Through the window, she spotted Owen dressed impeccably in a dark blue coat that made his shoulders seem broader than ever in the courtyard below. He was speaking to the coachman. Even from here, she could see the tension in his clipped gestures and precise movements.
He’d been like that all morning. Choosing the perfect pram, the best route through Hyde Park, the ideal hour—calculated to avoid a crowd but not a complete absence of onlookers.
“There,” Mary said, stepping back. “You look lovely, Your Grace. Natural, just as you wanted.”
Iris glanced in the mirror. The lavender hue flattered her skin tone. Her hair was pinned atop her head, and a few stray curls framed her face.
She looked younger, she realized. Younger than twenty-one. And not quite sure of herself.
“His Grace asked that you meet him in the morning room when you’re ready,” Mary added.
Iris found Owen standing by the window. He turned as she entered. As his gaze swept over her his eyes lingered for a fraction longer than necessary.
“You look well,” he said in a low, throaty voice.
“Thank you.” She stepped closer, noting the slight tick in his jaw. “You’ve been busy.”
“There are things to consider. The route. Timing. Who we might see.” He adjusted his cravat, even though it didn’t need it. “Peters will have the carriage ready in ten minutes.”
“Your Grace.”
He arched a questioning eyebrow.
“This isn’t a military campaign,” she pointed out.
“Isn’t it?” He turned fully toward her. “We’re presenting ourselves to Society’s judgment. Every detail matters. How we walk, how we interact with Evie, how we respond to questions. One misstep and the rumors multiply.”
“Or we could just be ourselves. A couple taking their daughter out for fresh air,” she countered.
“We’re not just a couple.” His voice softened slightly. “We’re the Duke and Duchess of Carridan, and like it or not, that comes with expectations.”
“We—”
She was about to respond when Mrs. Pemberton appeared with Evie, who wore an exquisite white gown with tiny pink roses and a matching baby bonnet. The baby was alert and content. Her dark eyes took in everything around her.
“She just finished feeding,” Mrs. Pemberton reported. “She should sleep through most of your outing.”
Owen moved forward and studied Evie with his usual intensity. “The pram is ready?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Everything’s ready.”
They made their way to the entrance hall where an elegant navy pram waited.
Owen had clearly spared no expense. The wheels gleamed, the handle was polished wood, and the interior was lined with soft white fabric.
“Let me show you.” He positioned himself beside the pram. “The brake engages here. The handle adjusts for height. If we need to lift it over rough ground…”
He demonstrated each feature with careful precision, and Iris watched his hands. Those same hands had tangled in her hair just days ago and had covered her with a blanket as she slept. Now, they moved with businesslike efficiency, but she remembered their capacity for gentleness.
“We should walk side by side,” he continued. “My hand here, yours here.” He positioned their hands on the handle and as he did, his fingers accidentally brushed hers.
The contact sent heat up her arm. Iris kept her expression neutral, but her skin burned where he touched her.
“People will be watching.” His voice grew slightly rougher. “We need to appear comfortable. Natural. As if we do this every day.”
“Of course.” She tested the pram’s movement, trying to ignore how close he stood. “Perfectly natural.”
They practiced for another moment. Owen adjusted her grip, showing her how to navigate turns. Each touch was proper, necessary, and absolutely maddening.
