Sarah looked unconvinced.
“I know I am not ugly,” Iris assured her. “But it’s as Daisy said—”
“Oh no,” Sarah cut in forcefully, “don’t quote Daisy.”
“No,” Iris said, trying to be fair. “Occasionally she says something that makes sense. I lack color.”
Sarah held her gaze for a long moment, and then said, “That is the most asinine thing I have ever heard.”
Iris lifted her brows. Her pale, colorless brows. “Have you ever met anyone quite so pale?”
“No, but that signifies nothing.”
Iris let out a frustrated breath, trying to articulate her thoughts. “I’m trying to say that I’m used to being underestimated. Overlooked.”
Sarah just stared at her. And then—“What are you talking about?”
Iris let out a frustrated little puff of a breath. She knew Sarah would not understand. “People rarely notice me. And that’s—no, I swear it!—all right. I don’t want to be the center of attention.”
“You’re not shy,” Sarah pointed out.
“No, but I like being able to watch people, and”—she shrugged—“if I’m honest, mock them inside my own head.”
Sarah sputtered a laugh.
“Once people get to know me, it’s different,” Iris continued, “but I do not stand out in a crowd. And that is why I do not understand Sir Richard Kenworthy.”
Sarah was silent for a full minute. Every now and then she’d open her mouth as if to speak, but her lips would just hang in an oval, and then she’d shut them again. Finally she asked, “But you like him?”
“Were you not listening?” Iris practically exploded.
“Every word!” Sarah insisted. “But I do not see how any of it is relevant, at least not yet. For all we know, he did take one look at you and fall desperately in love. His behavior is certainly consistent with such a thing.”
“He’s not in love with me,” Iris insisted.
“Maybe not yet.” Sarah let her words hang in the air for some time before asking, “If he asked you to marry him, this very afternoon, what would you say?”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Of course it is, but I still want to know. What would you say?”
“I wouldn’t say anything, because he would not ask.”
Sarah scowled. “Will you stop being so stubborn for one moment and indulge me?”
“No!” Iris was ready to throw up her arms in exasperation. “I fail to see the point in attempting to determine my reply to a question that will not be asked.”
“You would say yes,” Sarah said.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Iris protested.
“Then you would say no.”
“I did not say that, either.”
Sarah sat back and nodded slowly, a very smug look washing over her features.
“What now?” Iris asked.
“You won’t even ponder the question because you’re afraid to examine your own feelings.”
Iris did not reply.
“I’m right,” Sarah said triumphantly. And then, as an aside: “I love being right.”
Iris took a deep breath, although whether this was to rein in her temper or summon her courage she did not know. “If he asked me to marry him,” she said, each word enunciated with precision, “I would tell him that I needed time to give him an answer.”
Sarah nodded.
“But he’s not going to ask me.”
Sarah let out a loud peal of laughter. “You have to have the last word, don’t you?”
“He’s not going to ask me.”
Sarah just grinned. “Oh, look, tea has arrived. I’m famished.”
“He’s not going to ask me.” Iris’s voice had taken on a singsong quality.
“I shall leave directly after tea,” Sarah said officiously. “Much as I’d love to make his acquaintance, I wouldn’t want to be here when he arrives. I might get in the way.”
“He’s not going to ask me.”
“Oh, do have a biscuit.”
“He’s not going to ask me,” Iris said again. And then, because she had to, she added, “He’s not.”
Chapter Six
Five days later
Pleinsworth House
IT WAS TIME.
It had been but a week since Richard had first laid eyes on Iris Smythe-Smith, right here in this very house. And now he was going to make her a proposal of marriage.
Of sorts.
He had called upon her every day since the Mottram ball. They had strolled in the park, ordered ices at Gunther’s, shared a box at the opera, and visited Covent Garden. In short, they had done everything a courting couple in London was supposed to do. He was full certain that Iris’s family expected him to ask her to marry him.
Just not quite yet.
He knew that Iris held him in some affection. She might even wonder if she was falling in love. But if he asked for her hand tonight, he was almost certain she would not be prepared to give an immediate answer.
He sighed. This was not how he had imagined getting himself a wife.
He’d come alone this evening; Winston had flatly refused to attend any artistic endeavor produced by the Smythe-Smith family, regardless of Richard’s previous acceptance on his behalf. Now Winston was home with a false head cold, and Richard was standing in the corner, wondering why a piano had been brought into the drawing room.
And why it appeared to have been decorated with twigs.
A quick perusal of the room told him that Lady Pleinsworth had made up programs for the evening, although he did not seem to have been handed one, even though he had arrived nearly five minutes earlier.