to his valet, who had followed them in. “I believe I need to refresh myself as well. Perhaps a bath?”
His valet nodded, and Richard leaned forward, adding in a low voice, “Nothing too warm, Thompson.”
“Bracing, sir?” Thompson murmured in response.
Richard gritted his teeth. Thompson had been with him for eight years, long enough to show such cheek.
“Will you show me the way?” Iris asked.
Would he show her the way?
“To my room?” she clarified.
He stared at her. Stupidly.
“Could you show me to my room?” she asked again, looking up at him with a perplexed expression.
It was official. His brain had stopped working.
“Richard?”
“My correspondence,” he said suddenly, grasping onto the first excuse he could think of. He desperately needed not to be alone in a bedroom with Iris. “I really need to check on that first.”
“Sir,” Cresswell began, undoubtedly to remind him that he employed a perfectly good secretary.
“No, no, best to get it over with. Must be done, you know. And there’s that letter from my aunt. Can’t ignore that.” He affixed a jolly smile to his face and turned to Iris. “Mrs. Hopkins should be the one to show you your new rooms, anyway.”
Mrs. Hopkins did not look as if she agreed.
“She was in charge of the redecorating,” Richard added.
Iris frowned. “I thought you said you had not redecorated.”
“The airing out,” he said, punctuating with a meaningless wave of his hand. “She’ll know the rooms better than I, anyway.”
Mrs. Hopkins pursed her lips in disapproval, and Richard felt like a young boy, about to be reprimanded. The housekeeper had been as much a mother to him as his own, and while she would never countermand him in front of others, he knew she would make her feelings known later.
Impulsively, Richard took Iris’s hand and brought it to his lips for a brief kiss. No one would accuse him of ignoring his wife in public. “You must rest, my darling.”
Iris’s lips parted with surprise. Had he not yet called her his darling? Bloody hell, he should have done.
“Will an hour be sufficient?” he asked her, or rather, he asked her lips, which were still delightfully pink and parted. Good Lord, he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to slide his tongue in and taste her very essence, and— “Two!” he blurted out. “You’ll need two.”
“Two?”
“Hours,” he said firmly. “I do not wish to overtax you.” He looked over at Mrs. Hopkins. “Ladies are very delicate.”
Iris frowned adorably, and Richard bit back a curse. How could she look adorable when she frowned? Surely that was an anatomical impossibility.
“Shall I see you to your bedchamber, Lady Kenworthy?” Mrs. Hopkins inquired.
“I would appreciate that, thank you,” Iris replied, her eyes still pinned suspiciously on Richard.
He gave her a wan smile.
Iris followed Mrs. Hopkins down the hall, but before they turned the corner, he heard her say, “Do you consider yourself delicate, Mrs. Hopkins?”
“No indeed, my lady.”
“Good,” Iris said in a crisp voice. “Neither do I.”
Chapter Eleven
BY EVENING, RICHARD had come up with a new plan. Or rather, a modification. One he really should have considered from the beginning.
Iris was going to be angry with him. Spectacularly angry. There was no getting around that.