Who would have thought that he’d like her so well?
Like.
Who liked a wife? In his world, wives were tolerated, indulged, and if one was very lucky, desired. But liked?
If he hadn’t married Iris, he’d want her for a friend.
Well, he would, except for the complication of wanting so badly to take her to bed he could barely think straight. The night before, when he’d gone in to bid her good night, he’d almost lost control. He’d wanted to become her husband truly, he’d wanted her to know that he wanted her. He’d seen her face after he kissed her on the forehead. She was confused. Hurt. She’d thought he didn’t desire her.
Didn’t desire her?
It was so far from the truth as to be almost laughable. What would she think if she knew he lay awake at night, taut and burning with need as he imagined all the ways he wanted to bring her pleasure. What would she say if he told her how much he longed to bury himself within her, to imprint himself upon her, to make her understand that she was his, that he wanted her to be his, and he would gladly be hers.
“Richard?”
He turned at the sound of his wife’s voice. Or rather, he turned partway. His wicked thoughts had left their mark upon his body, and he was relieved that he could conceal himself behind the counter.
“Did you say something?” she asked.
Did he?
“Well, you made a sound,” she said with a shrug.
He could only imagine. Good Lord, how was he going to get through the next few months?
“Richard?” she said again. She looked amused, perhaps a little delighted at having caught him woolgathering. When he did not immediately reply, she shook her head with a smile and turned back to her work.
He watched her for a few moments, then dipped his hands in a nearby bowl of water and discreetly patted his face. When he was feeling sufficiently cooled, he walked over to where Iris and Mrs. Hopkins were sorting through items.
“What are you putting in that one?” he asked, peeking over Iris’s shoulder as she placed items into a small wooden crate.
Iris glanced up at him only briefly. She was clearly enjoying her work. “Mrs. Hopkins said that the Millers likely need some new linens.”
“Dishcloths?” It seemed a rather plain gift to him.
“It’s what they need,” Iris said. But then she flashed him a smile. “We’re also adding some biscuits just as soon as they come out of the oven. Because it’s always nice to get some things you want, too.”
Richard stared at her for the longest moment.
Self-consciously, she checked her dress, then touched her cheek. “Do I have something on my face? I was helping with the jam . . .”
She had nothing on her face, but he leaned forward and lightly kissed the corner of her mouth. “Right here,” he murmured.
She touched the spot where he’d kissed her. She gazed at him with an expression of wonder, as if she wasn’t sure what had just happened.
He wasn’t sure, either.
“It’s all better now,” he told her.
“Thank you. I—” A faint blush stole over her cheeks. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
And it was.
For the next two hours Richard pretended to help with baskets. Iris and Mrs. Hopkins had everything well in hand, and when he tried to make a suggestion, it was either waved away or considered and found wanting.
He didn’t mind. He was happy to assume the position of biscuit-tester （uniformly excellent, he was happy to inform Cook）， and watch Iris assume her role as mistress of Maycliffe.
Finally, they had a collection of eighteen baskets, boxes, and bowls, each carefully packed and labeled with the surname of a tenant family. No two gifts were the same; the Dunlops, with four boys between the ages of twelve and sixteen, were given a hefty portion of food, while one of Marie-Claire’s old dolls was placed in the basket for the Smiths, whose three-year-old daughter was recovering from croup. The Millers got their dishcloths and biscuits, and the Burnhams a hearty ham and two books—a study of land management for the eldest son, who had recently taken over the farm, and a romantic novel for his sisters.
And maybe for the son, too, Richard thought with a grin. Everyone could use a romantic novel every now and then.
Everything was loaded into a wagon, and soon Richard and Iris were on their way, bound for all four corners of Maycliffe Park.
“Not the most glamorous of conveyances,” he said with a rueful smile, as they bumped along the road.
Iris put her hand on her head as a stiff wind threatened to steal her bonnet. “I don’t mind. Goodness, can you imagine trying to transport all this in a barouche?”