“He looks like an iceberg, I know. All frozen surfaces and sharp edges.” The Dowager Duchess glanced at Owen with fond exasperation. “But there’s a heart of gold underneath all that ice. It just takes patience to find it.”
“Beatrice,” Owen said warningly.
“Yes, yes, I’m going.” She squeezed Iris’s hands once more. “But remember what I said. The best things are worth waiting for.”
After she left, Owen and Iris stood in the entrance hall where the silence stretched awkwardly between them.
“She’s very fond of you,” Iris noted, eventually.
“She was fond of Nicholas. I’m merely adjacent.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” She studied him with those too-perceptive eyes. “What did she mean about him being proud of you?”
Owen’s jaw tensed. Then, he straightened. “Nothing. She’s sentimental.”
“Owen…” she urged softly.
She was beginning to understand more than was needed. He knew as much because he could see her azure eyes piercing through the veil of his composure.
“I have correspondence to address,” he responded stiffly and turned toward his study. “We’ll discuss the Dowager Duchess’s suggestion at dinner.”
He could feel her watching him as he retreated and could sense the questions building behind her careful expression. But he couldn’t answer them. He couldn’t talk about the promises he had made to a dying friend or about the weight of secrets that grew heavier with each passing day.
In his study, he poured himself a glass of brandy despite the early hour. The Dowager Duchess’s visit had shaken him more than he had expected. The way she’d looked at Evie, the casualmention of Nicholas, and the assumption that Owen deserved praise for doing what any decent man would do were all overwhelming.
He didn’t deserve praise. He deserved condemnation for the lies, for the danger he’d brought to Iris’s door, and for the kiss that still haunted him three days later.
A soft knock interrupted his brooding. “Come.”
Iris entered then closed the door softly behind herself. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“You’re drinking brandy at eleven in the morning.”
“An astute observation.” He took another sip and let the burn distract him from other discomforts. “Is there something you need?”
She moved closer, and he caught her scent. “The Dowager Duchess upset you.”
“She’s a meddlesome old woman.”
“Who loves you.”
“Who lovedNicholas.” The correction came out harsher than he had intended. “I’m a poor substitute for her grandson.”
“Is that what you think?” Iris perched on the edge of the chair across from his desk. “That people only care about you in relation to others?”
“I think people care about what serves their purposes.” He set down his glass, needing distance from her steady gaze. “The Dowager Duchess needs someone to remind her of Nicholas. You need protection for Evie. Thetonneeds gossip fodder. Everyone gets what they want.”
“What do you need?”
The question caught him off guard. “I beg your pardon?”
“You catalog everyone else’s needs so carefully. What about your own?”
“My needs are irrelevant.”
“Are they?” Iris leaned forward slightly. “You never seemed to feel so self-pitying before, yet now, as I look at you, I see a man drowning in everyone else’s expectations.”
