So she kept pretending that she thought this was normal. Lots of married couples kept to their own bedchambers. If her own parents ever slept in the same bed, she didn’t know about it.
Nor, she thought with a shudder, did she want to.
But even if Richard was the sort of man who felt that married couples should maintain their own chambers, surely he would wish to consummate the union? Her mother had said that men liked to do . . . that. And Sarah had said that women could like it, as well.
The only explanation was that Richard did not desire her. Except she thought . . . maybe . . . he did.
Twice she had caught him watching her with an intensity that made her pulse leap. And just this morning he’d almost kissed her. She was sure of it. They had been walking the winding path to the orangery, and she tripped. Richard had twisted as he caught her, and she’d fallen against him, her breasts pressed flat against his chest.
It was the closest she had ever been to him, and she looked up, straight into his eyes. The world around them had slipped away, and she saw nothing but his beloved face. His head dipped toward hers, and his gaze dropped to her lips, and she sighed . . .
And he stepped back.
“Forgive me,” he’d murmured, and they were once again on their way.
But the morning had lost its magic. Their conversation, which had grown so easy and free, was once again stilted, and Richard did not touch her, not even casually. There was no hand at her back, no arm looped with hers.
Another woman—one who had more experience with the male sex, or maybe one who could read minds—might understand why Richard was acting as he did, but Iris was mystified.
And frustrated.
And sad.
Iris groaned and turned back to the book she was reading. It was late in the afternoon, and she’d found an old Sarah Gorely novel in Maycliffe’s library—presumably the purchase of one of Richard’s sisters. She could not imagine he would ever have bought it. It wasn’t very good, but it was dramatic, and most importantly, it was distracting. And the blue sofa in the drawing room was exceedingly comfortable. The fabric had been worn down just enough to make it soft, but not quite so much as to render it careworn.
She liked reading in the drawing room. The afternoon light was excellent, and here, at the heart of the house, she could almost convince herself that she belonged to this place.
She’d managed to lose herself in the story for a chapter or so when she heard footsteps in the hall that could only belong to Richard.
“How are you this afternoon?” he asked from the doorway, greeting her with a polite dip of his head.
She smiled up at him. “Very well, thank you.”
“What are you reading?”
Iris held up the book even though it was unlikely he could read the title from across the room. “Miss Truesdale and the Silent Gentleman. It’s an old Sarah Gorely novel. Not her best, I’m afraid.”
He came fully into the room. “I have never read anything by that author. But I believe she is quite well-known, is she not?”
“I don’t think you would like it,” Iris said.
He smiled—that warm, languid smile that seemed to melt across his face. “Try me.”
Iris blinked and looked down at the book in her hands before holding it out toward him.
He laughed merrily. “I could not take it away from you.”
She glanced up at him with surprise. “You wish for me to read to you?”
“Why not?”
Her brows rose into doubtful arches. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she murmured, and she scooted over a little on the sofa, trying to quash the sting of disappointment when he instead sat in a chair across from her.
“Did you find it in the library?” he asked. “I imagine it was Fleur’s purchase.”
Iris nodded as she took note of her place before turning back to the beginning. “You have the entire Gorely oeuvre.”
“Really? I had no idea my sister was such a devotee.”
“You did say she likes to read,” Iris remarked. “And Mrs. Gorely is a very popular author.”
“So I’m told,” he murmured.
Iris looked over at him, and he regally inclined his head, signaling for her to begin. “Chapter One,” she read. “Miss Ivory Truesdale was orphaned on—” She looked back up. “Are you sure you want me to read this? I cannot imagine you will enjoy it.”
He regarded her with a deeply amused expression. “You realize you must read it now, after all your protestations.”
Iris shook her head. “Very well.” She cleared her throat. “Miss Ivory Truesdale was orphaned on a Wednesday afternoon, when her father was struck through the heart by a poison-tipped arrow, shot from the quiver of a Hungarian master archer, brought to England for the sole purpose of bringing about his gruesome and untimely demise.”
She looked up.
“Grim,” Richard said.
Iris nodded. “It gets worse.”
“How can it possibly?”
“The Hungarian archer meets his demise in a few chapters.”
“Let me guess. A carriage accident.”
“Far too pedestrian,” Iris scoffed. “This is the author who pecked a character to death with pigeons in another book.”
Richard’s mouth opened, then closed. “Pigeons,” he finally said, blinking several times in rapid succession. “Remarkable.”
Iris held up the book. “Shall I continue?”
“Please,” he said, with the particular expression of a man who is not at all certain he is treading the right path.