Page 18 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)
“ T he green silk or the lavender muslin, Your Grace?”
Iris stared at the two walking dresses Mary held up while trying to settle the nervous flutter in her stomach.
Three days had passed since the Dowager Duchess’s visit. Three days of her husband making arrangements with near military precision while she tried to ready herself for their first public appearance as a family.
“The lavender muslin,” she replied after a beat. “It’s softer. Less…” Her brow creased. “Less like I’m trying to be someone I’m not.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Mary moved to help her dress. Her motions were brisk but gentle. “May I suggest the pearl earrings? They’ll catch the light just right without being too ostentatious.”
“No jewelry.” Iris smoothed her hands over the muslin skirts. “I want to look like a mother taking her child for a walk and not a duchess trying to make a statement.”
Through the window, she spotted Owen dressed impeccably in a dark blue coat that made his shoulders seem broader than ever in the courtyard below. He was speaking to the coachman. Even from here, she could see the tension in his clipped gestures and precise movements.
He’d been like that all morning. Choosing the perfect pram, the best route through Hyde Park, the ideal hour—calculated to avoid a crowd but not a complete absence of onlookers.
“There,” Mary said, stepping back. “You look lovely, Your Grace. Natural, just as you wanted.”
Iris glanced in the mirror. The lavender hue flattered her skin tone. Her hair was pinned atop her head, and a few stray curls framed her face.
She looked younger, she realized. Younger than twenty-one. And not quite sure of herself.
“His Grace asked that you meet him in the morning room when you’re ready,” Mary added.
Iris found Owen standing by the window. He turned as she entered. As his gaze swept over her his eyes lingered for a fraction longer than necessary.
“You look well,” he said in a low, throaty voice.
“Thank you.” She stepped closer, noting the slight tick in his jaw. “You’ve been busy.”
“There are things to consider. The route. Timing. Who we might see.” He adjusted his cravat, even though it didn’t need it. “Peters will have the carriage ready in ten minutes.”
“Your Grace.”
He arched a questioning eyebrow.
“This isn’t a military campaign,” she pointed out.
“Isn’t it?” He turned fully toward her. “We’re presenting ourselves to Society’s judgment. Every detail matters. How we walk, how we interact with Evie, how we respond to questions. One misstep and the rumors multiply.”
“Or we could just be ourselves. A couple taking their daughter out for fresh air,” she countered.
“We’re not just a couple.” His voice softened slightly. “We’re the Duke and Duchess of Carridan, and like it or not, that comes with expectations.”
“We—”
She was about to respond when Mrs. Pemberton appeared with Evie, who wore an exquisite white gown with tiny pink roses and a matching baby bonnet. The baby was alert and content. Her dark eyes took in everything around her.
“She just finished feeding,” Mrs. Pemberton reported. “She should sleep through most of your outing.”
Owen moved forward and studied Evie with his usual intensity. “The pram is ready?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Everything’s ready.”
They made their way to the entrance hall where an elegant navy pram waited.
Owen had clearly spared no expense. The wheels gleamed, the handle was polished wood, and the interior was lined with soft white fabric.
“Let me show you.” He positioned himself beside the pram. “The brake engages here. The handle adjusts for height. If we need to lift it over rough ground…”
He demonstrated each feature with careful precision, and Iris watched his hands. Those same hands had tangled in her hair just days ago and had covered her with a blanket as she slept. Now, they moved with businesslike efficiency, but she remembered their capacity for gentleness.
“We should walk side by side,” he continued. “My hand here, yours here.” He positioned their hands on the handle and as he did, his fingers accidentally brushed hers.
The contact sent heat up her arm. Iris kept her expression neutral, but her skin burned where he touched her.
“People will be watching.” His voice grew slightly rougher. “We need to appear comfortable. Natural. As if we do this every day.”
“Of course.” She tested the pram’s movement, trying to ignore how close he stood. “Perfectly natural.”
They practiced for another moment. Owen adjusted her grip, showing her how to navigate turns. Each touch was proper, necessary, and absolutely maddening.
By the time they were ready to leave, Iris felt like her entire body was on fire.
As they neared the park, she could see crowds of people enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Her stomach clenched.
“Ready?” Owen asked as the carriage slowed.
“No.” She adjusted Evie’s bonnet with trembling fingers. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter.”
Something in his expression softened. “You’ll do fine. Just remember, we control the narrative. Short responses, pleasant smiles, keep moving.”
The footman opened the door, and Owen stepped down first before turning to help her. His hands were steady on her waist as he lifted her down, Evie secure in her arms.
For a moment, they stood close enough that she could smell his cologne and see the faint lines around his eyes.
Then, the moment broke. Owen turned to supervise the pram’s removal from the carriage before Iris settled Evie into the cushioned interior.
Around them, she could feel the shift in attention. Heads turned. Conversations paused.
They were on stage.
“Shall we?” Owen offered his arm with formal courtesy.
Iris placed her hand on his sleeve, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fabric. Together, they began pushing the pram along the path and their steps fell into a rhythm.
The first few minutes were almost peaceful. The summer air was crisp but pleasant, and Evie seemed content to watch the sky through half-closed eyes. Other couples strolled past. Some nodded in acknowledgment. Iris relaxed slightly.
Then, Lady Garrison appeared, resplendent in emerald green.
“Your Graces! What a delightful surprise.” Her eyes flicked immediately to the pram. “And this must be little Lady Evangeline. May I?”
Iris nodded, and Lady Garrison peered into the pram with the avid interest of a collector examining a rare specimen.
“Oh, she’s precious. Such dark hair! She favors you, Your Grace,” she said to Iris. “The shape of the face, definitely. Though perhaps she has His Grace’s coloring?”
“We think she has my eyes,” Iris offered, remembering their rehearsed responses.
“Indeed! And so alert for one so young. When did you say she was born?”
“February,” Owen replied smoothly. “The twenty-eighth.”
“A winter baby! They’re always the strongest.” Lady Garrison straightened. “We missed you during your confinement, Your Grace. Such a shame you had to miss the entire Season.”
“My health required peace and quiet,” Iris said. “But we’re grateful to be out now.”
“Of course. Country air does wonders for recovery.” The implication that Iris had been hiding something shameful hung in the air. “You must attend the ball I’m hosting next week. Everyone is dying to meet your little treasure.”
They made appropriate noises of agreement and moved on, but Iris could feel more eyes on them now. The news would spread quickly. The reclusive Duke and Duchess had emerged with their mysterious baby.
Lord and Lady Ashford were next, followed by Lady Milton and her daughter.
Each encounter followed the same pattern. Excessive interest in Evie, probing questions disguised as concern, and invitations that felt more like summons.
“She’s quite small,” Lady Downs observed. “Was she early?”
“Not at all,” Owen said. “The physician assured us she’s perfectly healthy.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply… That is, she’s lovely. Just petite. Like her mother.”
Iris maintained her smile, even as her cheeks ached from the effort. Beside her, Owen remained outwardly calm, but she could feel the tension radiating from him.
They’d made it halfway down the main path when Evie began to fuss. She created a small sound at first, but then it built to a cry.
“She’s hungry,” Iris murmured while leaning over the pram.
“She was fed before we left,” Owen reminded her quietly.
“I know, but…” She reached to adjust Evie’s blanket at the same moment he did.
Their hands touched over the pram handle. For a moment, they were both bent close with their faces inches apart.
Iris could hear whispers rising around them. She forced herself to pull back slowly, naturally, as if this was perfectly normal.
Owen did the same, though she caught the slight flush on his cheeks.
“Perhaps she’s too warm,” he suggested.
Together, they adjusted Evie’s blankets. Their movements were careful and coordinated. The baby settled, pacified by the attention.
They resumed walking, but Iris was acutely aware of how they must look—the Duke and Duchess fussing over their baby like any ordinary couple.
Except they weren’t ordinary, and this wasn’t real, and everyone was watching.
She was so focused on maintaining her composure that she almost missed the man on horseback.
He sat motionless near the trees, watching them with an intensity that made her skin crawl. He had blonde hair, sharp features, and there was something cold in his expression.
“Owen,” she muttered.
But when she looked back, the rider was already turning away and disappearing into the shadows of the trees.
“What is it?” Owen followed her gaze.
“Nothing. I thought I saw…” She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
They completed their circuit of the park, accepting dozens more congratulations and deflecting a few more questions.
By the time they returned to the carriage, Iris felt like she’d run a marathon. Her feet hurt, her face hurt from smiling, and her nerves were completely frayed.
Owen handed her into the carriage with the same formal courtesy he’d shown all afternoon. The footman efficiently secured the pram beside the driver’s box while she settled Evie in her arms and Owen took the seat across from her. Moments later, the carriage lurched forward.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Then, Iris let out a shaky breath.
“We survived,” she said.
Owen glanced at her, then at Evie, sleeping peacefully in her arms. His expression was unreadable in the dim light of the carriage.
“Barely,” he replied.
But there was something in his voice that might have been relief. Or pride. Or something else entirely that made her wonder if maybe, just maybe, they’d done more than simply survive.
Maybe they’d taken the first step toward becoming what they pretended to be.