“But not yours!” Iris turned away, hugging her arms to her body. “And not mine.”
“You cannot love a child not of your body?” His voice was low, accusing.
“Of course I can. But this is deceptive. It’s wrong. You know it is!”
“I wish you luck convincing him of that,” Fleur said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, be quiet!” Iris snapped. “Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?”
Fleur lurched back, startled by Iris’s display of temper.
“What will you do when we have a boy,” Iris asked Richard, “and your son—your firstborn son—cannot inherit Maycliffe because you have already given it away?”
Richard said nothing, his lips pressed so tightly together they were nearly gone white.
“You would deny your own child his birthright?” Iris pressed.
“I will make arrangements,” he said stiffly.
“There are no arrangements that can be made,” Iris cried. “You cannot have thought this through. If you claim her son as ours, you cannot make a younger child your heir. You—”
“Maycliffe is not entailed,” Richard reminded her.
Iris drew an angry breath. “That’s even worse. You would allow Fleur’s son to believe he is your firstborn and then hand Maycliffe to his younger brother?”
“Of course not,” Richard nearly hissed. “What sort of man do you think I am?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
He recoiled, but he continued speaking. “I will divide the property in two if necessary.”
“Oh, that will be fair,” Iris drawled. “One child will get the house and the other the orangery. No one is going to feel slighted at that.”
“For the love of God,” Richard exploded, “will you just shut up?”
Iris gasped, flinching at his tone.
“I shouldn’t have said that if I were you,” Fleur said.
Richard snarled something at his sister; Iris didn’t know what, but Fleur took a step back, and all three of them hung frozen in an uneasy tableau until Richard drew a loud breath, and said in an emotionless voice, “We will all travel to Scotland next week. To visit cousins.”
“We have no Scottish cousins,” Fleur said flatly.
“We do now,” he told her.
Fleur looked at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Just recently discovered on the family tree,” he said, with enough false cheer to indicate that he was making the whole thing up. “Hamish and Mary Tavistock.”
“Now you’re inventing relations?” Fleur scoffed.
He ignored her sarcasm. “You are going to enjoy their company so much you decide to stay.” He gave her a sickly smile. “For months.”
Fleur crossed her arms. “I won’t do it.”
Iris looked at Richard. The raw pain in his eyes was almost too much to bear. For a moment she wanted to go to him, to lay her hand on his arm and comfort him.
But no. No. He did not deserve her comfort. He had lied to her. He had deceived her in the worst possible way.
“I cannot stay here,” she said suddenly. She could not remain in this room. She could not look at him. Or his sister.
“You will not leave me,” Richard said sharply.
She turned, not sure if her face belied her disbelief. Or her contempt. “I am going to my room,” she said slowly.
He shifted his weight slightly. He was embarrassed. Good.
“Do not disturb me,” Iris said.
Neither Richard nor Fleur said a word.
Iris stalked to the door and wrenched it open, only to find Marie-Claire, tripping over her feet as she jumped back, trying to look as if she hadn’t been blatantly eavesdropping.
“Good afternoon,” Marie-Claire said with a hasty smile. “I was just—”
“Oh for God’s sake,” Iris snapped, “you already know.”
She brushed past her, beyond caring that she’d made the younger girl stumble. When she got to her room, she did not slam the door. Instead she shut it with a careful click, her hand remaining frozen on the handle. With a strange detachment, she watched as her fingers began to tremble and then shake. And then her legs were shaking, and she had to lean against the door for support, and then she was sliding down, down to the floor where she bent into herself and began to weep.
IRIS WAS GONE for a full minute before Richard could bring himself to look at his sister.
“Do not blame this on me,” Fleur said with low fervor. “I did not ask this of you.”
Richard tried not to respond. He was so damned weary of arguing with her. 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.
He began to feel chilled, the hot fury of the last month replaced by a devastating frost. His eyes settled hard on Fleur’s. “Your lack of gratitude astounds me.”
“I am not the one who demanded that she commit such an immoral fraud.”
Richard clenched his teeth until his jaw shook. Why could she not see reason? He was trying to protect her, to give her a chance at a happy, respectable life.
Fleur gave him a scornful glance. “Did you really think she was going to smile, and say, ‘As you wish, sir?’”
“I will deal with my wife as I see fit,” he bit off.
Fleur snorted.
“My God,” he exploded. “You have absolutely no—” He cut himself off, raking a hand through his hair as he wrenched himself away, turning to face the window. “Do you think I like this?” he nearly hissed. He clutched the sill with whitened fingers. “Do you think I enjoyed deceiving her?”