Page 38 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“ I ’m afraid there’s been a rather significant development regarding your daughter, Your Grace.”

Iris looked up from her correspondence to find Peters standing in the doorway to the morning room.

His usually composed expression was troubled.

Behind him stood a thin man in sober black clothing, holding a leather satchel with the careful reverence of someone accustomed to handling important documents.

“Development?” Iris set down her quill, though her hand trembled slightly. Since Adele’s burial, she’d been dreading unexpected visitors. “What kind of development?”

“Mr. Holt claims to represent the child’s family in France. He says he has documents.”

A shiver of panic raced up Iris’s spine.

Family. In France.

This was the very possibility she’d been trying not to imagine since learning of Adele’s death.

“Show him in, please.”

Mr. Holt was a man of perhaps fifty years, with the pale complexion of someone who spent his days bent over legal documents. He bowed low upon entering. His movements were careful and measured.

“Your Grace, I apologize for arriving without an appointment, but the matter is urgent.” His English carried only the faintest trace of an accent. “I represent the Martel family, from Lyon, regarding the child you’ve taken into your household.”

“I see.” Iris remained seated, though every instinct urged her to flee. “And what concern is that of the Martel family?”

“The child is their blood, Your Grace. Their responsibility—and their right.” Holt opened his satchel with practiced ease.

“I have a letter from the late Adele Martel, written shortly before her death. In it, she states that she wishes for her daughter to be raised by her cousin Marie in Lyon. Marie has been searching for the child ever since she learned of Adele’s situation. ”

He pulled out a folded sheet of paper. The seal was already broken. The ink was still bold, and the handwriting was neat and precise.

“I’m afraid there’s been some misunderstanding,” Owen said as he entered the room. His voice carried ducal authority. “We have no knowledge of any French relatives. Our daughter was born to us at Carridan Hall.”

“With respect, Your Grace, that’s simply not possible.” Holt’s tone remained professionally courteous but firm. “I have documentation that proves otherwise.”

“What sort of documentation?” Iris stepped closer to Owen so that they presented a united front. “Our daughter’s birth was properly recorded. Any claims to the contrary are mistaken.”

“I understand your position, Your Grace, but I’m afraid the evidence is quite conclusive.” Holt extended the paper toward them. “This letter, written in Adele Martel’s own hand, specifically mentions the child she left in your care.”

Iris took it with fingers that felt colder than they should have been and scanned the lines. She caught only fragments, but the penmanship…

Her stomach tightened.

Without a word, she crossed the room to her writing desk, opened a small drawer, and pulled out the slip of paper that had come with Evie. She returned and placed it on the table beside the lawyer’s letter.

“I’d like to compare them,” she said quietly.

Owen walked to the desk. His voice was calm but clipped. “So would I.”

He moved to her side and stood close without touching. They stared down at the notes.

The match was unmistakable. Every curve and slant, every looping L . Either Adele had written both, or someone had gone to great lengths to make it look that way.

“As you can see,” Holt said with satisfaction, “the authenticity is clear. Adele Martel was most specific in her instructions. The child belongs with her family.”

“Belongs?” Iris’s voice shook. “She’s not a piece of property to be claimed.”

“She is a child who should be raised by her blood relatives rather than strangers, however well-intentioned.” Holt’s tone remained professionally neutral. “Marie Martel is a widow with three children of her own. She has the experience and the familial connection that the child needs.”

Owen moved to stand behind Iris’s chair. His presence was solid and reassuring despite the circumstances. “This is rather sudden, Mr. Holt. Surely, you understand we need time to process such a significant development.”

“Of course. Though I must stress that delay serves no one’s interests. The child is young enough to adapt to new circumstances without trauma, but that window will not remain open indefinitely.”

The casual dismissal of what such a separation might mean to Evie, to all of them, made Iris’s chest burn with fury.

Trauma? What could be more traumatic than being torn away from the only parents she’d ever known?

“We’ll need to verify these documents,” Owen said coolly. “Arrange proper transfer of guardianship. Such matters take time.”

“Naturally. I will remain in London for several days to facilitate the process.” Holt returned his papers to the satchel with brisk efficiency. “Though I hope you understand that Marie Martel is eager to welcome her cousin’s child home. The family has already made preparations.”

After he left, Iris and Owen sat in silence allowing the weight of his visit to settle around them like smoke.

Through the windows, she could hear normal life continuing.

Carriages passed in the street, birds sang in the garden, and other people carried on as if their world hadn’t just shifted beneath their feet.

“The handwriting matches,” she said finally.

“Yes.”

“So, either Adele wrote both, or someone has gone to extraordinary lengths to deceive us.”

“Yes.”

She looked at him carefully.

“What do you think?”

Owen was quiet for a long moment. He stared at the papers still spread on the table. “I think the timing is suspicious. Adele dies, and within days, a relative appears with convenient documentation. But I also think the evidence is compelling enough that we can’t simply dismiss it.”

“You want to give her up.”

“I want to do what’s right for her.”

“And you think what’s right is sending her away to strangers in France?”

“I think what’s right is ensuring that she grows up with people who have a legal claim to her.” His voice became cooler and more distant. “People who won’t have to maintain elaborate lies about her parentage.”

The withdrawal in his tone made her stomach clench. After everything they’d shared, all the barriers they’d broken down, he was retreating behind his walls again.

“Owen, she’s our daughter.”

“No.” The word was flat and final. “She’s not. She never was. We were temporary guardians and nothing more.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? We took her in because the circumstances left us no choice. We’ve cared for her because she needed care. But now she has a chance to be with her real family. A family outside the ton , the scrutiny… all this mess.”

The dismissal of everything they’d built cut deeper than any physical wound. “So, what happens now? We simply hand her over and pretend the last months never happened?”

“We say the child died. Fever, sudden illness. These things happen.” His voice carried the same tone he might use to discuss shipping schedules. “The ton will offer their condolences and then forget. Children die all the time.”

“Children die all the time?” The words came out strangled. “That’s your solution? We fake her death?”

“It’s practical. Clean. No questions about where she’s gone or why.”

Iris stared at him, seeing a stranger where her husband should be. This wasn’t the man who sang lullabies in the nursery or worried when Evie fussed during feedings. This was the cold Duke she’d married, the one who calculated everything in terms of advantage and risk.

“She’s not dead, Owen. She’s upstairs in the nursery, playing with the wooden blocks you bought her. She’s real, and alive, and she loves us.”

“She’s an infant. She doesn’t love anyone. She responds to familiar voices and faces, nothing more.”

The brutal dismissal made her eyes sting with tears. “How can you say that? How can you sit there and pretend she means nothing to you?”

“Because clinging to illusions helps no one.” He rose from his seat and moved to the window. “She was never truly ours, Iris. The sooner we accept that, the less painful this will be.”

“Less painful?” Iris stood up as well. Her anger gave her strength. “There’s nothing about this that won’t be agonizing. But that doesn’t mean we should simply surrender without a fight.”

“What fight? Against what? Legal documentation? Blood relatives with legitimate claims?” He turned to face her, and she could see now that his expression was carved from stone. “We have no grounds to oppose this.”

“We have love. We have the fact that she’s known no other parents. We have months of care and devotion and building something real together.”

“None of which matters, legally.”

“It should matter to you.”

“What matters to me is doing what’s right, not what’s comfortable.”

The tears came then. They were hot and furious and impossible to stop. “What’s right? What’s right is keeping families together. What’s right is honoring the bonds we’ve built.”

“What’s right is accepting reality instead of living in fairytales.”

“Fairytales?” The accusation hit her like a slap across the face. “Is that what you think this has been? Our marriage, our family, everything we’ve shared?”

Owen’s face went carefully blank. “I think we got caught up in playing house and forgot it was temporary.”

“Playing house,” she repeated bitterly. “All those nights you held her while she slept, all those mornings we fed her together—that was just playing house?”

“It was necessary caretaking until proper arrangements could be made.”

“And what about us? What happens to our marriage when she’s gone? What do we have left?”

The question seemed to catch him off guard. For a moment, something vulnerable flickered in his expression before his mask slammed back into place.

“We go back to what we were. A marriage of convenience. Two people sharing a name and a roof, nothing more.”

“Nothing more.” The words felt like accepting a death sentence. “After everything, we just pretend none of it mattered?”

“It mattered while it was necessary. Now, circumstances have changed.”

“And if I want more? If I want the family we built together?”

“Then you’re living in the past.” His voice softened slightly, but the words remained brutal. “I can give you children, Iris. Real children. Our children. I’ll support them, help raise them, and provide everything they need.”

The offer should have been everything she’d dreamed of. But it felt hollow and mechanical. Owen was offering her a business arrangement dressed up as generosity.

“You’re talking about producing heirs, not building a family.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Love.” The word came out broken. “The difference is love.”

“Love destroyed my parents. Love turns people into weapons against each other. I won’t risk that.”

“So, you’d rather risk nothing at all?”

“Yes.”

The simple admission hung between them and created a chasm.

Iris stared at the man she’d thought she knew and realized how little she’d actually understood. He would rather live in careful isolation than risk the possibility of pain.

“I loved her because you were there, too,” she said quietly. “That’s what made it real. Not just caring for a baby but doing it together. Building something together. Becoming something more than we were apart.”

“Iris…”

“But you don’t want that. You never did. You want the appearance of family without the reality. The benefits without the vulnerability.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” she insisted. “The moment things become difficult, the moment you have to choose between comfort and love, you choose comfort every time.”

She moved toward the door, needing distance before she said something that she couldn’t take back. At the threshold, she paused.

“I won’t help you fake her death. I won’t pretend she never existed.”

“Where are you going?”

“To spend time with my daughter. While I still can.”

She left him standing in the morning room surrounded by the remnants of their shattered peace.

In the nursery, Iris found Evie in her cradle, babbling contentedly at a sunbeam streaming through the window. The sight of her perfect face, so trusting and innocent, made the tears fall anew.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered while lifting Evie into her arms. “What are we going to do?”

Evie responded by grabbing at her hair and gurgling with delight at the game. Such simple joy, such uncomplicated affection. How could Owen dismiss this as meaningless? How could he look at this precious child and see only obligation?

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made her tense, but they passed by without stopping.

Owen, retreating to his study, no doubt. Back to his ledgers and contracts and the safe world of numbers that couldn’t hurt him.

She should have known this was too good to last. Iris should have realized that a man who’d spent his life building walls wouldn’t tear them down for anyone, not even the family he’d claimed to cherish. But knowing and accepting were different things entirely.

As she rocked Evie in the chair Owen had commissioned for her comfort, Iris tried to imagine a future without this beautiful child.

The thought left her hollow and aching in ways she hadn’t known were possible. She’d lost family before—her brother, her parents, and everyone who’d ever truly mattered to her. But this felt different. This felt like losing herself.

Because somewhere in the months of caring for Evie, she’d stopped being the abandoned wife waiting for scraps of affection. She’d become a mother, a partner, and someone who mattered. Iris had felt like someone whose presence made a difference in the world.

Without Evie, without the purpose she’d provided, what was left? A marriage built on convenience and maintained through careful distance. A husband who would give her children but not his heart. A life that looked perfect from the outside while feeling empty within.

“I love you,” she whispered to the baby in her arms. “Whatever happens, remember that someone once loved you completely. Someone thought you were worth everything.”