The Secrets of Sir Richard Kenworthy (Smythe-Smith Quartet, #4)

by Julia Quinn

If one was always at the eye of the proverbial storm, could one discern the slant of the rain, feel the bite of the wind?

She tried to smile. But she was not good at flirtation. Put her in a room of people she knew well, and she could carry her end of a conversation with flair and wit. Her deadpan sarcasm was legend in her family. But put her before a handsome gentleman, and her tongue twisted in knots. The only reason she had performed so well that afternoon was that she had not been sure that he was pursuing her. It was easy to be oneself when the stakes were low.

She needed to learn to be indifferent to him. Not cruel, not unkind, just . . . unaffected. When he smiled at her—and he did smile at her, the cur—her whole being seemed to fizz with happiness. Which would have been lovely, except that it made his rejection even more puzzling.

Surely a complicated marriage was better than an unpleasant one.

and she, who had always allowed herself to stand at the side and observe, could be nothing but the center of attention.

Iris had always known that she did not possess the sort of beauty that drove men to passion and poetry.

But for the first time in her life, she had begun to feel beautiful. And it was Richard who had made her feel that way, with his secret glances and warm smiles. Every now and then she would catch him watching her, and she felt special. Treasured. But that was all a lie. Or she was a fool for seeing things that simply weren’t there. Or maybe she was just a fool, period.

Ouch

No. No. If he thought she was beautiful, she damn well wasn’t going to contradict. If he thought she was beautiful, then she was beautiful, at least on this night, in this room.

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?

Really, Julia? "Whaaaaaa?”

“You took my freedom,” she said, hating how her voice trembled with emotion. “You took my dignity. You will not take my self-respect.”

Really, men could be so stupid.

Iris turned, measuring the malevolence in her eyes by the degree to which Marie-Claire drew back. “I am about one step away from clubbing you with a cricket bat,” she hissed. “No, you may not watch.” Marie-Claire’s expression took on an almost reverential touch. “Does my brother know you’re so violent?” “He might by the end of the day,” Iris muttered.