Another knock. “Your Grace? Lord Morrison is here about the textile investment.”
Owen straightened his cravat and pushed thoughts of Iris aside. “Send him in.”
Morrison was everything his father hadn’t been: shrewd, sober, and forward-thinking. They spent two hours discussing profit margins and expansion possibilities. Good, solid business that would yield returns for decades.
“Your wife’s not in London?” Morrison asked as they concluded their meeting. “My Margaret was hoping to call on her.”
“The Duchess prefers the country air.”
“Ah. Well, perhaps when you have children, she’ll be more inclined to mingle with Society. Margaret claims the little ones need civilization.” Morrison chuckled. “Though between you and me, I think she just wants shopping companions.”
After Morrison left, Owen stood at his study window, staring out at the gaslit street.
Children. Everyone assumed that’s what came next. An heir to secure the continuation of the legacy and a spare for insurance. Simple mathematics.
Except nothing about Iris felt simple. Not the way she’d looked in her wedding dress, hopeful and lovely. Not the fact that he’d left her alone for an entire year, and she still wrote to him at all.
Two days later, Owen was reviewing contracts when he heard a commotion. Raised voices in the entrance hall alerted him as Peters’s usual calm was shattered by the noise.
“Where is he?” The voice was feminine, familiar, and furious.
Owen set down his quill and moved toward the sound. He found Peters attempting to maintain order while a cloaked figure pushed past him.
“Your Grace, I tried to announce her properly?—”
“No need.” Owen stepped into the doorway to the parlor and froze.
His wife stood in the center of the room, travel-stained and wind-blown. Her hair had escaped its pins. Caramel waves framed a face flushed with exertion and anger.
But it was the bundle in her arms that stole his breath.
A baby. She was holding ababy.
For one wild moment, his mind went blank. Then, logic reasserted itself. They hadn’t been together. This child couldn’t be?—
“Your Grace.” Her voice was icy. “How good of you to finally receive me.”
Peters hovered in the doorway, clearly torn between protocol and curiosity.
Owen’s gaze moved from his wife’s furious face to the infant in her arms, then back again. The baby stirred, making a small sound of protest.
A year. He hadn’t seen her in a year, and now she stood before him holding a child that couldn’t possibly be theirs.
“Duchess.” Her title felt strange on his tongue.
She shifted the baby in her arms. Her blue eyes blazed with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. Anger, certainly. But underneath it, there was something else. Something that made his chest tighten with an unfamiliar sensation.
“We need to talk,” she said.
The baby began to fuss, and she automatically adjusted her hold while swaying slightly. The practiced motion sent another jolt through him.
How long had she been caring for this child? Where had it come from? Why was she here?
Owen gripped the doorframe as several possibilities raced through his mind, each more unlikely than the last. But one thing was certain—his carefully ordered world had just tilted off its axis.
His wife was here. With a baby.
And from the look in her eyes, his life was about to become very complicated.
