“Do we?” Felix studied him with sharp, dubious eyes. “Then why did you leave her?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
Owen was quiet for a long moment. Around them, the club continued its usual rhythm. The crack of billiard balls. The rustle of newspapers. The quiet laughter from the card room.
“I’d rather not,” Owen replied as his jaw clenched.
“Very well,” Felix scoffed, then straightened his cravat with concise, angry tugs. “I meant what I said, by the way.”
“About?”
“Calling you out if you hurt her again.” Felix’s smile held no warmth. “I’m an excellent shot. Won three matches this month alone.”
“Noted.”
Felix started to leave, then paused. “Thursday.”
“What?”
“Ashford’s meeting. Actually, go. He’s not the sharpest man, but his money’s good, and he talks. Having him spread word about your happy family will do more for your reputation than a dozen announcements.” He took a step away, then turned back. “Oh, and Carridan? When you get home tonight, try looking at your wife. You might be surprised by what you see.”
Owen watched him leave, then stared into his untouched drink. The amber liquid reflected the firelight.
Suddenly, he realized what it reminded him of.
Iris’s hair in the lamplight that first night when she’d stood in his parlor with Evie.
He drained the glass. The club suddenly felt stifling, too full of smoke and assumptions and the ghost of his father, who’d drunk himself to death in rooms just like this one.
The carriage ride home passed in uncomfortable contemplation.
The problem was that Owen had never wanted a family. He had seen what they became, how love curdled into hate, and how children became pawns in their parents’ wars.
Better to keep my distance. Better to maintain the charade without letting it become real.
The carriage rolled to a stop. He stepped out to find the townhouse ablaze with light. Strange, considering the late hour. As he handed his hat and coat to Peters, he heard it.
Singing. Soft and sweet, drifting down from upstairs.
“Her Grace is in the nursery,” Peters informed him. “With Lady Evangeline.”
Owen climbed the stairs slowly. Despite the resolution he’d just made in the carriage, he was drawn to the sound. The nursery door stood ajar. Through the gap, he could see Iris in the rockingchair with Evie cradled in her arms. The baby’s dark hair caught the lamplight as Iris sang something low and soothing.
She’d changed since dinner. Her hair was braided for bed, and she wore a simple robe over her nightgown.
The formal Duchess who’d sat across from him at dinner had been replaced by someone softer and more genuine.
As he watched, Evie’s tiny hand reached up and grasped at the air. Iris caught it gently, letting the baby wrap those impossibly small fingers around one of hers. The smile that crossed her face was radiant. It transformed her exhaustion into something luminous.
This. This was what Felix had told him to see. Not the abandoned wife or the Duchess, but this woman who sang lullabies at midnight to a child who wasn’t even hers.
“She knows you’re there,” Iris said without looking up. “Babies can sense these things.”
Owen pushed the door open fully. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You’re not.” She continued rocking and her voice took on a slightly teasing note. “Though you smell like a gentlemen’s club. All smoke and brandy. It can’t be good for her.”
