“Dramatic imagery doesn’t suit you.”
“Neither does brandy before noon suit you, yet here we are.”
Despite himself, Owen felt his lips twitch. “Touché.”
“The Dowager Duchess was right, you know. About Hyde Park. About being seen.” She paused. “About the heart of gold.”
“Now you’re being fanciful.”
“Am I?” She stood up and moved around the desk before he could stop her. “The man who took in a stranger’s child… that man doesn’t have a heart?”
She was too close. Close enough that he could see the gold flecks in her blue eyes and count the freckles on her nose. Close enough to touch.
“Iris…”
“We should take Evie to Hyde Park,” she whispered. “Not for theton, but for her. She deserves sunshine and fresh air and a world that doesn’t whisper about her.”
“The world will always whisper.”
“Then we’ll teach her not to listen.” She reached out. Her fingers barely brushed his hand where it rested on the desk. “Together.”
Her touch was electric, and it sent a rush of heat up his arm.
Owen pulled back as if he had been burned. “I have work to do.”
“Of course you do.” But she smiled as she said it, sad and knowing. “You always do.”
She left him alone with his brandy and guilt. The ghost of her touch still burned his skin.
Through the open window, he could hear her in the nursery above, singing softly to Evie.
Together, she’d said. As if it were that simple. As if they could just decide to be a family and make it so.
But Owen knew better. Families were built on trust, honesty, and love. All things he couldn’t offer. All things that turned into weapons in the wrong hands—his parents’ hands. And his own hands.
Still, as Iris’s lullaby drifted down to him, he imagined it. The three of them in Hyde Park, Evie laughing in the sunshine, and Iris smiling without shadows underneath her eyes.
It was a pretty picture. A hopeful dream.
He returned to his ledgers and dutifully buried himself in numbers that couldn’t hurt him or ask for more than he could give.
But the dream lingered at the edge of his consciousness.
It was sweet and terrible as forbidden fruit.
CHAPTER 13
“The green silk or the lavender muslin, Your Grace?”
Iris stared at the two walking dresses Mary held up while trying to settle the nervous flutter in her stomach.
Three days had passed since the Dowager Duchess’s visit. Three days of her husband making arrangements with near military precision while she tried to ready herself for their first public appearance as a family.
“The lavender muslin,” she replied after a beat. “It’s softer. Less…” Her brow creased. “Less like I’m trying to be someone I’m not.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Mary moved to help her dress. Her motions were brisk but gentle. “May I suggest the pearl earrings? They’ll catch the light just right without being too ostentatious.”
“No jewelry.” Iris smoothed her hands over the muslin skirts. “I want to look like a mother taking her child for a walk and not a duchess trying to make a statement.”
