“But—” Her eyes were huge, bewildered.
“Good night, Iris,” he said quickly.
“But, I—”
“Until tomorrow, my love.”
Then he fled.
Like the coward he was.
Chapter Twelve
AS A MARRIED lady, it was Iris’s prerogative to take her breakfast in bed, but when she woke the following morning, she gritted her teeth determinedly and got herself dressed.
Richard had rejected her.
He had rejected her.
This was not some roadside inn, too “dusty” for a wedding night. They were in their home, for heaven’s sake. He had flirted with her all evening. He had kissed her hand, charmed her with his witty conversation, and then, after she’d donned a sheer nightgown and brushed her hair until it shone, he told her she looked tired?
She had stared at the door between their rooms for untold minutes after he left. She hadn’t even realized she was crying until she’d suddenly gulped back a huge, awful sob and realized that her nightgown—the one she now swore she’d never wear again—was wet with tears.
Then all she could think was that he must have heard her through the door. And how that made it so much worse.
Iris had always known that she did not possess the sort of beauty that drove men to passion and poetry. Perhaps in some other land, women were revered for their utterly colorless skin and lightly ginger hair, but not here in England.
But for the first time in her life, she had begun to feel beautiful. And it was Richard who had made her feel that way, with his secret glances and warm smiles. Every now and then she would catch him watching her, and she felt special. Treasured.
But that was all a lie. Or she was a fool for seeing things that simply weren’t there.
Or maybe she was just a fool, period.
Well. She wasn’t going to take this lying down. And she certainly wasn’t going to let him see how deeply she’d felt his insult. She was going to go down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. She’d have jam on toast, and she’d read the newspaper, and when she spoke it would be with the sparkling wit for which she’d always intended to be renowned.
And really, it wasn’t even as if she was sure that she wanted to do all those things married people did in bed, no matter how lovely her cousin Sarah had said it was. But it would have been nice if he’d wanted to.
She would at least have given it a try.
The maid who had assisted her the night before must have had other duties to attend to, so Iris dressed herself. She twisted her hair into as neat a bun as she could manage on her own, jammed her feet into her slippers, and stalked out of her room.
She paused as she passed Richard’s door. Was he still abed? She took a step closer, tempted to put her ear against the wood.
Stop it!
She was behaving like a fool. Listening at his door. She had no time for this. She was hungry, and she wanted breakfast, and she had a great many things to do today, none of which concerned her husband.
She needed to find a lady’s maid, for one. And learn her way about the house. Visit the village. Meet the tenants.
Have tea.
What, she asked herself. It was important to have tea. She might as well go and become Italian, otherwise.
“I am losing my mind,” she said aloud.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
Iris nearly jumped a foot. A housemaid was at the far end of the hall, standing nervously with a large feather duster clasped in her hands.
“Nothing,” Iris said, trying not to look embarrassed. “I coughed.”
The maid nodded. It wasn’t the one who’d dressed her hair, Iris saw.
“Mrs. Hopkins wants to know what time you want your breakfast,” the maid said. She bobbed a little curtsy and didn’t quite meet Iris’s eyes. “We didn’t get a chance to ask you last night, and Sir Richard—”
“I’ll take my breakfast downstairs,” Iris interrupted. She didn’t want to hear what Sir Richard thought. About anything.
The maid curtsied again. “As you wish.”
Iris gave her an awkward smile. It was difficult to feel like the mistress of the house when the master so clearly had other ideas.
She made her way downstairs, trying to act as if she did not notice that all the servants were watching her—and pretending not to. It was a strange little dance they were all doing, herself most of all.
She wondered how long it would take until she was no longer the “new” mistress of Maycliffe. A month? A year? And would her husband spend the entirety of that time avoiding her bedchamber?