Page 6 of The Duke’s Untouched Bride (Regency Second Chances #3)

“Yes,” Iris answered before Owen could. “The one Mrs. Pemberton prepared. And walk with her after you feed her. She prefers movement.”

When the maid left with Evie, Owen turned back to his wife. “Come with me.”

“No.”

“Duchess.”

“You can’t order me about like a servant.”

He stepped closer, close enough to see her pulse flutter at her throat. Close enough to hear her breath hitch. “You need to eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re about to collapse.” Before she could protest, he caught her hand. “Come.”

Her hand was smaller than he remembered. She tried to pull away, but he held firmly.

“This is ridiculous!”

“This is necessary.”

He led her toward the door, ignoring her attempts to pull free. She smelled of baby powder and exhaustion, and that damn intoxicating scent of hers.

“Stop this, Your Grace. You’re being absurd.”

“And you’re being stubborn.”

“I have responsibilities?—”

“Your responsibility is to stay healthy. For Evie’s sake, if not your own.”

That silenced her, though he could practically feel the anger radiating from her as they descended the stairs. He didn’t release her hand until they reached the dining room.

“Sit.”

“I will not be?—”

“Sit down, Duchess.”

She immediately sank into a chair and glared at him with enough heat to melt iron.

Owen rang for Peters. “A full meal for Her Grace. Immediately.”

“The roast from dinner, Your Grace?”

“Yes. And soup. Bread. Whatever Cook has ready.”

When they were alone again, she crossed her arms. “This is completely unnecessary.”

“When did you last have a proper meal or an actual full night’s sleep?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. A faint line appeared between her eyebrows as she tried to remember.

“Exactly.” He took his seat at the head of the table. “You can’t care for a child if you’re exhausted.”

“I’m managing perfectly well.”

“Are you? Because from where I sit, you look like you haven’t slept in days.” His gaze moved over her face, cataloging the shadows under her eyes and the pallor of her skin. “When did this become about proving your competence rather than ensuring the health of the baby?”

“It’s not about proving anything. Do you have any idea how much attention an infant requires?” She leaned forward heavily. “She needs feeding every few hours. Changing. Soothing when she cries. There’s barely time to breathe, much less sit down for a formal meal.”

“The servants?—”

“Are as lost as I am. Except for Mrs. Pemberton, who can’t manage everything alone. She’s teaching me, but it’s…” She trailed off while running a hand over her face. “It’s harder than I expected.”

Peters entered with a laden tray. The smell of roasted chicken filled the room, along with fresh bread and what appeared to be Cook’s special soup.

“Eat,” Owen commanded when Peters withdrew.

“Stop ordering me about.”

“Stop being difficult.”

“I’m not—” She broke off as her stomach growled again.

With a grunt of frustration, she picked up her fork.

Owen watched her try to hold onto her anger while savoring each bite. She closed her eyes briefly as she tasted the soup. A look of such simple pleasure crossed her face that he found himself staring.

“This is good,” she admitted after a few mouthfuls.

“Cook will be pleased.”

“I should thank her. I haven’t been down to the kitchens since…” She paused. “Since I arrived.”

They ate in silence for several minutes.

Owen found himself noticing things. The way she tucked that errant strand of hair behind her ear. The grateful sound she made when Peters brought tea. The gradual easing of the tension in her shoulders as the food did its work.

“Why haven’t you been eating?” he asked quietly.

She paused, considering. “I truly don’t mean to skip meals. But Evie needs so much attention, and when she finally sleeps, I find myself just… sitting. Watching her breathe. Making sure she’s all right.”

“You can’t watch her every moment.”

“Can’t I?” She met his gaze. “She was abandoned once already. Left on a doorstep with nothing but a note and desperation. I won’t let her feel unwanted again.”

The fierce protectiveness in her voice stirred something in his chest. This woman, who’d taken in a stranger’s child, was slowly killing herself with exhaustion to ensure that the child felt loved.

“She won’t remember these early days,” he said carefully.

“No. But I will.” She took another bite, then set down her fork. “Every time she cries, I wonder if her mother heard that sound. If it broke her heart to leave. Or if she was already gone, and someone else made the choice.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.” She looked at him with those too-perceptive eyes. “Because either way, someone gave up on her. And I won’t be another person who does that.”

They finished the meal in relative quiet. Owen watched her eat with an odd sense of satisfaction. Color was returning to her cheeks. Her hands had stopped trembling.

“Better?” he asked when she finally pushed back her plate.

“Yes. Thank you.” She rose, smoothing her skirts. “I should get back. Mary’s new, and Evie can be particular about?—”

“Duchess.”

She paused and looked back at him.

“Tomorrow, you’ll take breakfast in the dining room.”

She lifted her chin. “Is that an order?”

“It’s a request. And tea. And dinner.”

“I can’t leave Evie for every meal.”

“Then bring her with you. Or have Mary bring her. But you’ll eat properly.”

“Why do you care?” Her words were soft and tinged with hints of true curiosity. “You left me alone for a year. Why does it matter to you if I miss a few meals?”

He didn’t have an answer to that. Owen couldn’t explain the surge of concern when he’d seen her swaying on her feet or the protective instinct that had risen when her stomach growled.

“Evie needs you healthy,” he said finally.

“Of course. For Evie.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Was it disappointment?

“It’s always about duty with you, isn’t it? You remind me of my father.”

She left before he could respond.

Owen remained at the table, staring at her empty plate. The room felt too large and quiet suddenly.

He’d done the right thing by making sure that she ate a proper meal. His concern ensured that she’d continue to care for the child they’d claimed. He was making certain that their duties were done.

But the memory of her hand in his, small and warm, refused to fade. Just as the image of her closing her eyes in pleasure over something as simple as soup wouldn’t leave his mind.

“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?” Peters appeared in the doorway.

“Yes.” Owen stood up. “Make sure that Cook prepares some of her special honey-flavored biscuits for breakfast tomorrow. The Duchess would like to sample them.”

“She mentioned those, Your Grace?”

“No. But she wore honey perfume when we…” He caught himself. “Just have them prepared.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Owen retreated to his study, but the ledgers held no appeal. He could hear movement upstairs, then a door being closed.

When had he grown so accustomed to silence?

He poured himself a glass of brandy and stood at the window, looking out at the dark garden.

Tomorrow, he’d return to his business. Iris would return to her duties. They’d continue this careful dance of avoidance, meeting only when necessary.

But the memory of her fierce declaration echoed in his mind.

“I won’t be another person who does that.”

She was nothing like his mother, who’d viewed him as a burden and a chain that kept her trapped in a miserable marriage.

Iris was devoted to this child. She chose to stay and take care of Evie even when she had every reason to leave.

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Somewhere above, he heard Evie crying again. The sound quickly died down and was replaced by his wife’s soft singing.

It was a lullaby he didn’t recognize, both sweet and sad.

He drained his glass and tried not to think about how empty his house had been before they arrived. How empty it would be when they eventually left.

Because they would leave. Once Evie was older, once their story was firmly established, Iris would want to return to Carridan Hall. She would wish to move away from him and the reminder of what their marriage truly was.

The thought should have brought relief. Instead, it left him standing in his dark study, listening to his wife sing to a child who wasn’t theirs, and wishing things could be different.

Yet he knew well that he’d never allow them to be.