Then all she could think was that he must have heard her through the door. And how that made it so much worse.
Iris had always known that she did not possess the sort of beauty that drove men to passion and poetry. Perhaps in some other land, women were revered for their utterly colorless skin and lightly ginger hair, but not here in England.
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.
Well. She wasn’t going to take this lying down. And she certainly wasn’t going to let him see how deeply she’d felt his insult. She was going to go down to breakfast as if nothing had happened. She’d have jam on toast, and she’d read the newspaper, and when she spoke it would be with the sparkling wit for which she’d always intended to be renowned.
And really, it wasn’t even as if she was sure that she wanted to do all those things married people did in bed, no matter how lovely her cousin Sarah had said it was. But it would have been nice if he’d wanted to.
She would at least have given it a try.
The maid who had assisted her the night before must have had other duties to attend to, so Iris dressed herself. She twisted her hair into as neat a bun as she could manage on her own, jammed her feet into her slippers, and stalked out of her room.
She paused as she passed Richard’s door. Was he still abed? She took a step closer, tempted to put her ear against the wood.
Stop it!
She was behaving like a fool. Listening at his door. She had no time for this. She was hungry, and she wanted breakfast, and she had a great many things to do today, none of which concerned her husband.
She needed to find a lady’s maid, for one. And learn her way about the house. Visit the village. Meet the tenants.
Have tea.
What, she asked herself. It was important to have tea. She might as well go and become Italian, otherwise.
“I am losing my mind,” she said aloud.
“I beg your pardon, my lady?”
Iris nearly jumped a foot. A housemaid was at the far end of the hall, standing nervously with a large feather duster clasped in her hands.
“Nothing,” Iris said, trying not to look embarrassed. “I coughed.”
The maid nodded. It wasn’t the one who’d dressed her hair, Iris saw.
“Mrs. Hopkins wants to know what time you want your breakfast,” the maid said. She bobbed a little curtsy and didn’t quite meet Iris’s eyes. “We didn’t get a chance to ask you last night, and Sir Richard—”
“I’ll take my breakfast downstairs,” Iris interrupted. She didn’t want to hear what Sir Richard thought. About anything.
The maid curtsied again. “As you wish.”
Iris gave her an awkward smile. It was difficult to feel like the mistress of the house when the master so clearly had other ideas.
She made her way downstairs, trying to act as if she did not notice that all the servants were watching her—and pretending not to. It was a strange little dance they were all doing, herself most of all.
She wondered how long it would take until she was no longer the “new” mistress of Maycliffe. A month? A year? And would her husband spend the entirety of that time avoiding her bedchamber?
She sighed, then stopped walking for a moment, then told herself she was being silly. She’d never expected a passionate marriage, so why was she pining over one now? She had become Lady Kenworthy, as strange as it seemed, and she had a reputation to uphold.
Iris straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the breakfast room.
Only to find it empty.
Bloody hell.
“Oh! Lady Kenworthy!” Mrs. Hopkins came bustling into the room. “Annie just told me you’ll be wanting your breakfast downstairs this morning.”
“Er, yes. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“Not at all, my lady. We still have the sideboard laid from when Sir Richard ate.”
“He has already been down then?” Iris wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be disappointed.
“Not even a quarter of an hour ago,” the housekeeper confirmed. “I believe he thought you would be taking your breakfast in bed.”
Iris just stood there with nothing to say.
Mrs. Hopkins gave her a bit of a secret smile. “He asked us to put a flower on your tray.”
“He did?” Iris asked, hating the way her voice seemed to gulp from her throat.
“It’s a pity we have no irises. They bloom so early, they do.”
“This far north?” Iris asked.
Mrs. Hopkins nodded. “They come up each year on the west lawn. I like the purple ones myself.”
Iris was just about to agree with her when she heard footsteps in the hall, brisk and determined. It could only be Richard. No servant would ever move about a house with so little regard to noise.
“Mrs. Hopkins,” he said, “I’m going—Oh.” He saw Iris and blinked. “You’re awake.”
“As you see.”
“You had told me you were a late riser.”
“Not today, apparently.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, then cleared his throat. “Have you eaten?”
“No, not yet.”
“You didn’t want breakfast in your room?”
“No,” Iris said, wondering if she’d ever had such a stilted conversation in her life. What happened to the man who had been so charming the night before? The one she’d thought would visit her bed?