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

by Julia Quinn

“As with all things in life, the best option is to blame my sister.”

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?

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

If she were the sort of female who inspired men to fall in love at first sight, surely someone else would have done so by now.

“Yes. You probably did not notice him at the musicale, as you were facing away from much of the audience.” “I was trying to jump into the pianoforte and close the lid is what you mean,” Sarah joked.

“The Shepherdess, the Unicorn, and Henry VIII?”

“It was my job to affix the horn to the unicorn.” He tried not to laugh, he really did. And he almost managed. “I’m not sure how Frances is going to get it off,” Iris said with nervous expression. “I glued it to her head.” “You glued a horn to your cousin’s head,” he repeated. She winced. “I did.”

Richard had a feeling she would trade Daisy for a badger if given the option.

Richard was too fascinated by the sheep to listen. The largest of the lot was bleating so loudly, Harriet finally had to give him a little kick, and one of the smaller ones—good God, the child could not be more than two—had crawled over to the piano and was licking the leg.

They were women who demanded attention. Whereas Iris earned it. With her fierce intelligence and her quiet, sly humor, she had a way of sneaking up on his thoughts. She surprised him at every turn. 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.

He’d taught him to read—not the actual letters and words, but he’d taught him to love reading, to see value in books and knowledge.

“I thought I was a man,” he said with a rueful twist of his lips. “But then . . . when I had to go home and be one . . .”

tick of his head toward Iris. “Like you, she’s got far too many siblings, and she’s learned to be quick.” “Not quick,” Iris corrected. “Devious.” “Even worse.” “He is the oldest,” she told Tommy meaningfully. “What he achieved with brute force, we’ve had to manage with our wits.”

“You are a treasure, Iris Kenworthy,”

“Silly? Or optimistic?” She laughed. “I’m rarely optimistic.”

He could not fall asleep in her bed. He did not trust himself to awaken in her arms.

Iris shrieked. So did the housemaid in the doorway. But only one of them was wrapped like a mummy, and Iris’s lurch of surprise landed her in a heap on the floor.

“Thank you,” she said. Because sometimes it was best not to question a gift. Sometimes one simply had to be glad for it without knowing why.

“You’re a witch,” he groaned, yanking his shirt over his head. She just smiled, because she felt like one, as if she had new powers.

She gasped. This was not what she’d seen on the statue at the museum.

A lot of what her mother had said began to make sense.

“Iris . . .” His voice was like warmed honey, melting through her bones.

She did not speak. She just stared at him with those huge blue eyes, not even looking confused. Just . . . Resigned. And that was even worse.

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.

Iris laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Can I be of help?” “It’s a family matter,” he bit off. She drew her hand back, and then she drew her body back. “Forgive me,” she said sharply. “I thought I was family.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Iris said haughtily. “Since you’re managing so well.”

But he could not see anything but the shattered look on Iris’s face, and he had an awful sense that he’d broken something within her, something he could never repair.

She’d donned armor, he realized. He could not blame her.

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

“You did not marry a paragon of Christian charity and forgiveness,” she said sardonically.

“What will you say to her?” “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe ‘Are you out of your bloody mind?’” Marie-Claire’s mouth fell open. And then, skipping forward to catch up, she asked, “Can I watch?” 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.”

“Does my brother know you’re so violent?” “He might by the end of the day,” Iris muttered. She picked up her speed.