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 theshadows 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.
