“Yes, Your Grace.”
Iris stood up. She smoothed her skirts with jerky movements. “I’ll be down shortly. I need to change.”
“Five minutes,” Owen said.
“Or what? You’ll drag me down to the dining hall?”
“If necessary.”
Something dangerous flashed in her eyes. For a moment, he thought she might defy him. But then, she swept past him toward her room, and venturing close enough that her scent washed over him.
It made his head swim in the most alarming way.
Owen stood frozen in the hallway, watching her door close with a decisive click. Her scent lingered and wrapped around him like silk. He took a deeper breath before catching himself.
What the hell was wrong with him? It was just perfume. His wife’s perfume. The wife he’d successfully avoided about for an entire year.
From the nursery, he heard Sally’s gentle murmuring as she fed Evie. The baby seemed to accept the bottle without protest, proving Iris wrong about her fussiness with others.
Five minutes. He’d given her five minutes.
He descended to the dining room to wait. Owen felt unsettled by his reaction and irritated by the entire situation. This was precisely why he’d kept his distance—these complications that arose when two people were forced together.
The scent seemed to follow him down the stairs. It served as a reminder of how close she’d been. Iris had been close enough to touch, if he’d been foolish enough to try.
He took his seat at the head of the table and waited for his wife to join him. As one minute slid into the next, he wondered why victory felt so much like defeat.
CHAPTER 8
“You look lovely, Your Grace.”
Iris paused in the doorway to the dining room and watched while the maid’s form disappear down the servants’ stairs.
The maid’s compliment had been kind but unnecessary. The midnight blue silk dress was three years out of fashion. It was one of the few evening gowns that still fit properly after a year of country life and sparse meals.
Owen stood up when she entered, a gesture that seemed more automatic than deliberate. He’d removed his jacket at some point but remained in shirtsleeves and a silver waistcoat that emphasized his broad shoulders.
“Five minutes,” she said, taking her seat. “As commanded.”
His jaw tightened at her tone. “It wasn’t a command.”
“No? What would you call ordering me to leave the nursery like a disobedient child?”
“I’d call it a request for your company at dinner.”
“A request implies the possibility of refusal.” She unfolded her napkin with precise movements. “You made it quite clear that wasn’t an option.”
Peters appeared with the first course. His face was carefully neutral.
Iris wondered what the staff made of their peculiar arrangement. The Duke and Duchess who lived as strangers were suddenly thrust together by an infant who’d appeared out of nowhere. The whole affair must have seemed odd.
They ate in silence for several minutes. The clink of silver on china sounded unnaturally loud. Iris strained to hear any noise from upstairs or any sign that Evie was distressed. But the house remained quiet except for their awkward meal.
This was unbearable. She’d dined alone for a year and had grown accustomed to solitude. At least she could relax while eating in her room. Here, across from her husband’s stony face, every movement felt like a performance.
“Tell me about the mines,” she said finally, desperate to break the silence.
Owen looked up from his soup bowl. “What?”
