“I don’t judge you,” Iris said, although she had a feeling she did, maybe a little bit.
Sarah regarded her with a frank expression. “Has Sir Richard kissed you?”
Iris nodded.
“Did you like it? No, don’t answer, I can tell from your face that you did.”
Not for the first time Iris cursed her fair skin. There wasn’t a person in England who blushed with as much vigor and depth as she did.
Sarah patted her hand. “That’s a good sign. If his kisses are lovely, then the rest will most likely be, too.”
“This has been the strangest morning of my life,” Iris said weakly.
“It’s about to get stranger”—Sarah stood and gave Iris an exaggerated tip of the head—“Lady Kenworthy.”
Iris threw a pillow at her.
“I must away,” Sarah said. “Your sisters will be here at any moment to help you get ready.” She moved to the door and placed her hand on the knob, glancing back at her cousin with a smile.
“Sarah!” Iris called out, before she could exit the room.
Sarah tilted her head in question.
Iris gazed at her cousin, and for the first time in her life, realized just how much she loved her. “Thank you.”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Iris was Lady Kenworthy in truth. She had stood before a man of God, and she had said the words that would bind her to Sir Richard for life.
He was still such a mystery. He had continued to court her during the brief time between her compromise and the wedding, and she could not say that he was anything but charming. But she still could not bring herself to trust in him without reservation.
She did like him. She liked him very much. He had a wicked sense of humor, ideally matched to her own, and if pressed, she would have said that she believed him to be a man of good moral fiber and principles.
But it wasn’t so much of a belief as it was a supposition, or in truth, just a hope. Her gut told her all would be well, but she didn’t really like to trust her gut. She was far too practical for that. She preferred tangibility; she desired proof.
Their courtship had not made sense. She simply could not get past that.
“We must make our farewells,” her husband—her husband!—said to her shortly after the wedding breakfast. The celebration, like the ceremony, had been simple, although not precisely small. The size of Iris’s family had made that impossible.
Iris had passed through the events of the day in a daze, nodding and smiling at what she hoped were the correct moments. Cousin after cousin stepped forth to congratulate her, but with every kiss on the cheek and pat on the hand, she could only think that she was one moment closer to stepping into Sir Richard’s carriage and riding away.
Now that time had come.
He handed her up, and she took a seat facing front. It was a nice carriage, well-appointed and comfortable. She hoped it was well sprung; according to her husband it was a four-day journey to Maycliffe Park.
A moment after she was settled, Sir Richard entered the carriage. He gave her a smile, then sat opposite her.
Iris peeked out the window at her family, gathered together in front of her home. No, not her home. Not any longer. She felt the mortifying prick of tears in her eyes and dug hastily in her beaded reticule for a handkerchief. She barely had her bag open, however, before Sir Richard leaned forward, proffering his own.
There was no point in denying her tearfulness, Iris supposed as she took the handkerchief. He could see her well enough. “I’m sorry,” she said as she dabbed her eyes. Brides weren’t meant to cry on their wedding days. Surely it could not portend anything good.
“You have nothing for which to apologize,” Sir Richard said kindly. “I know this has all been quite an upheaval.”
She gave him the best smile she could manage, which wasn’t much of one, really. “I was just thinking . . .” She motioned to the window. The carriage had not yet begun to move, and if she tilted her head just so, she could see what had once been her bedroom window. “It’s no longer my home.”
“I hope you will like Maycliffe.”
“I’m sure I will. Your descriptions are lovely.” He had told her of the grand staircase and secret passageways. A room where King James I had slept. There was an herb garden near the kitchen and an orangery in the back. It wasn’t attached to the house, though, and he’d told her that he’d long thought of connecting them.
“I shall do my best to make you happy,” he said.
She appreciated that he said that here, where they had no audience. “As shall I.”