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Page 30 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“Nothing worth discussing.” Owen’s hand settled on her waist with formal precision. “Jasper enjoys stirring up trouble.”

The music began, and they moved into the familiar steps. But tonight felt different. Their movements were charged with the tension that had been building between them for weeks.

Iris was acutely aware of Owen’s hand on her waist and the solid warmth of his shoulder beneath her palm.

“You’ve been avoiding my questions,” she hissed.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy with what? These mysterious meetings that keep you out until dawn?”

“Business obligations.”

“What sort of business requires such secrecy?”

Owen’s jaw tightened. “The sort that doesn’t concern drawing room conversation.”

“I’m not asking for drawing room conversation. I’m asking as your wife.”

“Are you?” His gray eyes searched her face. “Or are you asking because you suspect something?”

The question caught her off guard. “Should I suspect something?”

For a moment, something vulnerable flickered in his expression. Then, his usual mask slipped back into place.

“You should trust your husband.”

“Trust requires honesty. And you’ve been honest about very little since we married.”

The dance ended in a silence thick with tension.

As they moved toward the edge of the ballroom, Lord Bradford appeared with his usual predatory smile.

“Your Grace, you grow more lovely each time I see you.” His gaze lingered on her neckline with obvious appreciation. “Surely you can spare one dance for an old friend?”

“I’m afraid my wife’s card is full,” Owen said before Iris could respond. His voice carried an unmistakable warning.

Bradford laughed. “Come now, Carridan. One dance won’t hurt anyone. Unless you don’t trust your beautiful wife to behave herself?”

The insult was subtle but unmistakable. Iris felt Owen go rigid beside her. Fury radiated from him.

“I trust my wife completely,” he said with lethal quiet. “It’s you I question.”

“Me?” Bradford’s smile turned mocking. “Whatever could you mean? I’m simply requesting the pleasure of the Duchess’s company for one innocent dance.”

“Nothing about you is innocent, Bradford. And my wife doesn’t dance with men who can’t keep their hands to themselves.”

The public rebuke made Bradford flush. “I say, that’s rather harsh. Perhaps if you paid more attention to your wife’s needs, other men wouldn’t feel compelled to offer their company.”

The words hung in the air like a lit fuse. Iris saw the exact moment Owen’s control snapped because his eyes turned cold and deadly.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might strike Bradford in the middle of the ballroom.

Instead, he stepped closer to the man and dropped his voice to a hiss. “Touch my wife, speak to her inappropriately, or imply that she lacks for anything, and I will destroy you. Socially, financially, personally. Do I make myself clear?”

Bradford’s bravado crumbled under the quiet threat. “No offense meant, of course. Simply making conversation.”

“Make it elsewhere.”

After Bradford retreated, Owen stood rigid beside her. It was evident he was making a conscious effort to carefully control his breathing.

The possessive display should have annoyed her. Instead, it sent heat through her veins. For all his distance and careful avoidance, he clearly didn’t want anyone else to touch her.

“That was unnecessary,” she muttered, though her pulse raced from more than indignation.

“Was it? He was all but propositioning you in public.”

“And that bothers you?”

“You’re my wife.”

“When it’s convenient.” The words escaped before she could stop them. “When other men are watching, you remember I exist. The rest of the time, I might as well be invisible.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? When did we last have a real conversation? When did you last spend an evening at home, instead of rushing off to whatever keeps you occupied until dawn?”

Owen’s hand moved to her elbow. He guided her toward a quieter corner. “Lower your voice.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid someone might overhear things that would be better kept private.”

“Everything’s private with you. Your thoughts, your feelings, your whereabouts.” She pulled free from his grip. “I’m tired of living with a stranger, Owen. Tired of pretending that this hollow arrangement satisfies me.”

“What do you want from me?”

The question was raw and almost desperate. For a moment, the careful mask slipped enough to show the man beneath.

“I want to know where you go, what you do, and why you can barely stand to be in the same room as me unless we’re performing for others.”

“You want the truth? I skip meals because sitting across from you makes me remember the way you tasted that night in Morrison’s library.

I work late because going to bed means lying there, wide awake, imagining you just down the hall…

and what it would be like to touch you again.

To have more than just a stolen moment.”

The words knocked the wind out of her. Her face flushed as she was torn between the echo of that long-buried desire and the wall of uncertainty still between them.

“Then why?—”

“Because wanting you and being good for you are entirely different things.” His eyes had darkened to a stormy gray. “Because I’ve seen what passion becomes when it’s the only thing holding a marriage together.”

“Owen—”

“Your Graces! There you are.”

Lady Morrison’s bright voice shattered the moment like glass. She approached with obvious delight, oblivious to the tension crackling between them.

“Such a lovely couple. Though you both look rather serious for such a festive occasion.”

“We were discussing our donation,” Iris managed, though her body still hummed with awareness of her husband.

“How generous. Though I must say, Your Grace, you’ve garnered quite a few admiring looks tonight.” Lady Morrison’s eyes gleamed with malice. “Several gentlemen have commented on your beauty.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Iris saw Owen’s jaw clench. The possessive response sent another thrill through her, even as she wondered what right he had to be jealous when he spent his nights away from home.

The rest of the evening passed in a haze of carefully managed appearances. But beneath the surface, tension simmered like a pot about to boil over.

Iris felt Owen’s attention like a physical touch every time another man approached her. She watched other women flutter around him and tasted the sharp bitterness of jealousy on her tongue.

Whatever secrets he kept, whatever drew him away from home night after night, the attraction between them burned as fierce as ever. The question was whether that fire would consume them both or mold them into something stronger.

She’d heard the raw desire in his voice tonight and seen the jealousy flare when other men paid her attention. She felt the careful control that kept his hands from lingering when he touched her.

The time for patience was ending. Whatever game they were playing, whatever careful dance they’d constructed around their mutual attraction, she was tired of being a passive participant.

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