Page 10 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“ G race could ask her sister about nursemaids. Apparently, she hired a wonderful woman just last month,” Harrison offered.

Iris sat in the morning room bouncing Evie gently while Grace perched on the edge of her seat. Her hazel eyes were narrowed with concern. Harrison stood near the window. He was solid and reassuring in his quiet way.

“That would be helpful.” Iris shifted Evie to her other arm and winced slightly. The baby seemed to grow heavier by the day. “The candidates Owen arranged have been less than ideal.”

“Still drunk?” Grace asked with characteristic bluntness.

“The last one seemed sober enough. She simply believed babies should be left to cry themselves into submission.” Iris shuddered at the memory. “When I disagreed, she told me I was too soft to raise a child properly.”

“The audacity.” Grace’s face darkened. “Harrison, we’re adding her to the list.”

“What list?” Iris asked.

“The list of people who deserve unfortunate accidents,” Harrison said mildly. “Grace keeps quite a long one.”

“It’s a harmless hobby.” Grace waved a hand dismissively. “Now, tell us everything. Your letter was rather vague.”

Iris had known this moment would come. She’d spent the morning rehearsing the words. Every time she tried to lie to her dearest friends she tasted ash in her mouth.

“There are circumstances around her birth,” she began slowly. “Things that require discretion…” She trailed off.

Grace leaned forward and took her free hand. “Iris. It’s us.”

Those two words nearly undid her. Grace had been her anchor this past year, the one person who never judged, never pried—just offered steady friendship when she needed it most.

“It is… complicated,” Iris whispered.

“Meaning?”

“Well, you know very well that I didn’t birth her. But… she’s not the Duke’s either. She was left on our doorstep with a note.”

Grace’s eyes widened. Harrison straightened to his full height.

“Left?” Grace repeated. “By whom?”

“We don’t know. Well, Owen might, but he won’t say.” Iris adjusted Evie, who had started fussing. “The note asked us to protect her. So, we are.”

“By claiming her as your own?”

“What else could we do? Send her to an orphanage? Let her grow up unwanted and unloved?”

“Of course not.” Grace squeezed her hand. “But Iris, this is… enormous. The lies you’ll have to tell. The risk if anyone finds out.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Harrison spoke for the first time since her confession. “Forgive me, my friend, but this could ruin you. Both of you.”

“Only if someone reveals the truth.” Iris met his gaze steadily. “Which is why I’m asking for your discretion. And your help.”

“Our help?” Grace asked.

“To maintain the charade. You’ve been here all year. People will ask if you noticed signs of pregnancy. If you seemed surprised by the baby.”

Understanding dawned on Grace’s face. “You want us to lie for you.”

“I’m asking you to protect an innocent child.” Iris looked down at Evie who had settled again. “Whatever circumstances brought her here, she doesn’t deserve to suffer for them.”

Silence stretched between them.

Iris held her breath, aware she was asking too much. These were good and honest people. She had no right to drag them into this deception.

“Well,” Grace said finally, “I suppose I’ll need to come up with stories about visiting you during your confinement. Harrison, you’ll need to mention how I said that Iris looked radiant while carrying. Men always remember such details poorly, so no one will question you if you’re being vague.”

Iris’s head snapped up. “You’ll help?”

“Did you think we wouldn’t?” Grace’s eyes were suspiciously bright. “You’re our dearest friend. If you say this child needs protection, then protection she’ll have.”

“Grace…” Iris’s throat tightened.

“None of that. We can’t have you crying. It’ll upset the baby.” Grace stood up briskly. “Now, let me hold her while you compose yourself. Harrison, ring for tea. We have plans to make.”

The next half hour passed in a blur of strategy and gentle teasing. Grace cooed to Evie while Harrison offered surprisingly practical suggestions about keeping up their story.

For the first time since Evie’s arrival, Iris felt like she could breathe.

“She’s beautiful,” Grace said softly as she traced Evie’s tiny fist with one finger. “Whatever her origins, she’s lucky to have you.”

“I’m the lucky one.” The words came out more honestly than Iris had intended. “She gave me a reason to stay.”

Grace’s gaze sharpened. “Iris…”

“I mean it.” Iris took Evie back, needing to feel her warm weight. “I was drowning in that empty house. Going through the motions, pretending everything was fine. She saved me as much as I’m saving her.”

“And His Grace?” Harrison asked carefully. “How is he handling fatherhood?”

Iris thought of the previous evening when the Duke appeared in the nursery doorway and watched silently as she sang Evie to sleep. In that strange moment when their eyes met over the baby’s head, something unspoken passed between them before she left him.

“He’s trying,” she said finally. “In his own way.”

Grace and Harrison exchanged a look she couldn’t interpret.

“Well,” Grace said with forced brightness. “I’ll write to my sister today about the nursemaid. With any luck, we’ll have someone suitable within the week.”

They left soon after with promises to return and more offers of help. Iris walked them to the door with Evie still in her arms.

“Thank you,” she said. “For understanding. For not judging.”

“There’s nothing to judge.” Grace kissed her cheek. “You’re doing a wonderful thing. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

When they were gone, Iris stood in the entrance hall, feeling oddly bereft.

The house seemed too quiet and large. Even with Evie’s warm presence, loneliness crept back in.

“Your Grace?” Mrs. Pemberton appeared on the kitchen stairs. “The little one might be hungry. Shall I prepare a bottle?”

“Yes, thank you.” Iris followed the elderly woman into the kitchen, Evie bundled in her arms, grateful for the steady rhythm of Mrs. Pemberton’s steps.

“Mrs. Pemberton, may I ask you something?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“His Grace. Was he… What was he like as a child?”

The housekeeper paused as she measured out the formula. “Oh…”

“I realize it might be awkward to ask, but…”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Pemberton’s weathered face softened. “He was a serious little boy. Always watching, always thinking. His grandfather doted on him when he visited. The old Duke… he was a man who knew how to laugh.”

“And my husband’s parents?”

The softness vanished. “The less said about them, the better. They did that boy no favors with their carrying on.”

“Carrying on?”

Mrs. Pemberton pressed her lips together as if she’d said too much. “Not my place to gossip about the dead. Just know that His Grace learned from a young age not to dream of happiness. Makes it hard for a man to give what he never received.”

Before Iris could ask more, a soft knock interrupted them. A young maid peered around the kitchen door.

“Begging your pardon, Mrs. Pemberton, but Cook needs to know about tomorrow’s menu.”

“Come in, Mary,” the housekeeper said, pouring warm milk into a clean bottle. She tested the temperature against her wrist, then turned to the girl. “Would you feed the baby while I speak with Cook?”

Mary’s face lit up with shy eagerness. “Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Pemberton took Evie gently from Iris and passed her into Mary’s arms with practiced ease. “You should rest now, Your Grace. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges.”

Iris nodded, though her mind churned with questions about Owen’s childhood and the shadows that had shaped him into the distant man she’d married.

As Mrs. Pemberton quietly departed with the maid, Iris found herself alone with the weight of new understanding.

Perhaps her husband’s coldness wasn’t cruelty after all, but armor worn so long he’d forgotten how to remove it.

Owen arrived home as the sun set, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose.

The day’s meetings had been productive. Two new investment opportunities were being explored, both with promising substantial returns. This kind of steady progress would refill the duchy’s coffers in a few years rather than decades.

He handed his coat to Peters, already anticipating a quiet dinner where he could review the contracts in peace.

“Has Her Grace come down?” he asked.

“Not yet, Your Grace. Shall I inquire?”

“No need.”

Owen entered the dining room to find his place set, as always. The chair across from him remained conspicuously empty. Again.

He waited precisely ten minutes before his patience snapped. This was becoming a pattern, one that needed breaking. They were keeping up a charade now. That required certain standards of behavior.

The nursery door stood ajar when he reached it. Inside, Iris sat in the rocking chair with Evie in her arms. A young maid hovered nearby with a bottle.

“Thank you. I can manage from here,” Iris was saying.

“Dinner is served,” Owen announced from the doorway.

Iris didn’t look up. “I’ll take a tray later.”

“No. You’ll come downstairs now.”

That got her attention.

Her head snapped up and Owen did not miss the way her eyes flashed. “I’m clearly busy.”

“Sally can finish feeding her.” He nodded to the maid. “Take the baby.”

“Your Grace?—”

“Now, Sally.”

The maid bobbed a nervous curtsey and reached for Evie.

Iris tightened her arms around the baby. “She prefers me to do it,” she said. “She fusses with others.”

“Then she’ll get used to it.” His voice came out colder than he intended. “We have standards to maintain.”

“Standards?” Iris’s laugh held no humor. “Why must we adhere to societal standards now when we ignored them before?”

The reminder of their year apart hit its mark.

Owen stiffened. “Circumstances have changed. We’re presenting ourselves as a family. That requires certain appearances.”

“Appearances.” She made the word sound like profanity. “Of course. Heaven forbid we let reality interfere with appearances.”

They stared at each other across the dimly lit nursery.

Finally, with movements sharp with suppressed anger, Iris transferred the baby to Sally’s waiting arms. “I’ll return shortly.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Iris stood up. She smoothed her skirts with jerky movements. “I’ll be down shortly. I need to change.”

“Five minutes,” Owen said.

“Or what? You’ll drag me down to the dining hall?”

“If necessary.”

Something dangerous flashed in her eyes. For a moment, he thought she might defy him. But then, she swept past him toward her room, and venturing close enough that her scent washed over him.

It made his head swim in the most alarming way.

Owen stood frozen in the hallway, watching her door close with a decisive click. Her scent lingered and wrapped around him like silk. He took a deeper breath before catching himself.

What the hell was wrong with him? It was just perfume. His wife’s perfume. The wife he’d successfully avoided about for an entire year.

From the nursery, he heard Sally’s gentle murmuring as she fed Evie. The baby seemed to accept the bottle without protest, proving Iris wrong about her fussiness with others.

Five minutes. He’d given her five minutes.

He descended to the dining room to wait. Owen felt unsettled by his reaction and irritated by the entire situation. This was precisely why he’d kept his distance—these complications that arose when two people were forced together.

The scent seemed to follow him down the stairs. It served as a reminder of how close she’d been. Iris had been close enough to touch, if he’d been foolish enough to try.

He took his seat at the head of the table and waited for his wife to join him. As one minute slid into the next, he wondered why victory felt so much like defeat.