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

by Julia Quinn

“What’s wrong with her?” Richard asked. Because it seemed unlikely that there wouldn’t be something. Winston shrugged. “Nothing. That I know of.” Which meant that she probably yodeled in her spare time. When she wasn’t practicing taxidermy. On crocodiles. Richard used to be a lucky fellow. Really. “She’s very pale,” Winston said. Richard looked over at him. “Is that a flaw?” “Of course not. It’s just . . .” Winston paused, his brow coming together in a little furrow of concentration. “Well, to be honest, that’s pretty much all I recall of her.”

By the end of the first movement, he could feel a vein twitching painfully in his brow.

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 would take an accordion-playing minotaur to top Daisy on the scale of bothersome to seventh circle of hell.

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.

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.

“I did speak to your aunt about him, though,” her mother continued, not bothering to clarify which aunt. Iris supposed it didn’t really matter; they all tended to be equally good sources of gossip.

Sarah eyed her with open curiosity. “Are you all right?” “Perfectly. Why do you ask?” “You seem different.” Iris gave a little shrug. “Perhaps it is my glow, as you termed it.” “No,” Sarah said bluntly, “that’s not it.” “Well, that was a short-lived glow,” Iris quipped. “Now you sound like yourself.”

“I’m right,” Sarah said triumphantly. And then, as an aside: “I love being right.”

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

“My aunt is signaling. I think we’re meant to take our seats.” With some trepidation, Richard sat next to her in the front row and regarded the piano, which he assumed marked the stage. The audience’s voices dimmed to whispers, and then to silence as Lady Harriet Pleinsworth stepped out of the shadows dressed as a humble shepherdess, crook and all. “O beautiful, brilliant day!” she proclaimed, pausing to bat away one of the ribbons on her wide-brimmed bonnet. “How blessed am I with my noble flock.” Nothing happened. “My noble flock!” she repeated, quite a bit louder. There was a crashing noise, followed by a grunt and a hissed “Stop it!” and then five small children dressed as sheep ambled forth. “My cousins,” Iris whispered. “The next generation.” “The sun shines down,” Harriet went on, spreading her arms wide in supplication. But 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. Iris clamped her hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. The play continued in this vein for several minutes, with the fair shepherdess extolling the wonders of nature until somewhere someone crashed a pair of cymbals and Harriet shrieked (as did half the audience). “I said,” Harriet ground out, “that we are lucky it’s not likely to rain for the next week.” The cymbals cras...

He watched her with visible amusement. “Do you always wake so slowly?” “No.” She pulled herself into a sitting position. At some point during the ride she’d slumped completely onto her side. “Sometimes I’m slower.” He chuckled at that. “I shall take that under advisement. No important meetings for Lady Kenworthy before noon.” Lady Kenworthy. She wondered how long it would take to grow used to it. “I can usually be relied upon to be coherent by eleven,” Iris returned.

They were women who demanded attention. Whereas Iris earned it.

Everyone could use a romantic novel every now and then.

“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.

She hadn’t a clue what was happening. A quarter of an hour ago she’d been peacefully reading a novel. Now she felt as if she were living in one. And she was the only character who did not seem to know the plot.

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

Iris pried open an eye. Just one, mind you; the other was firmly closed and pressed hard into her pillow. “Oh, good, you’re awake!”

“I sleep in many positions,” Iris grumbled, “but mostly . . . I sleep late.”

It was amazing how empowering a bit of profanity could be.