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Page 27 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“ Y our Grace, I do hope you’ll forgive my curiosity, but I feel I must ask about the circumstances of the little one’s birth. One hears rumors, and of course, I would be discreet…”

Iris smoothed the skirt of her gown with deliberate care. She did her best to keep her face calm, though her pulse had quickened.

Miss Grimsby had arrived at exactly ten o’clock with every reference in perfect order. The nurserymaid’s manners were polished to a high shine. But within moments, it had become clear that beneath the crisp exterior lay a woman who collected gossip as neatly as she folded napkins.

“Lady Evangeline is a joy,” Iris said in a steady voice. “And in excellent health. That is all anyone needs to concern themselves with.”

“Oh, naturally! Though one wonders about the circumstances. Such secrecy around the birth, and then His Grace’s prolonged absence from Society.” Miss Grimsby’s smile was all teeth and calculation. “The ton has been positively aflutter with speculation.”

Iris took a steadying breath. This was the fourth interview she had conducted this week, and each had followed a similar pattern. Professional qualifications followed by increasingly intrusive questions about Evie’s parentage, Owen’s behavior, and the ‘unusual circumstances’ of her confinement.

“I’m sure you understand that personal matters remain private in this household,” she said.

“Of course! Though I must say, having served the Marquess of Pembridge’s family, I’ve learned that babies have their own way of revealing the truth.

” Miss Grimsby leaned forward conspiratorially.

“Features don’t lie, as they say. Lady Evangeline must be the spitting image of one parent or the other by now. ”

The woman’s fishing expedition made Iris’s skin crawl. She could practically see the calculations behind her brown eyes. The way Miss Grimsby catalogued every response for later dissection in drawing rooms across London did not escape Iris’s notice.

“Children change so rapidly at this age,” Iris offered. “It’s difficult to say who she resembles.”

“Hmm.” Miss Grimsby’s gaze sharpened, as though she was still wary of Iris’s words.

“Miss Grimsby.” Iris rose stiffly. Her decision was made. “I believe we’ve heard enough about your qualifications. We’ll be in touch regarding our decision.”

“But surely, you’d like to know about my methods? My philosophy regarding infant care?” The woman’s composure cracked slightly. “I haven’t yet had the opportunity to see the nursery or meet the child herself.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Iris moved toward the door, making her dismissal clear. “Thank you for your time.”

Miss Grimsby gathered her reticule with obvious reluctance. “I do hope you find someone suitable, Your Grace. Though I must warn you, good nurses are terribly difficult to come by. Especially for… unique situations.”

The emphasis on ‘unique’ left no doubt about her meaning.

Iris held her smile until the woman was gone, then sank back into her chair with relief.

That made four interviews this week, and four nurses who’d proven more interested in gossip than childcare.

Is it too much to ask for someone who cares more about Evie’s welfare than the circumstances of her birth?

A soft knock interrupted her brooding.

“Your Grace?” Peters appeared in the doorway. “His Grace has returned and requests a moment of your time. In the nursery.”

Iris’s heart sped up, though she tried to keep her face calm. She’d managed to avoid Owen for two days by taking her meals upstairs and moving through the house when she knew he wouldn’t be nearby.

It had worked. She’d needed the space to gather herself and quiet the sting of everything left unsaid.

But now he’d asked for her. In the nursery, of all places, where Evie’s presence might soften whatever he meant to say.

“Of course,” she replied, though her stomach sank.

She found him by the cradle, watching Evie sleep. His jacket was folded over the chair and his cravat was loose at his collar.

The informality caught her off guard. He looked less like the man who had stood across from her at the ball and more like someone comfortable at home.

“You asked for me?” she said.

He turned, and something in his expression made her breath catch. “I have something for you. For the nursery, rather.”

“Oh?”

He stepped sideways to reveal what had been hidden behind his tall frame.

A rocking chair sat beside the window, its dark wood gleaming with fresh polish.

Exquisite craftsmanship was clear in every detail, from the graceful curve of the arms to the gentle rocker arc.

Cushions in soft blue fabric intimated comfort, and delicate carvings decorated the headrest.

“I commissioned it from Marley’s workshop,” Owen explained “I thought… That is, I noticed you often sit in that old rocking chair with her. It didn’t look very comfortable, so I had this one made for you.”

Iris stepped closer and ran her fingers over the polished wood. The chair was beautiful. It looked like it belonged in the room—well-made, well-chosen. But what struck her most was the thought behind it. Owen had paid attention.

“It’s lovely,” she remarked, though the comment didn’t feel like enough. “Thank you.”

“The cushions come off for washing. Marley said that the fabric holds up well.” Owen cleared his throat. “If the color doesn’t suit, we can change it.”

She shook her head. “It’s perfect.” She lowered herself into the chair, letting it take her weight. It was more comfortable than she’d expected. “Truly perfect.”

Silence fell between them. Not unfriendly, just uncertain. She let the chair rock gently because she was unsure what to say next. Owen stood there, watching her like he was waiting for something.

“How did the interview go?” he asked at last.

“Terribly.” The admission slipped out before she could stop it. “Miss Grimsby was more interested in gossip than childcare. She spent ten minutes trying to extract details about Evie’s birth and your whereabouts during my supposed confinement.”

Owen’s expression darkened. “What exactly did she ask?”

“Whether Evie resembles you or me. About the secrecy surrounding her birth. The usual speculation disguised as professional inquiry.” Iris continued rocking, finding the motion soothing. “I dismissed her.”

“Good.” He moved to the window and stared out at the garden. “We’ll find someone suitable. Someone who understands discretion.”

“Will we? Because this was the fourth interview this week, and each one has followed the same pattern. Professional qualifications followed by fishing expeditions about our private affairs.” She stopped rocking and allowed the frustration to bleed through her careful composure.

“Perhaps the problem isn’t the candidates. Perhaps it’s us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we’ve created a situation so unusual that any competent nurse would have questions. A baby who appeared without warning, a household built on secrets and careful lies.” She gestured helplessly. “What kind of environment is that for Evie?”

Owen turned away from the window. His gray eyes stared at her intensely. “She’s safe. Fed, warm, loved. What more does she need?”

“Stability. Honesty. Parents who can be in the same room without looking like they’d rather be anywhere else.”

“We’re managing.”

“Are we?” Iris rose from the chair and paced toward Evie’s cradle.

The baby slept soundly, oblivious to the strained atmosphere between the two people who were claiming to be her parents.

“We’re barely surviving, Owen. You disappear at dawn to avoid breakfast. I take my meals in my room to avoid dinner conversation.

We conduct our entire relationship through servants and carefully timed absences. ”

“It’s better this way.”

“Better for whom? Certainly not for Evie. She deserves parents who can at least pretend to care for each other.” She turned to face him fully.

“You want honesty?” His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear him. “Here’s honesty. I’m terrified that if I let myself care for you the way I want to, the way you deserve, I’ll become someone who destroys everything good in his path.”

The raw confession rocked her to the core. “Why does it terrify you?”

“Because want becomes need, which, in turn, becomes obsession. Because passion destroys everything it touches. Because I watched my parents tear each other apart with the same hunger I feel when I look at you.”

“We are not your parents.”

“And I’m not the man you deserve.” He moved closer, and she could see the war raging behind his careful control.

“You want love, Iris. Real love, honest love, the kind that builds families and creates homes. Not possession. Not the twisted hunger disguised as devotion. I don’t know how to give you that without destroying us both. ”

“So, you give me furniture instead?” She recognized the brusqueness in her own voice, but could not stop herself from pressing further. “A beautiful chair to make my loneliness more comfortable?”

“I give you what I can.”

“It’s not enough.” She shook her head. “This half-life we’re living, this careful dance around each other, it’s not enough for me, and it’s certainly not enough for Evie.”

Evie stirred and let out a soft whimper. It was the kind that always came just before she woke up.

Owen and Iris both turned toward the cradle. She was grateful, if only for a moment, to focus on something else.

“She’ll be hungry soon,” Iris said as she settled back into the rocking chair.

The irony wasn’t lost on her that she was already using his gift and finding comfort in his thoughtfulness, even as she challenged his emotional distance.

“I should go.”

But Owen didn’t move because his gaze was fixed on Evie’s stirring form.

“Yes,” Iris agreed. “You should.”

Still, he hesitated, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “The chair. Does it suit you?”

“It’s perfect,” she said again, because it was true. It was thoughtful and practical but utterly insufficient to bridge the gap between them. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“I think of you more than I should,” he whispered. “More than is safe.”

He left before she could respond, taking his confession and fears with him.

Iris sat in her beautiful new chair, rocking gently as Evie stirred awake, and wondered how long they could continue this way.

The chair was finely made, and the thought behind it meant even more. But kindness without closeness, gestures without trust, and gifts without love weren’t enough. Not for a marriage. Not for her.

Evie’s eyes opened and focused on her with that serious expression she wore when emerging from sleep.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Iris whispered. “Will your papa ever learn that we don’t need grand gestures? We just need him.”

Yet, as she picked up Evie and returned to the rocking chair, a feeling persisted that he only knew how to make grand gestures. That somewhere along the way, he’d learned to express care through objects and actions while keeping his heart locked safely away.

The question was whether she had the patience to wait for those locks to open, or the wisdom to stop trying before they broke her heart entirely.

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