For a moment the two women remained frozen as if in a tableau. Iris kept her hand on Fleur’s elbow, almost as if she realized that the younger woman was unsteady, that she’d been unsteady for weeks and needed some sort of human contact.
“Thank you,” Fleur said grudgingly.
Iris took a step back, her hands returning to their tightly clasped position in front of her. “It was nothing.”
“Fleur,” Richard said in a commanding voice. It was not a tone he’d often used with his sisters. Perhaps he should have done.
Slowly, she turned.
“Iris is my wife,” he stated. “Maycliffe is her home now, as much as it is ours.”
Fleur’s eyes met his. “I could never overlook her presence here. I assure you.”
And then Richard did the strangest thing. He reached out and took Iris’s hand. Not to kiss it, not to lead her somewhere.
Just to hold it. To feel her warmth.
He felt her fingers lace through his, and he tightened his grip. He did not deserve her. He knew it. Fleur knew it, too. But for this one awful moment, with his entire life crashing around him, he was going to hold his wife’s hand and pretend she would never let go.
Chapter Eighteen
FOR MUCH OF her life, Iris had made a conscious choice to keep her mouth shut. It wasn’t that she had nothing to say; put her in a roomful of cousins and she’d run on at the mouth all night. Her father had once said she was a born strategist, always looking two steps ahead, and maybe this was why she had always recognized the value of choosing when to speak. Never, however, had she been truly rendered speechless. Truly, flabbergastedly, she-could-not-even-think-in-complete-sentences, speechless.
But now, as she watched Fleur Kenworthy disappear into Maycliffe, Richard’s hand still improbably twined with her own, all Iris could think was—Whhaaaaa?
No one moved for at least five seconds. The first to wake up was Mrs. Hopkins, who mumbled something about making sure Fleur’s room was ready before hurrying into the house. Cresswell, too, made a swift and discreet exit, ushering the two footmen along with him.
Iris held herself totally still, her only movement her eyes as they darted back and forth between Richard and Marie-Claire.
What on earth had just happened?
“I’m sorry,” Richard said, releasing her hand. “She is not usually like that.”
Marie-Claire snorted. “It would be more accurate to say she’s not always like that.”
“Marie-Claire,” he snapped.
He looked exhausted, Iris thought. Utterly wrecked.
Marie-Claire crossed her arms over her chest and leveled a dark stare at her brother. “She’s been awful, Richard. Just awful. Even Aunt Milton lost her patience with her.”
Richard turned sharply toward her. “Does she . . .”
Marie-Claire shook her head.
Richard exhaled.
Iris kept watching. And listening. Something strange was going on, some sort of hidden conversation beneath their scowls and shrugs.
“I don’t envy you, Brother.” Marie-Claire looked at Iris. “Or you.”
Iris started. She’d almost thought they’d forgotten her presence. “What is she talking about?” she asked Richard.
“Nothing,” he bit off.
Well, that was clearly a lie.
“Or me, really,” Marie-Claire continued. “I’m the one who has to share a room with her.” She groaned dramatically. “It’s going to be a long year.”
“Not now, Marie-Claire,” Richard warned.
The siblings shared a look that Iris could not even begin to interpret. They had the same eyes, she realized, the same way of narrowing them to make a point. Fleur, too, although hers had a greenish hue, where Richard’s and Marie-Claire’s were dark and brown.
“You have lovely hair,” Marie-Claire said suddenly.
“Thank you,” Iris said, trying not to blink at the sharp change of subject. “So do you.”
Marie-Claire let out a little laugh. “No I don’t, but it’s very kind of you to say so.”
“But it’s just like your brother’s,” Iris said, darting a mortified look at Richard when she realized what she’d said. He was looking at her strangely, as if he didn’t know what to make of her accidental compliment.
“You must be weary after your journey,” Iris said, trying to salvage the moment. “Would you like to rest?”
“Er . . . yes. I suppose so,” Marie-Claire said, “although I’m not sure my bedchamber will be very restful just now.”