“Iris . . .”
“Please,” she choked out, “just go away.”
He did not speak, but nor did he leave the room. She would have heard his footsteps. She would have felt his loss.
She hugged her arms to her body, silently begging him to obey her.
And then he did. She heard him turn, heard the unmistakable sound of his boot on the carpet. She was getting what she wanted, what she’d asked for, but it was all so wrong. She needed to understand. She needed to know.
She whirled around.
He stopped, his hand already on the door handle.
“Why?” she said brokenly. “Why?”
He did not turn around.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me.”
“I’m not,” he said quietly.
“Then don’t pretend you do not understand the question.”
She stared at his back, watching as his posture grew ever more rigid. The hand at his side tensed into a claw, and if she had any sense, she would not have pushed him. But she was tired of being sensible, so she said, “You chose me. Out of everyone in London, you chose me.”
He did not move for several seconds. Then, with precise motions, he shut the door and turned around to face her. “You could have declined,” he said.
“We both know that isn’t true.”
“Are you so unhappy, then?”
“No,” she said, and she wasn’t, not really. “But that does not negate the fundamental truth of our marriage.”
“The fundamental truth,” he repeated, his voice as dull and hollow as she’d ever heard it.
Iris turned away. It was too difficult to locate her courage when she could see his face. “Why did you marry me?” she choked out.
“I compromised you.”
“After you had already proposed,” she snapped, startled by her own impatience.
His voice, when he spoke, was tightly controlled. “Most women would consider a proposal of marriage to be a good thing.”
“Are you telling me I should consider myself lucky?”
“I said no such thing.”
“Why did you marry me?” she demanded.
“I wanted to,” he said with a shrug. “And you said yes.”
“I had no choice!” she burst out. “You made sure I had no choice.”
Richard’s hand shot out, circling her wrist like steel. It did not hurt; he was far too gentle for that. But it was clear she could not escape.
“If you had had a choice,” he said, “if your aunt had not come in, if no one had seen my lips on yours . . .” He paused, and the silence was so heavy and tight that she had to look up.
“Tell me, Iris,” he said softly, “can you say that your answer would have been different?”
No.
She would have asked for time. She had asked for time. But in the end, she would have accepted him. They both knew it.
The pressure of his hand on her wrist softened, and it felt almost like a caress. “Iris?”
He was not going to allow her to ignore his question. But she would not give voice to her answer. She glared at him mutinously, her teeth clamped together so tightly she shook. She would not back down. She didn’t know why it was so important that she not answer his question, but it felt as if her very soul hung in the balance.
Her soul.
Her very soul.
Good God, she was as bad as the fictitious Miss Truesdale. Was this what love did? Turned one’s brain to melodramatic rot?
A pained bubble of laughter burst from her throat. It was a horrible sound, bitter and raw.
“Are you laughing?” Richard asked.
“Apparently,” Iris replied, because she could not quite believe it herself.
“Why on earth?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know what else to do.”
He stared at her. “We were having a perfectly pleasant afternoon,” he finally said.
“We were,” she agreed.
“Why are you angry?”
“I’m not sure that I am,” she replied.
Again, he just stared at her in disbelief.
“Look at me,” Iris said, her voice rising with passion. “I am Lady Kenworthy, and I hardly know how it happened.”
“You stood before a priest, and—”
“Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “Why did you force the wedding? Why did we need to rush?”
“Does it matter?” he shot back.
She took a step back. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, I think it does.”
“You are my wife,” he said, his eyes blazing. “I have pledged to you my fidelity and my support. I have granted you all my worldly possessions, I have granted you my name.”