Page 2 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“ T he mines haven’t turned a profit in three years, Your Grace. Surely sentiment alone cannot justify keeping them.”

Owen kept his expression neutral as Mr. Hartwell sifted through the papers before him.

The solicitor’s office smelled of old leather and older ambitions. Around the polished table sat four of London’s wealthiest investors, each one circling the Carridan copper mines like carrion birds.

“Sentiment has no place in business,” Owen replied. “I’m prepared to sell.”

Lord Blackwood, a portly man with shrewd eyes, leaned forward. “Your grandfather worked those mines as a young man. Your father swore he’d never let them go.”

“My father swore many things.” Owen’s voice remained level. “His attachment to legacy over logic is precisely why I’m sitting here with you today, gentlemen.”

The investors exchanged glances. They’d expected resistance, perhaps even anger at the mention of his father. Instead, they only got cold pragmatism.

“Twenty thousand,” Mr. Rothwell offered. “A fair price for depleted mines.”

“Thirty,” Owen countered. “The land itself has value. Good pasture, water rights, proximity to the new coaching route to London.”

“Twenty-five,” Lord Blackwood said. “And we’ll handle the displaced workers.”

Owen considered. The workers had been his primary concern since he’d realized the mines were failing. He’d already arranged positions for most of them at other estates. The rest would receive severance from his own funds—not that these men needed to know that.

“Agreed.”

Papers were produced and signed. As the ink dried on two centuries of Carridan history, Mr. Hartwell pressed the blotter again, more out of habit than need. He closed the folio with care, then looked up at Owen with a genial expression.

“A significant occasion, Your Grace. It’s not every day that one sees the end of such a storied chapter.”

Owen gave a brief nod but kept his face unreadable. “The estate will be better served this way.”

“Indeed, indeed,” Mr. Hartwell said quickly. After a pause, he shifted slightly in his chair and lowered his voice as if he were venturing into more personal territory. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but I recall reading about your recent marriage. A happy union, I trust?”

Owen’s gaze flicked to the window before returning. “We’re well enough.”

Encouraged, Mr. Hartwell asked, “And, if I may be so bold, has Her Grace been safely delivered of an heir yet?”

The room went still.

Owen laid down his quill with deliberate care. “The matter of succession is well in hand.”

“Of course,” Mr. Hartwell pressed on with the false concern of a gossip. “Though one hears the Duchess prefers the country. Separate households can make such matters… challenging.”

“What challenges my wife and I face is our concern alone.” Owen stood up and buttoned his coat. “I trust you’ll have the final documents ready by the week’s end?”

“Certainly, Your Grace.”

Lord Blackwood rose as well. He studied Owen with calculating eyes. “Your Grace… You are quite different from the late Duke.”

“Yes,” Owen said simply. “I am.”

“Good.” Blackwood nodded. “Emotion ruins more fortunes than bad investments. A man who can sell his grandfather’s mines without flinching is a man worth doing business with.”

Owen inclined his head and left. He didn’t tell them that his hands were clenched inside his gloves. He didn’t mention that he still remembered his grandfather’s stories about those mines or the pride in finding that first vein of copper.

But memory didn’t pay debts. Stories didn’t restore a duchy.

The carriage ride to his townhouse passed in silence. He stared out at London’s grimy streets and tried not to think about what his grandfather would say. Dead men held no opinions that might alter necessary choices.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.” Peters, his London butler, met him at the door. “Mr. Crawford is waiting in your study.”

Owen paused while removing his gloves. “Crawford?”

“Your estate manager, Your Grace. He said you had an appointment to review the quarterly accounts.”

“Ah. Yes.” Owen had nearly forgotten. “Send in some brandy, would you?”

He found Crawford exactly where Peters had said.

The estate manager was a thin man with ink-stained fingers who’d served the duchy for twenty years. Papers covered Owen’s desk in neat stacks.

“Your Grace.” Crawford rose and bowed. “I trust the meeting went well?”

“Well enough. Twenty-five thousand pounds for the mines will certainly help, though…” Crawford adjusted his spectacles. “The drainage work at Carridan Hall can’t be postponed much longer. The east wing is showing signs of water damage.”

“How much?”

“Three thousand minimum. Five if we want to do it properly.”

Owen moved to the window, calculating. “And the London property renovations?”

“Another two thousand. The tenant won’t renew the lease unless we repair the roof.” Crawford cleared his throat. “There’s also the matter of Her Grace’s household expenses.”

Owen turned. “What about them?”

“Well, Your Grace, maintaining two households is… costly. The staff at Carridan Hall, the upkeep, the?—”

“I’m aware of the costs.”

“Of course.” Crawford shuffled papers nervously. “It’s just that some economies might be achieved if the households are eventually combined…”

“Is there anything else?”

Crawford recognized the dismissal in his tone. “Just the usual correspondence. And…” He hesitated. “Another letter from Her Grace arrived this morning.”

Owen kept his expression neutral. “Leave it on my desk.”

“Very good, Your Grace. Shall I also leave the report on the textile mill investment? Lord Morrison sent over the prospectus.”

“Yes. I’ll review it this evening.”

Crawford gathered his things and departed.

Owen poured himself a glass of brandy and sank into the chair behind his desk. The numbers swam before him. Even with the mine sale, the duchy’s finances remained precarious. His father had done more than drink away a fortune. He’d mortgaged the future.

The letter sat atop a stack of invoices. The Duchess’s handwriting was clear and feminine. She had spelled out his name with careful precision.

This was her fourth letter in as many months. He’d answered none of them.

He reached for it, then stopped.

What could she possibly have to say that required four letters? Updates on the weather? The state of the gardens? Polite inquiries about his health?

Or perhaps accusations. Questions.

Why did you leave? When are you coming back?

The very things he couldn’t answer without revealing too much.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. Peters entered with a silver tray. “Your dinner, Your Grace. Cook prepared roast lamb.”

“I’m not hungry. Take it away.”

“You didn’t eat lunch either, Your Grace.”

Owen looked up sharply.

Peters maintained his professional facade, but Owen caught the concern beneath it.

“Since when do you monitor my meals?”

“Since you started looking like your father did at thirty-five, if I may be so bold.”

The comparison hit like ice water.

Owen studied his reflection in the dark window. When had the shadows under his eyes appeared? When had his face taken on that gaunt quality?

“Bold, indeed, Peters. Leave the tray,” he said quietly.

Peters set it on the side table. “Will there be anything else?”

“No. Thank you.”

When the door closed, Owen stared at the meal without appetite.

His father had done this, too—lived on brandy and bitterness, letting the estate rot while he rotted with it.

He forced himself to eat but each bite was mechanical. The lamb was excellent. Cook had been with the family for decades. She’d fed him as a boy when his parents were too busy screaming at each other to remember they had a son.

The letter drew his gaze again. What harm could reading it do? He’d already made his position clear by not responding to the previous letters.

He reached for it, then stopped. No. Whatever household crisis required his attention could wait. He’d made his choice months ago when he’d left for London, and reading her words would only complicate matters unnecessarily.

This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? A business arrangement. A wife who understood her place and managed his estate without involving him in domestic trivialities.

Then why did the sight of her careful handwriting make his chest tight with something that felt uncomfortably like longing?

He crumpled the letter without breaking the seal and tossed it into the fire. The flames consumed it quickly, leaving only ash and the bitter taste of regret.

“You’re a fool,” he muttered.

Another knock. “Your Grace? Lord Morrison is here about the textile investment.”

Owen straightened his cravat and pushed thoughts of Iris aside. “Send him in.”

Morrison was everything his father hadn’t been: shrewd, sober, and forward-thinking. They spent two hours discussing profit margins and expansion possibilities. Good, solid business that would yield returns for decades.

“Your wife’s not in London?” Morrison asked as they concluded their meeting. “My Margaret was hoping to call on her.”

“The Duchess prefers the country air.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps when you have children, she’ll be more inclined to mingle with Society. Margaret claims the little ones need civilization.” Morrison chuckled. “Though between you and me, I think she just wants shopping companions.”

After Morrison left, Owen stood at his study window, staring out at the gaslit street.

Children. Everyone assumed that’s what came next. An heir to secure the continuation of the legacy and a spare for insurance. Simple mathematics.

Except nothing about Iris felt simple. Not the way she’d looked in her wedding dress, hopeful and lovely. Not the fact that he’d left her alone for an entire year, and she still wrote to him at all.

Two days later, Owen was reviewing contracts when he heard a commotion. Raised voices in the entrance hall alerted him as Peters’s usual calm was shattered by the noise.

“Where is he?” The voice was feminine, familiar, and furious.

Owen set down his quill and moved toward the sound. He found Peters attempting to maintain order while a cloaked figure pushed past him.

“Your Grace, I tried to announce her properly?—”

“No need.” Owen stepped into the doorway to the parlor and froze.

His wife stood in the center of the room, travel-stained and wind-blown. Her hair had escaped its pins. Caramel waves framed a face flushed with exertion and anger.

But it was the bundle in her arms that stole his breath.

A baby. She was holding a baby .

For one wild moment, his mind went blank. Then, logic reasserted itself. They hadn’t been together. This child couldn’t be?—

“Your Grace.” Her voice was icy. “How good of you to finally receive me.”

Peters hovered in the doorway, clearly torn between protocol and curiosity.

Owen’s gaze moved from his wife’s furious face to the infant in her arms, then back again. The baby stirred, making a small sound of protest.

A year. He hadn’t seen her in a year, and now she stood before him holding a child that couldn’t possibly be theirs.

“Duchess.” Her title felt strange on his tongue.

She shifted the baby in her arms. Her blue eyes blazed with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. Anger, certainly. But underneath it, there was something else. Something that made his chest tighten with an unfamiliar sensation.

“We need to talk,” she said.

The baby began to fuss, and she automatically adjusted her hold while swaying slightly. The practiced motion sent another jolt through him.

How long had she been caring for this child? Where had it come from? Why was she here?

Owen gripped the doorframe as several possibilities raced through his mind, each more unlikely than the last. But one thing was certain—his carefully ordered world had just tilted off its axis.

His wife was here. With a baby.

And from the look in her eyes, his life was about to become very complicated.