He knew that Iris held him in some affection. She might even wonder if she was falling in love. But if he asked for her hand tonight, he was almost certain she would not be prepared to give an immediate answer.
He sighed. This was not how he had imagined getting himself a wife.
He’d come alone this evening; Winston had flatly refused to attend any artistic endeavor produced by the Smythe-Smith family, regardless of Richard’s previous acceptance on his behalf. Now Winston was home with a false head cold, and Richard was standing in the corner, wondering why a piano had been brought into the drawing room.
And why it appeared to have been decorated with twigs.
A quick perusal of the room told him that Lady Pleinsworth had made up programs for the evening, although he did not seem to have been handed one, even though he had arrived nearly five minutes earlier.
“There you are.”
He turned at the soft voice and saw Iris standing before him in a simply adorned gown of pale blue muslin. She wore that color frequently, he realized. It suited her.
“I’m sorry to have left you unattended,” she said. “My assistance was required backstage.”
“Backstage?” he echoed. “I thought this was meant to be a poetry reading.”
“Ah, that,” she said, her cheeks turning a rather guilty shade of pink. “There has been a change of plans.”
He tipped his head in question.
“Perhaps I should get you a program.”
“Yes, I don’t seem to have been given one when I arrived.”
She cleared her throat about six times. “I believe it was decided not to hand them out to the gentlemen unless requested.”
He considered that for a moment. “Dare I ask why?”
“I believe,” she said, glancing up at the ceiling, “there was some concern that you might not choose to remain.”
Richard looked in horror at the piano.
“Oh, no,” Iris quickly assured him. “There will be no music. At least not that I know of. It’s not a concert.”
Still, Richard’s eyes widened with panic. Where was Winston and his little balls of cotton when he needed him? “You’re frightening me, Miss Smythe-Smith.”
“Does that mean you don’t want a program?” she asked hopefully.
He leaned very slightly toward her. It wasn’t enough to breach the rules of propriety, but still, he knew she noticed. “I think it’s best to be prepared, don’t you?”
She swallowed. “Just a moment.”
He waited as she crossed the room and approached Lady Pleinsworth. A moment later she returned with a sheet of paper. “Here,” she said sheepishly, holding it out.
He took it and looked down. Then looked back up. “The Shepherdess, the Unicorn, and Henry VIII?”
“It’s a play. My cousin Harriet wrote it.”
“And we’re to watch,” he confirmed warily.
She nodded.
He cleared his throat. “Do you, ah, have any idea of the length of this production?”
“Not as long as the musicale,” she assured him. “At least I don’t think so. I have seen only the last few minutes of the dress rehearsal.”
“The piano is part of the set, I assume?”
She nodded. “It’s nothing compared to the costumes, I’m afraid.”
He could barely bring himself to ask.
“It was my job to affix the horn to the unicorn.”
He tried not to laugh, he really did. And he almost managed.
“I’m not sure how Frances is going to get it off,” Iris said with nervous expression. “I glued it to her head.”
“You glued a horn to your cousin’s head,” he repeated.
She winced. “I did.”
“Do you like this cousin?”
“Oh, very much. She’s eleven and really quite delightful. I’d trade Daisy for her in a heartbeat.”
Richard had a feeling she would trade Daisy for a badger if given the option.
“A horn,” he said again. “Well, I suppose one can’t be a unicorn without one.”
“That’s just the thing,” Iris said with renewed enthusiasm. “Frances loves it. She adores unicorns. She’s quite convinced they are real, and I think she would become one if she were so able.”
“It appears she has taken the first step toward that noble goal,” Richard said. “With your kind assistance.”
“Ah, that. I’m rather hoping no one tells Aunt Charlotte that I was the one to wield the glue.”