As was he. The loveliest in memory.
Chapter Fourteen
Three days later
SHE WAS FALLING in love with her husband. Iris didn’t know how it could possibly be more obvious.
Wasn’t love supposed to be confusing? Wasn’t she supposed to lie in bed, agonizing under the weight of her tortuous thoughts—Is this real? Is this love? Back in London she’d asked her cousin Sarah about it—Sarah, who was so thoroughly and obviously in love with her husband, and even she had said that she hadn’t been sure at first.
But no, Iris always had to do things her own way, and she simply woke up in the morning and thought to herself, I love him.
Or if she didn’t yet, she would soon. It was only a matter of time. Her breath caught whenever Richard walked into the room. She thought about him constantly. And he could make her laugh—oh, how he could make her laugh.
She could make him laugh, too. And when she did, her heart leapt.
The day they had visited the tenants had been magical, and she knew he’d felt it, too. He had kissed her as if she were a priceless treasure—no, she thought, not like that. That would have been cold and clinical.
Richard had kissed her as if she were light and warmth and rainbows all rolled into one. He’d kissed her as if the sun were shining down with a single beam of light, just on them, only on them.
It had been perfect.
Pure magic.
And then he hadn’t done it again.
They spent their days together, exploring Maycliffe. He gazed warmly into her eyes. He held her hand, he even kissed the tender skin of her wrist. But he never brought his lips to hers.
Did he think she would not welcome his advances? Did he think it was still too soon? How could it be too soon? They were married, for heaven’s sake. She was his wife.
And why didn’t he realize that she would be too embarrassed to ask him about it?
So she kept pretending that she thought this was normal. Lots of married couples kept to their own bedchambers. If her own parents ever slept in the same bed, she didn’t know about it.
Nor, she thought with a shudder, did she want to.
But even if Richard was the sort of man who felt that married couples should maintain their own chambers, surely he would wish to consummate the union? Her mother had said that men liked to do . . . that. And Sarah had said that women could like it, as well.
The only explanation was that Richard did not desire her. Except she thought . . . maybe . . . he did.
Twice she had caught him watching her with an intensity that made her pulse leap. And just this morning he’d almost kissed her. She was sure of it. They had been walking the winding path to the orangery, and she tripped. Richard had twisted as he caught her, and she’d fallen against him, her breasts pressed flat against his chest.
It was the closest she had ever been to him, and she looked up, straight into his eyes. The world around them had slipped away, and she saw nothing but his beloved face. His head dipped toward hers, and his gaze dropped to her lips, and she sighed . . .
And he stepped back.
“Forgive me,” he’d murmured, and they were once again on their way.
But the morning had lost its magic. Their conversation, which had grown so easy and free, was once again stilted, and Richard did not touch her, not even casually. There was no hand at her back, no arm looped with hers.
Another woman—one who had more experience with the male sex, or maybe one who could read minds—might understand why Richard was acting as he did, but Iris was mystified.
And frustrated.
And sad.
Iris groaned and turned back to the book she was reading. It was late in the afternoon, and she’d found an old Sarah Gorely novel in Maycliffe’s library—presumably the purchase of one of Richard’s sisters. She could not imagine he would ever have bought it. It wasn’t very good, but it was dramatic, and most importantly, it was distracting. And the blue sofa in the drawing room was exceedingly comfortable. The fabric had been worn down just enough to make it soft, but not quite so much as to render it careworn.
She liked reading in the drawing room. The afternoon light was excellent, and here, at the heart of the house, she could almost convince herself that she belonged to this place.
She’d managed to lose herself in the story for a chapter or so when she heard footsteps in the hall that could only belong to Richard.
“How are you this afternoon?” he asked from the doorway, greeting her with a polite dip of his head.
She smiled up at him. “Very well, thank you.”
“What are you reading?”
Iris held up the book even though it was unlikely he could read the title from across the room. “Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman. It’s an old Sarah Gorely novel. Not her best, I’m afraid.”