This was why she came to these gatherings, for these moments with the people who cared about her.
Still, when she saw Harrison’s hand find the small of Grace’s back and noticed the way they moved in perfect sync, she felt that familiar ache in her chest. They had what she’d once dreamed of. A marriage built on love and laughter, not contracts and abandonment.
The evening wore on with more of the same. Felix kept the worst of the gossips at bay with his sharp wit and sharper tongue. Grace and Harrison provided a buffer of warmth and genuine friendship. But Iris felt the weight of every stare and whispered comments that followed in her wake.
The Duchess of Carridan. Abandoned bride. Utterly hopeless.
By the time she called for her carriage, exhaustion pulled at her bones. The ride to Carridan Hall passed in blessed silence, just the clip-clop of horses hooves and the creak of wheels. She let her head fall back against the velvet squabs and closed her eyes.
One more day survived. One more day of smiles, deflecting, and pretending her heart wasn’t slowly turning to stone.
The carriage rolled to a stop, and she composed herself for the short walk to the house. Carridan Hall loomed in the darkness, all Gothic towers and empty windows. The manor was her prison and refuge all at once.
“Welcome back, Your Grace.” Jeffers, the butler, met her at the door. His usually composed face showed signs of strain. “I trust you had a pleasant evening?”
“Pleasant enough.” She handed him her cloak and frowned at his expression. “Is something the matter, Jeffers?”
“Well, Your Grace, there’s been a rather unusual…” He paused as a thin wail cut through the air.
Iris froze. “What is that?”
The wail came again, high and desperate.
A baby’s cry.
Without waiting for an answer, she pushed past Jeffers into the drawing room. There, near the dying fire, sat a woven basket she’d never seen before. The cries were coming from within.
“It was left on the front step, Your Grace,” Jeffers said from behind her. “Perhaps two hours ago. No carriage that anyone saw. No one spotted who left it.”
Iris approached the basket slowly, as if it might disappear. Inside, wrapped in a worn blanket, was a baby. Tiny fists waved in the air. The little face was red with distress.
“There was a note,” Jeffers added quietly.
With trembling fingers, Iris took the folded paper he offered. The writing was feminine but hurried.
Her name is Evie. She is all that remains. Please protect her.
The paper slipped from Iris’s numb fingers. She stared at the crying infant while her mind raced to a single, devastating conclusion.
The Duke of Carridan had a child.
Her husband, who couldn’t even be bothered to stay one night with her had found comfort elsewhere. And now his mistress had left the evidence on their doorstep.
All that remains.
What did that mean? Had the woman died? Run away?
The baby’s cries softened to whimpers. Despite everything, despite the betrayal burning in her chest, Iris reached into the basket. The moment her hands touched the warm bundle, Evie quieted, and blinked up at her with unfocused eyes.
“Your Grace?” Jeffers ventured. “Shall I send for the constable?”
“No.” The word came out sharper than intended. She softened her voice. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
“But surely His Grace should be informed immediately?”
His Grace. Her husband. The stranger who’d stood beside her at the altar, spoke vows he had no intention of keeping, and vanished into the night like smoke.
Now she knew why.
