“I love you,” he said. It wasn’t what he had meant to say, not yet anyway, but there it was, more important and more precious than anything.
“I love you.” He dropped to his knees. “I love you so much it hurts sometimes, but even if I knew how to make it stop, I wouldn’t because the pain is at least something.”
Her eyes shone bright with tears, and he saw her tender pulse fluttering in her throat.
“I love you,” he said again, because he wasn’t sure how to stop saying it. “I love you, and if you will allow me, I will spend the rest of my life proving it to you.” He stood, never letting go of her hands, and his eyes met hers in a solemn vow. “I will earn your forgiveness.”
She licked her trembling lips. “Richard, you don’t—”
“No, I do. I hurt you.” It pained him to say it out loud, such a stark, bleak acknowledgment. “I lied to you, and I tricked you, and—”
“Stop,” she pleaded. “Please.”
Was that forgiveness he saw in her eyes? Even a shred of it?
“Listen to me,” he said, taking one of her hands tightly in his. “You don’t have to do it. We’ll find some other way. I’ll convince Fleur to marry someone else, or I’ll scrape together the funds, and we’ll find a way for her to pass herself off as a widow. I won’t be able to see her as often as I’d like, but—”
“Stop,” Iris cut in, placing a finger against his lips. She was smiling. Her lips were quivering, but she was most definitely smiling. “I mean it. Stop.”
He shook his head, not understanding.
“Fleur lied,” she said.
He froze. “What?”
“Not about the baby, but about the father. It wasn’t William Parnell.”
Richard blinked, trying to make sense of this. “Then who?”
Iris caught her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes shifting to the side with hesitation.
“For the love of God, Iris, if you do not tell me—”
“John Burnham,” she blurted out.
“What?”
“John Burnham, your tenant.”
“I know who he is,” he said, far more sharply than he’d meant. “I just—” His brow furrowed, and his mouth went slack, and he was sure he looked like some bloody idiot about to be fitted with a dunce cap, but—“John Burnham? Really?”
“Marie-Claire told me.”
“Marie-Claire knew?”
Iris nodded.
“I’m going to throttle her.”
Iris gave a hesitant frown. “To be fair, she wasn’t sure . . .”
He looked at her in disbelief.
“Fleur didn’t tell her,” she explained. “Marie-Claire figured it out on her own.”
“She figured it out,” he said, feeling more like that dunce-capped idiot than ever, “and I didn’t?”
“You’re not her sister,” Iris said, as if that ought to explain everything.
He rubbed his eyes. “Dear God. John Burnham.” He looked at her, trying to blink the disbelief from his face. “John. Burnham.”
“You will let her marry him, won’t you?”
“I don’t see how I have any choice. The baby needs a father . . . The baby has a father.” He looked up sharply. “He did not force himself on her?”
“No,” Iris said. “He did not.”
“Of course he didn’t.” He shook his head. “He would not do that. I know him that well at least.”
“Then you like him?”
“I do. I’ve said as much. It’s just . . . he has . . .” He sighed. “I suppose this is why she did not say anything. She thought I would not approve.”
“That, and she feared for Marie-Claire.”
“Oh, God,” Richard groaned. He had not even thought of Marie-Claire. It would be impossible for her to make a good match after this.
“No, no, don’t worry,” Iris said, her entire face perking with excitement. “I’ve taken care of that. I figured it all out. We’ll send her to London. My mother will sponsor her.”
“Are you sure?” Richard could not identify this strange, clenching in his chest. He was utterly humbled by her, by her brilliance, her caring heart. She was everything he had not even realized he needed in a woman, and somehow, miraculously, she was his.
“My mother has not been without an unmarried daughter of marrying age since 1818,” Iris said with wry grin. “She’s not going to know what to do with herself once Daisy is gone and out of the house. Trust me, you don’t want to see her when she’s bored. She’s an absolute nightmare.”
Richard laughed.
“I’m not joking.”
“I did not think you were,” he told her. “I’ve met your mother, you recall.”
Iris’s lips curved in a rather sly manner. “She and Marie-Claire will do well together.”
He nodded. Mrs. Smythe-Smith would surely do a better job than he ever had. He looked back over at Iris. “You do realize I’m going to have to kill Fleur before I let her marry him.”
His wife smiled at such nonsense. “Just forgive her. I have.”
“I thought you said you were not a model of Christian charity and forgiveness.”
She shrugged. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”
Richard took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Do you think you might be able to forgive me?”
“I already have,” she whispered.