Page 11 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“ Y ou look lovely, Your Grace.”

Iris paused in the doorway to the dining room and watched while the maid’s form disappear down the servants’ stairs.

The maid’s compliment had been kind but unnecessary. The midnight blue silk dress was three years out of fashion. It was one of the few evening gowns that still fit properly after a year of country life and sparse meals.

Owen stood up when she entered, a gesture that seemed more automatic than deliberate. He’d removed his jacket at some point but remained in shirtsleeves and a silver waistcoat that emphasized his broad shoulders.

“Five minutes,” she said, taking her seat. “As commanded.”

His jaw tightened at her tone. “It wasn’t a command.”

“No? What would you call ordering me to leave the nursery like a disobedient child?”

“I’d call it a request for your company at dinner.”

“A request implies the possibility of refusal.” She unfolded her napkin with precise movements. “You made it quite clear that wasn’t an option.”

Peters appeared with the first course. His face was carefully neutral.

Iris wondered what the staff made of their peculiar arrangement. The Duke and Duchess who lived as strangers were suddenly thrust together by an infant who’d appeared out of nowhere. The whole affair must have seemed odd.

They ate in silence for several minutes. The clink of silver on china sounded unnaturally loud. Iris strained to hear any noise from upstairs or any sign that Evie was distressed. But the house remained quiet except for their awkward meal.

This was unbearable. She’d dined alone for a year and had grown accustomed to solitude. At least she could relax while eating in her room. Here, across from her husband’s stony face, every movement felt like a performance.

“Tell me about the mines,” she said finally, desperate to break the silence.

Owen looked up from his soup bowl. “What?”

“The Carridan copper mines. Felix mentioned you were selling them.”

“Felix talks too much.”

“Felix is one of the few people who actually speaks to me.” She set down her spoon. “So, tell me. Why sell something that’s been in your family for generations?”

For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, he shrugged. The gesture made him seem oddly vulnerable.

“They’re not profitable. Haven’t been for years.”

“And profit matters more than legacy?”

“Legacy doesn’t pay off debts.”

“Your father’s debts.”

His expression shuttered. “The estate’s debts. How they were incurred is irrelevant.”

“Is it?” She leaned forward slightly. “You’re dismantling your heritage piece by piece. That must mean something to you.”

“It means I’m practical.”

“Or that you’re punishing him.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

His knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on his spoon.

“My father is beyond punishment,” he said flatly.

“But his memory isn’t. Every piece you sell, every tradition you break, it’s like erasing him from your family’s history.”

“You know nothing about it,” he hissed as his eyes narrowed.

“Because you won’t tell me anything!” The frustration burst out of her. “A year, Your Grace. I’ve been your wife for over a year, and I know less about you than I do about our butler.”

He returned to his soup calmly, which made her grip her spoon tighter.

“You do not need to know much about me, wife. Marriage without affection is survivable,” he said in an even tone. “Marriage with it becomes a war.”

Iris blinked. What could have happened to this man to make him so cold? So unfeeling?

She recalled how reluctant and unforgiving the housekeeper had been when the Duke’s parents were mentioned.

What had they done to make him like this?

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Look at any couple who married for love. Give them five years. Ten. Watch the passion curdle into resentment as the tender words become weapons.”

“My parents tolerated each other well enough.”

“Did they?”

Iris flinched; the casualness of his retort stung more than it should have.

Because if she were being honest, she wasn’t sure.

Her mother had been so focused on appearances and securing the perfect heir.

Her father had been distant and cold. He was a man who viewed his family as possessions rather than people.

“Grace and Harrison love each other,” she continued, nonetheless. “They’re happy.”

“For now.”

“You’re wrong.” She pushed her soup bowl away because her appetite was suddenly gone. “Just because you believe that doesn’t make it the truth.”

“Doesn’t it?” He met her gaze squarely. “Tell me, Iris. What did you expect when you agreed to marry me?”

The question caught her off guard. “I… I thought…”

“You thought what? That I’d suddenly transform into a doting husband? That we’d build a happy home filled with laughter and children?”

Each word was a small wound. Because yes, foolishly, she had hoped for something like that. Not immediately, but eventually. She’d thought perhaps they could grow to care for each other and build something real out of their arrangement.

“I thought you’d at least try,” she whispered. “I thought we might become friends, if nothing else.”

“Friends.” He murmured the word as if it were foreign. “Is that what you want from me? Friendship?”

“I want something. Anything. More than this horrible silence where we pretend the other doesn’t exist.”

“We’re not pretending now.”

“No. Now we’re arguing. Which is marginally better than nothing, but hardly ideal.”

Peters entered carrying the next course. He set down plates of roasted fowl with practiced efficiency.

The interruption gave her a moment to study the Duke without his notice. The candlelight cast shadows beneath his cheekbones, making his gray eyes seem darker.

He looked tired, she realized. As tired as she felt.

“You’ve changed things,” she said once Peters left. “Not just the mines. Felix mentioned you’ve been modernizing the tenant farms. Installing new drainage systems. Building schools.”

The Duke’s hand stilled on his wine glass. “The estate needs to be profitable.”

“Schools don’t generate profit.”

“Educated tenants are more productive.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Is that what you believe? That it's only about efficiency?”

He glanced away. “Better conditions benefit everyone. Happy tenants don’t rebel or abandon their leases.”

“And the schoolbooks? The slates and pencils? Do those keep people from leaving, too?”

His jaw tightened. “Education serves practical purposes.”

“I suppose it does.” She paused, then added gently, “So does kindness.”

His eyes flicked toward her, then away again. The faintest crease appeared between his brows, but his expression remained unreadable.

“You don't have to explain yourself,” she said quietly. “Not to me. But if you’re doing good, truly good , I don’t think you have to pretend it’s only for the ledgers.”

A long silence stretched between them. She could see the flicker of something—surprise, maybe—in his eyes.

“I don’t understand you,” she said softly. “But I’d like to.”

The mask slipped just slightly. He looked at her, really looked at her, and for a heartbeat something unguarded passed between them.

Then he picked up his glass. “There’s not much to understand.”

“I grew up lonely, too,” she said. “After my brother died, my parents could barely look at me. I was a reminder of what they’d lost. But I never stopped hoping that someday, someone would see me. Really see me. Not as a disappointment or a duty, but as myself.”

She stood, abruptly, the weight of her confession settling heavy in her chest. She hadn’t meant to say so much. Her throat ached with it. Her heart did, too.

She turned to leave, but Owen rose quickly, his hand catching her wrist.

“Stop. Don’t go.”

Her breath caught. “Let me go.”

“No.” His voice was low. “Your story was not finished.”

She shook her head, blinking fast. “No, you do not want to hear it. You?—”

“I do.” He hesitated, then added, more gently, “I wish to know more.”

His grip loosened, not quite letting go.

She shook her head. “No, you do not. You?—”

“Your story was not finished. We have not finished and?—”

She looked down at their hands, her pulse racing beneath his fingertips.

“Yes, we are.”

“Not until you listen.” He stood up as well and towered over her. “Like it or not, we’re bound together now. Not just by law, but by that child upstairs. We need to find a way to coexist.”

“Coexist?” She laughed bitterly. “Is that your grand solution? We’ll coexist? Like furniture in the same room?”

“It’s better than the alternative.”

“Which is?”

“Destroying each other.”

“We won’t destroy each other!” She yanked her arm free easily because now her anger flared hot and bright and it fueled the interaction.

“I have no intention of throwing things or screaming or making your life miserable. But I won’t be furniture either.

I won’t sit quietly while you treat me like an inconvenience to be managed. ”

“I don’t think you’re an inconvenience.”

“No? Then what am I?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Something shifted in his expression, and she could detect a crack in that eternal control. His gaze dropped to her mouth and lingered there for a heartbeat before returning to her eyes.

The air between them suddenly felt charged and heavy with unspoken words.

“You’re…”

“What?” She stepped closer without meaning to, drawn by that flash of vulnerability. His scent surrounded her, so masculine and inviting. “What am I to you, husband?”

“Dangerous.”

She winced. She’d expected many things—dismissal, perhaps, or another cold deflection. But not this raw honesty that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him.

She blinked and tried to process what she’d just heard. “Dangerous?”