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.
CHAPTER 5
“Good Lord, Iris. What have you done?”
Felix stood frozen in the parlor doorway with his eyes fixed on the bundle in her arms. His usually impeccable appearance showed signs of haste: cravat askew, hair mussed from what must have been a breakneck ride from the country.
“Felix.” Iris shifted Evie against her shoulder as her heart raced. Of all the times for her cousin to appear. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind himself with a soft click. “You vanish from Carridan Hall without a word, the staff tells me you went to London for urgent business, and you ask what I’m doing here?”
“I can explain.”
“I should hope so.” His gaze never left the baby. “It looks like you’ve either stolen a child or…” His eyes widened. “Dear God. Is this child your husband’s?”
