“You think so?”
“I’ve been managing this household for over thirty years, Your Grace. I’ve observed how circumstances can alter even the most established patterns.” She smiled softly. “This little one will bring changes, I’m certain.”
The prediction felt both hopeful and distant. How could Owen change when he seemed so determined to maintain his careful walls?
“For now,” Mrs. Pemberton continued, “you need proper food and rest. I’ll stay with her while you eat. It’s been far too longsince we’ve had such a precious addition to this house. I’ve missed it more than I realized.”
Iris found herself blinking back tears at the simple kindness.
“Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it. And don’t worry about His Grace’s arrangements for additional staff. We’ll ensure everything suits your preferences.”
As Mrs. Pemberton outlined plans for additional support while respecting Iris’s desire to maintain primary care of Evie, some of the weight lifted from her shoulders.
It wasn’t the homecoming she’d dreamed of during those early days of marriage. But it was something. A foundation, perhaps, on which to build whatever came next.
Outside her windows, London settled into evening, and somewhere in this vast house, her husband continued his careful avoidance of anything resembling emotional investment.
But Evie was safe, warm, and wanted and Iris was free to close her eyes and get a good night’s sleep. For now, that would have to be enough.
CHAPTER 4
“Your 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.
