He wet his lips, but he could not seem able even to try to speak. Instead he was gripped by the most disconcerting urge to kneel before her like some medieval knight, to take her hand and pledge his devotion.
She took a step into his room, and then another, but there she paused. “Actually,” she said, the word tumbling quickly from her lips, “I needed to speak with you, too. You won’t believe wh—”
“I’m sorry,” he blurted out.
She blinked in surprise, and her voice was tiny and bewildered when she said, “What?”
“I’m sorry,” he said, choking on the words. “I’m sorry. When I came up with the plan, I didn’t think . . . I didn’t know that . . .” He raked his hand through his hair. Why was this so hard? He’d taken the time to think out his words. The whole time he’d been crisscrossing the fields and bellowing her name he’d been practicing them in his head, testing them out, measuring each syllable. But now, faced with the clear blue eyes of his wife, he was lost.
“Richard,” she said, “I must tell—”
“No, please.” He swallowed. “Let me continue. I beg you.”
She went still, and he could see in her eyes that she was startled to see him so humbled.
He said her name, or at least he thought he did. He had no recollection of crossing the room, but somehow he was there before her, taking her hands in his.
“I love you,” he said. It wasn’t what he had meant to say, not yet anyway, but there it was, more important and more precious than anything.
“I love you.” He dropped to his knees. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes, but even if I knew how to make it stop, I wouldn’t because the pain is at least something.”
Her eyes shone bright with tears, and he saw her tender pulse fluttering in her throat.
“I love you,” he said again, because he wasn’t sure how to stop saying it. “I love you, and if you will allow me, I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.” He stood, never letting go of her hands, and his eyes met hers in a solemn vow. “I will earn your forgiveness.”
She licked her trembling lips. “Richard, you don’t—”
“No, I do. I hurt you.” It pained him to say it out loud, such a stark, bleak acknowledgment. “I lied to you, and I tricked you, and—”
“Stop,” she pleaded. “Please.”
Was that forgiveness he saw in her eyes? Even a shred of it?
“Listen to me,” he said, taking one of her hands tightly in his. “You don’t have to do it. We’ll find some other way. I’ll convince Fleur to marry someone else, or I’ll scrape together the funds, and we’ll find a way for her to pass herself off as a widow. I won’t be able to see her as often as I’d like, but—”
“Stop,” Iris cut in, placing a finger against his lips. She was smiling. Her lips were quivering, but she was most definitely smiling. “I mean it. Stop.”
He shook his head, not understanding.
“Fleur lied,” she said.
He froze. “What?”
“Not about the baby, but about the father. It wasn’t William Parnell.”
Richard blinked, trying to make sense of this. “Then who?”
Iris caught her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes shifting to the side with hesitation.
“For the love of God, Iris, if you do not tell me—”
“John Burnham,” she blurted out.
“What?”
“John Burnham, your tenant.”
“I know who he is,” he said, far more sharply than he’d meant. “I just—” His brow furrowed, and his mouth went slack, and he was sure he looked like some bloody idiot about to be fitted with a dunce cap, but—“John Burnham? Really?”
“Marie-Claire told me.”
“Marie-Claire knew?”
Iris nodded.
“I’m going to throttle her.”
Iris gave a hesitant frown. “To be fair, she wasn’t sure . . .”
He looked at her in disbelief.
“Fleur didn’t tell her,” she explained. “Marie-Claire figured it out on her own.”
“She figured it out,” he said, feeling more like that dunce-capped idiot than ever, “and I didn’t?”
“You’re not her sister,” Iris said, as if that ought to explain everything.
He rubbed his eyes. “Dear God. John Burnham.” He looked at her, trying to blink the disbelief from his face. “John. Burnham.”