Page 17 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)
“ Y our Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Richmond has arrived.”
Owen looked up from his morning correspondence before setting down his quill with careful precision.
He’d been expecting this visit. He’d had known it was only a matter of time before word of Evie reached Nicholas’s grandmother.
“Show her to the parlor. And inform Her Grace that we have a visitor.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Owen straightened his cravat and jacket and prepared himself for what was sure to be an uncomfortable conversation.
He’d always found the Dowager Duchess excessively perceptive, and she was far too inclined to push past the limits he’d set. She was among the select few Nicholas had genuinely cared for, and Owen had vowed to watch over her.
That promise felt heavier now with Nicholas’s daughter sleeping upstairs.
He entered the parlor to find the Dowager Duchess already sitting on the sofa. Her gray hair was perfectly arranged beneath an elegant purple turban. At seventy, she remained formidable, and her dark eyes were as sharp as ever.
“Owen.” She rose with surprising grace and moved toward him with outstretched arms. “Come here, you sweet boy.”
His hands hung stiffly by his sides as she hugged him with unexpected strength. When she pulled back, she patted his cheek with a familiarity that would have earned anyone else a cold rebuke.
“You look tired,” she remarked. “And thin. When did you last eat a proper meal?”
“I eat regularly, Duchess.”
“Hmph. And when were you planning to tell me about your daughter?” Her voice rose dramatically. “I had to hear it from Lady Ashford, of all people. At the modiste’s! Can you imagine my mortification?”
“I apologize for the oversight.”
“Oversight?” She drew herself up to her full height, which brought her to his shoulders. “My grandson’s oldest friend has a child, and I’m the very last to know. Is that an oversight?”
The mention of Nicholas sent a familiar pang through Owen’s chest. “We preferred to keep the matter private. My wife’s health was delicate.”
“Delicate enough to keep it from family?” She shook her head and sent her turban feathers dancing. “Nicholas would be appalled at your manners.”
Before Owen could respond, Iris appeared in the doorway. She’d changed into a morning dress of soft blue that brought out her eyes, and her hair was neatly arranged. She looked lovely and slightly bewildered at the scene before her.
“Duchess,” she greeted while dropping into a curtsey.
“None of that.” The Dowager Duchess swept toward her and studied her with sharp interest. “We met at your wedding, though I doubt you remember. Too many faces, too much champagne. Let me look at you properly.”
Iris submitted to the inspection with good grace as a faint blush stained her cheeks.
Owen watched the Dowager Duchess’s expression soften.
“Pretty as ever,” she declared. “And you’ve given this impossible man a daughter. Well done, my dear.”
“Thank you, Duchess.”
“Beatrice. Family doesn’t stand on ceremony.” She turned back to Owen with renewed purpose. “Now, where is this baby you’ve been hiding?”
Owen exchanged a look with Iris. “She’s in the nursery.”
“Then what are we doing down here? Lead the way.”
They had little choice but to go along.
As they climbed the stairs, Owen stayed just a step behind the women, listening as the Dowager Duchess fired off with her characteristic directness.
“Now then, how are you finding the London house? I know it can feel rather imposing after the countryside.”
“It’s substantial,” Iris replied carefully. “Though the staff has been wonderfully accommodating.”
“Good. Mrs. Pemberton runs a tight ship, always has. And this neighborhood? Not too noisy for the baby, I hope?”
“Not at all. The square is quite peaceful.”
“Excellent. One can never be too careful about such things.” The Dowager paused at the landing so she could study Iris with sharp eyes. “You look tired, my dear. Are you getting proper rest?”
“As much as one can with a newborn,” Iris said, and Owen noted how her voice warmed slightly at the genuine concern.
“Of course, of course. Though I hope you’re not trying to manage everything yourself? A duchess shouldn’t be expected to tend a baby alone, regardless of maternal instincts.”
“I have help when needed,” Iris assured her.
“When needed?” The dowager’s eyebrows rose. “My dear girl, help should be constant with an infant. Owen, surely, you’ve arranged for proper assistance?”
“Mrs. Pemberton is handling the staffing arrangements,” Owen interjected.
“See that she does. There’s no virtue in exhausting yourself unnecessarily.” The dowager’s tone brooked no argument. “A happy mother makes for a happy child.”
When they reached the nursery, they saw Evie awake in her cradle. At the sound of the door opening, she turned her head. Her dark eyes tried to focus on them.
“Oh.” The Dowager Duchess’s voice softened. “Oh, she’s perfect.”
She moved to the cradle slowly and leaned down to study Evie’s face. The baby stared back solemnly, as if conducting her own inspection.
“May I?” the Dowager Duchess asked.
Iris nodded. “Of course.”
The Dowager Duchess reached down to stroke Evie’s cheek with one gnarled finger.
The gentle touch made Owen’s chest tighten with guilt. This woman had lost her grandson and would never know she was looking at his child. The secret sat like lead in his stomach.
“She has good bones,” she murmured. “Strong features. She’ll be a beauty one day.” She glanced up at Owen, and her expression shifted to something almost unbearably tender. “Your grandfather would be so proud of you, dear boy. Nicholas would be, too.”
Owen forced his expression to remain neutral, but he could feel Iris watching him, cataloging his reaction. He’d have to deflect her questions later.
“Shall we return downstairs?” he suggested. “I’ll have Peters bring tea.”
“In a moment.” The Dowager Duchess straightened slowly. Her hand lingered on the cradle’s rail. “Babies should be admired. It’s good for their development.”
They stood in awkward silence for another minute before she finally agreed to leave.
Back in the parlor, she sat down with the air of someone preparing for a long visit.
“Now,” she said, once tea had been served, “tell me everything. When was she born, exactly?”
Owen and Iris exchanged another glance. They’d prepared for this, but theory and practice were different things.
“March—” Iris said.
“February,” Owen spoke at the same time.
The Dowager Duchess’s eyebrows rose. “Which is it?”
“Late February,” Owen corrected smoothly. “The twenty-eighth.”
“A leap year baby, almost. How special.” She sipped her tea. “And the birth itself? Was it very difficult?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
This time, the look in the Dowager Duchess’s eyes was decidedly suspicious. “My dears, one would think you’d remember such details.”
“It was long,” Iris explained quickly. “But not dangerously so. Just… exhausting.”
“Fourteen hours,” Owen added, pulling the number from thin air.
“Fifteen,” Iris corrected, then caught herself. “Or thereabouts. It was all rather blurry.”
“I imagine so,” the Dowager Duchess said dryly. “And you recovered well? No lasting effects?”
“None at all. I was quite fortunate.”
“Indeed. Though one wonders why you kept such joyous news a secret. The ton does so love a baby.”
“We valued our privacy,” Owen declared firmly.
“Privacy is all well and good, but secrets have a way of growing teeth.” The Dowager Duchess set down her cup with a decisive click. “I assume you’ve heard the rumors?”
Iris leaned forward. “Rumors?”
“Oh, my dear. Such nonsense. Some say the baby is deformed, which is why you’re hiding her. Others claim you were damaged during the birth and are now an invalid.” The Dowager Duchess paused briefly. “And there are whispers that Evie is Owen’s but not yours.”
Owen’s hands clenched involuntarily. “Gossip,” he growled.
“Of course it is. But unchecked gossip becomes accepted truth.” The Dowager Duchess’s expression was sympathetic but firm. “You need to be seen. Take the baby to Hyde Park. Attend a few events together. Show the world your perfect little family.”
“We don’t live our lives for the ton ’s entertainment,” Owen said coldly.
“No, but you live in their world. Like it or not, their opinion matters.” She reached over to pat his hand. “I know you hate it, dear boy. But sometimes we must play their games to protect what matters.”
She was right, and Owen hated that she was right. The thought of parading Evie around Hyde Park like a prize made his skin crawl. But if it would protect her from worse speculation, he would do it.
“We’ll consider it,” he relented.
“Good.” The Dowager Duchess rose and gathered her reticule. “I should go. But I’ll expect regular reports on my honorary great-granddaughter.”
The casual term sent another spike of guilt through Owen.
Your actual great-granddaughter .
He managed to maintain his composure as they saw her to the door, but he could feel the weight of the secret pressing down on him.
On the threshold, the Dowager Duchess paused and took Iris’s hands. “Be patient with him, my dear.”
“Duchess?” Iris blinked in surprise.
“He looks like an iceberg, I know. All frozen surfaces and sharp edges.” The Dowager Duchess glanced at Owen with fond exasperation. “But there’s a heart of gold underneath all that ice. It just takes patience to find it.”
“Beatrice,” Owen said warningly.
“Yes, yes, I’m going.” She squeezed Iris’s hands once more. “But remember what I said. The best things are worth waiting for.”
After she left, Owen and Iris stood in the entrance hall where the silence stretched awkwardly between them.
“She’s very fond of you,” Iris noted, eventually.
“She was fond of Nicholas. I’m merely adjacent.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” She studied him with those too-perceptive eyes. “What did she mean about him being proud of you?”
Owen’s jaw tensed. Then, he straightened. “Nothing. She’s sentimental.”
“Owen…” she urged softly.
She was beginning to understand more than was needed. He knew as much because he could see her azure eyes piercing through the veil of his composure.
“I have correspondence to address,” he responded stiffly and turned toward his study. “We’ll discuss the Dowager Duchess’s suggestion at dinner.”
He could feel her watching him as he retreated and could sense the questions building behind her careful expression. But he couldn’t answer them. He couldn’t talk about the promises he had made to a dying friend or about the weight of secrets that grew heavier with each passing day.
In his study, he poured himself a glass of brandy despite the early hour.
The Dowager Duchess’s visit had shaken him more than he had expected.
The way she’d looked at Evie, the casual mention of Nicholas, and the assumption that Owen deserved praise for doing what any decent man would do were all overwhelming.
He didn’t deserve praise. He deserved condemnation for the lies, for the danger he’d brought to Iris’s door, and for the kiss that still haunted him three days later.
A soft knock interrupted his brooding. “Come.”
Iris entered then closed the door softly behind herself. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“You’re drinking brandy at eleven in the morning.”
“An astute observation.” He took another sip and let the burn distract him from other discomforts. “Is there something you need?”
She moved closer, and he caught her scent. “The Dowager Duchess upset you.”
“She’s a meddlesome old woman.”
“Who loves you.”
“Who loved Nicholas .” The correction came out harsher than he had intended. “I’m a poor substitute for her grandson.”
“Is that what you think?” Iris perched on the edge of the chair across from his desk. “That people only care about you in relation to others?”
“I think people care about what serves their purposes.” He set down his glass, needing distance from her steady gaze. “The Dowager Duchess needs someone to remind her of Nicholas. You need protection for Evie. The ton needs gossip fodder. Everyone gets what they want.”
“What do you need?”
The question caught him off guard. “I beg your pardon?”
“You catalog everyone else’s needs so carefully. What about your own?”
“My needs are irrelevant.”
“Are they?” Iris leaned forward slightly. “You never seemed to feel so self-pitying before, yet now, as I look at you, I see a man drowning in everyone else’s expectations.”
“Dramatic imagery doesn’t suit you.”
“Neither does brandy before noon suit you, yet here we are.”
Despite himself, Owen felt his lips twitch. “Touché.”
“The Dowager Duchess was right, you know. About Hyde Park. About being seen.” She paused. “About the heart of gold.”
“Now you’re being fanciful.”
“Am I?” She stood up and moved around the desk before he could stop her. “The man who took in a stranger’s child… that man doesn’t have a heart?”
She was too close. Close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her blue eyes and count the freckles on her nose. Close enough to touch.
“Iris…”
“We should take Evie to Hyde Park,” she whispered. “Not for the ton , but for her. She deserves sunshine and fresh air and a world that doesn’t whisper about her.”
“The world will always whisper.”
“Then we’ll teach her not to listen.” She reached out. Her fingers barely brushed his hand where it rested on the desk. “Together.”
Her touch was electric, and it sent a rush of heat up his arm.
Owen pulled back as if he had been burned. “I have work to do.”
“Of course you do.” But she smiled as she said it, sad and knowing. “You always do.”
She left him alone with his brandy and guilt. The ghost of her touch still burned his skin.
Through the open window, he could hear her in the nursery above, singing softly to Evie.
Together , she’d said. As if it were that simple. As if they could just decide to be a family and make it so.
But Owen knew better. Families were built on trust, honesty, and love. All things he couldn’t offer. All things that turned into weapons in the wrong hands—his parents’ hands. And his own hands.
Still, as Iris’s lullaby drifted down to him, he imagined it. The three of them in Hyde Park, Evie laughing in the sunshine, and Iris smiling without shadows underneath her eyes.
It was a pretty picture. A hopeful dream.
He returned to his ledgers and dutifully buried himself in numbers that couldn’t hurt him or ask for more than he could give.
But the dream lingered at the edge of his consciousness.
It was sweet and terrible as forbidden fruit.