Page 5 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“ Y our Grace, perhaps if we warm the milk a bit more?”

Owen paused outside the morning room because he heard Mrs. Pemberton’s frail voice through the half-open door.

The housekeeper had been running the London household for decades. She was one of the few servants who remembered when his grandfather had lived here.

“I tried that.” Iris sounded near tears. “She just spits it back up. I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong.”

“There now, Your Grace. Babies are particular creatures. Let me show you.”

He should have kept walking. This was not his place, not anymore. Whatever struggles Iris faced in the nursery were hers to manage. She had help. She didn’t need him.

Still, something about her voice, so raw, made him hesitate.

He turned slightly, enough to catch a glimpse through the opening.

Iris sat near the window, cradling the child with trembling arms. Her head was bowed, a crease of frustration cutting through her brow.

But the way she looked at the baby with a tenderness that seemed to ache through her held him in place.

For a moment, he forgot himself. Forgot the boundaries.

Something in his chest tightened. He told himself it was admiration. Nothing more.

Then he turned away.

He spent the day in his study, reviewing contracts and correspondence. The familiar work should have swept him under. Instead, he found himself distracted by sounds from above. Footsteps pacing back and forth. The occasional wail. Once, what sounded suspiciously like his wife cursing.

“Your Grace?” His secretary, Harker, entered with a fresh stack of documents. “The proposals from the Manchester mills.”

“Leave them.” Owen signed his name on yet another contract. “Did the Duchess eat today?”

Harker hesitated. “I believe a tray was sent up this morning, Your Grace. Untouched, according to the staff.”

“I see.”

“Will that be all?”

“Yes.” Owen waited until the door closed before pushing back from his desk.

This was becoming a pattern. One that needed addressing.

Tomorrow, he would review Mrs. Pemberton’s recommendations for the permanent wet nurse position. They would hire someone who was efficient and capable and could restore order to his disrupted household.

Sleep came eventually, but it didn’t last.

A thin wail pierced the darkness. Owen lay still, willing the sound to stop.

It didn’t. If anything, the crying intensified before rising to a pitch that could wake the dead.

He checked his pocket watch by the moonlight. Half past three.

Unacceptable.

Throwing on his robe, he made his way down the hall. Light spilled from beneath his wife’s door. As he reached for the handle, the crying abruptly ceased.

He pushed the door open carefully.

Iris stood by the window, swaying gently with Evie against her shoulder. Her hair hung loose, catching the lamplight. She wore only a nightgown and a silk robe on top. The thin fabric outlined her figure as she moved.

“Finally,” she murmured to the baby. “There’s my good girl.”

Owen stepped into the room, intending to ask if she required assistance.

“Shh!” She whipped around and pressed a finger to her lips.

He stopped dead. Had she just shushed him?

“I was merely?—”

“Quiet!” she hissed. “Do you want her awake again?”

Her audacity sparked his temper. No one silenced the Duke of Carridan. Certainly not his wife.

“I don’t appreciate being ordered about in my own home,” he whispered harshly.

“And I don’t appreciate being woken every two hours.” Her whisper carried enough venom to fell a horse. “Yet here we are.”

“If you had proper help?—”

“The wet nurse you sent smelled like a distillery.”

“She came recommended.”

“By whom? The proprietor of a gin palace?”

They glared at each other across the dimly lit room.

The baby stirred against her shoulder, making a small sound of protest.

Both froze.

Owen held his breath. Iris stopped swaying. The moment stretched endlessly.

Evie settled back into sleep with a tiny sigh.

When Owen looked back at his wife, the lamplight caught her face at an angle that made his chest tighten.

When had she become so beautiful?

His eyes traced the delicate curve of her neck and her full, parted lips as she breathed. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders in waves that begged to be touched.

No . He’d left to avoid exactly those kinds of thoughts.

“She needs another blanket,” he said, desperate for a distraction.

Her eyes narrowed. “She’s perfectly warm.”

“The room is cold.”

“The room is fine.” She adjusted the baby carefully. “Unlike you, I actually know what I’m doing.”

“You’ve been at this for three days.”

“Which is three days more than you.”

“I’ve been managing estate business.”

“Of course you have.” The words dripped with sarcasm. “Heaven forbid you involve yourself in something as mundane as caring for an infant.”

They were circling each other with words; their voices lowered to furious whispers. Even in her exhausted state, her eyes blazed with a fire that did uncomfortable things to his composure.

“We need a wet nurse,” she said finally. “A proper one. Someone who knows about babies and can help with the nights.”

“Agreed. And we’ll want a nursemaid as well.” Owen’s tone remained businesslike. “Most households like ours employ both. The wet nurse for feeding, a nursemaid for everything else as she grows older. I’ll arrange interviews tomorrow.”

“I want to meet them. All of them. No more drunks.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

They glared at each other again.

Owen’s gaze dropped to where her robe had loosened slightly at the collar. He raised his eyes back up.

“Get some rest,” he said stiffly.

“How thoughtful of you to suggest it.”

He left before he could do something foolish, but her scent followed him into the hallway.

Honey , he thought at first.

But there was something else too, something warm and feminine that made his head spin.

He stood there longer than necessary listening to her soft murmurs.

Several days later, Owen went down for breakfast at the usual hour. Peters had everything arranged exactly as he preferred. The morning papers were perfectly pressed. His coffee was precisely at the right temperature.

The only thing missing was his wife.

“Has Her Grace come down?” he asked when the butler appeared with fresh toast.

“No, Your Grace. She requested a tray be sent to her rooms.”

Owen’s jaw tightened. “And yesterday? Did she take any meals in the dining room?”

“I believe not, Your Grace.”

“I see.” He set down his cup with excessive care. “And the day before?”

Peters shifted uncomfortably. “Also in her rooms, Your Grace.”

Three days. Three days of avoided meals. It was one thing when they’d lived separately. But now they were under the same roof. Basic courtesy demanded that she join him for meals.

“Should I send up a message, Your Grace?” Peters asked carefully.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

But by luncheon, Owen’s patience had worn thin. Another empty chair. Another meal was taken in solitary silence while his wife hid upstairs with the baby.

“Your Grace,” Peters ventured as he cleared the untouched fish course. “Cook is concerned that Her Grace hasn’t been eating properly. The trays return barely touched.”

“Has anyone actually seen her eat?”

“Mrs. Pemberton says that she takes tea sometimes while tending the baby.”

Owen pushed back from the table. “Have dinner prepared as usual. For two.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The afternoon drug interminably. Owen tried to focus on correspondence but kept listening for sounds from above.

Footsteps. Crying. Any sign of what was happening in his home.

By dinner, his patience had run out entirely. He’d barely touched his soup when he pushed back from the table.

“Your Grace?” Peters looked concerned. “Is something amiss?”

“Have this cleared away.”

Owen took the stairs with purpose. His footsteps echoed in the quiet house. The nursery door stood open. Inside, he found Iris seated on the carpet with Evie on a blanket before her. A young maid hovered nearby, clearly overwhelmed.

“We need to talk,” he announced.

She looked up. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was carelessly pinned with wisps escaping to frame her face. She wore a simple day dress that had seen better days, and there was a milk stain on the shoulder.

“Now?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She sighed and turned to the maid. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all.”

The girl practically ran out of the room.

Once they were alone, Owen crossed his arms. “This is unacceptable.”

“What is?” Iris didn’t look at him, but instead focused on stopping Evie from gnawing on her own fist.

“You’ve missed every meal. It’s inappropriate.”

Her head snapped up. “Inappropriate? You want to discuss inappropriate behavior?”

“When the Duke and Duchess are in residence together?—”

“Oh, now you care about appearances?” She rose in one fluid motion. “Where was this concern for propriety when you abandoned me for a year?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“There was no…” He gestured vaguely. “No child, back then.”

“There was a wife. But apparently, that wasn’t enough.”

“Duchess—”

“Stop.” She bent to pick up Evie, who had begun to fuss. “You don’t get to sweep back in and make demands. Not when I’m caring for a baby who isn’t even?—”

Her stomach growled loudly, cutting her off. The sound echoed through the quiet room.

Owen’s eyes narrowed. “When did you last eat?”

“This morning.”

“What did you eat?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “Tea. Some toast.”

“That’s all?”

“I’ve been rather occupied.”

He studied her more closely. The shadows under her eyes were darker than he’d first noticed. Her cheeks were hollower than they had been. Even her hands trembled slightly as she held the baby.

Without another word, Owen strode to the bell pull. Mary appeared almost instantly.

“Take the baby,” he ordered.

“Your Grace?—”

“Take her.”

Mary scurried forward and took Evie from his wife’s reluctant arms. “Should I give her a bottle, Your Grace?”