Owen

by Sasha Cottman

  “Fuck me, he is good,” whispered Callum.

  Owen felt tears threaten, then looked down at his hands and stared at them in disbelief. They were trembling—such was the intense power of Marco’s voice.

  When the audience rose at the end of the aria and gave Marco rapturous applause, Owen got to his feet and joined them. The Italians might be the enemy, but as a fellow musician he could not hold back on his appreciation of their immense talent. Reid finally stirred from his stupor and managed to stand. Owen chanced a glance at his companions. Callum stood mouth agape, while Kendal looked for all the world like he had just seen all his Christmases come at once.

  “Magic,” whispered Kendal.

  A cold, hard fear descended and settled onto Owen’s shoulders. Winning the women of the ton back to his bed was not going to be an easy task. Marco could have the pick of any female just on his own. It was going to take every ounce of talent and training that the Noble Lords could muster just to compete against the Italians. He had a horrible feeling that he and his friends may not have what it would take to win.

  The number of fans being fluttered in the direction of the performers had Owen turning to Reid in the vain hope that perhaps his eyesight was failing him, and it was an illusion. But when he saw the look of utter despondency on Reid’s face, all hope fled.

  “I am never going to get sex from any of these women ever again,” muttered Reid.

  Owen struggled to dampen a growing sense of panic. If Reid Follett, the man who had single-handedly stood in front of a charging French cavalry attack, was already looking for a white flag, then what hope did the Noble Lords have against Marco and his cousins?

  His breath caught in his throat as the next blood-chilling thought struck him. What would he do if the woman he was due to marry at the end of the summer caught the eye of one of the Italians and succumbed to temptation? The ignominy of him finding himself being made a cuckold of a husband at their hands would be too great to bear.

  What would he do if that happened?

  He would commit bloody murder.

  Chapter Seven

  Owen had his valet to thank for selecting the woolen undergarments which were keeping the biting wind from his skin when he met up with Reid, Callum and Kendal at the top of Rotten Row in Hyde Park just after dawn the following morning.

  It may have been summer, but the early morning air was bitter. As with everything else that Owen wore, his garments were the very best quality. Money might currently be a little short in the Morrison purse, but he had always made sure to invest in his wardrobe. Quality lasted; cheaply made goods did not.

  This morning, he was sporting a bright red riding jacket, as opposed to the regulation black one which his friends all wore. Lord Owen Morrison was the very definition of a peacock, determined to stand out in the crowd and be noticed. His lucky red jacket had attracted the attention of many women over the years; resulting in numerous heated sexual liaisons with various lady riders in the privacy of a conveniently parked coach just inside the gates of Hyde Park. As far as he was concerned, it paid to advertise.

  Whenever he came to the park, it was with the intent of seeking to ride more than just his horse.

  “Good morning, my fellow Noble Lords,” he said.

  “About bloody time you showed up,” replied Callum.

  He raised an eyebrow at him. For a man who was notoriously late to events, Callum had no right to speak.

  “Nice to see you are sober enough to get on the back of a horse this morning. Or is it the gin which is riding today?” replied Owen.

  After witnessing the magnificence of the Italians last night, he had gone back to Windmill Street in a deeply troubled state of mind. Not only was it going to take more than just a pretty tune to beat their competition, but Kendal’s words about Owen’s future wife kept rolling around in his head.

  The question of what he would do if one of Marco’s group made even a step in the direction of his wife had Owen staring up at the dark canopy of his bed until the early hours of the morning. He knew it was ridiculous to give a damn about a woman he had never even met, but still he had not been able to get his mind to settle.

  Lady Amelia Morrison.

  He had tried saying her married name for the first time during the long, restless night. Getting his tongue around the words. To his surprise, they came easily.

  Between imagining what Amelia actually looked like and plotting how he could dispose of the body of any man who so much as glanced more than once at his wife, Owen didn’t get much sleep. And his early morning errand home to Lowe House to fetch his horse had not seen his day improve.

  The stable staff had all still been in bed when he’d walked into the mews, only rousing when they’d heard the foul-mouthed bellowing of their master. He had been gone less than twenty-four hours and already the ordered routine of Lowe House had been shot to hell.

  Kendal, the musical genius, was seated on a pale grey mare. He pointed his riding crop toward Callum.

  “From the fact that he is still wearing his evening clothes under his jacket, I would say it is the beginning of a hangover,” said Kendal. He gave Callum’s rude finger gesture a disapproving look, then laughed. “Is that the best you can manage this morning? Where is your sparkling repartee?”

  Owen considered Callum for a moment; the man did not look well. He mustered a sympathetic smile but left it at that. Callum loved the drink too much for his own good. If there was a wild party happening in London on any given night of the week, Callum Sharp was sure to be at the top of the guest list. And dancing on top of a table.

  “It may be morning, but I have no idea what day it is or even what month. All I do know is that I haven’t seen my bed since Sunday night,” replied Callum, his voice hoarse.

  “Callum, it is Thursday morning. When we return to Windmill Street, I suggest you avail yourself of your valet and get cleaned up. The poor man must be bored silly waiting for you. And you may even want to consider using the perfectly good bed that Eliza organized for you,” said Reid.

  Callum shrugged at the suggestion. Owen couldn’t fathom how anyone could go for more than a day without having a hot wash and a close shave from his private valet. The mere thought of wearing the same clothes for more than twenty-four hours was disgusting.

  All four nobles sat on their steeds around the starting run of Rotten Row. There was a short queue of riders ahead of them all waiting their turn to race their horses down the stretch of track which ran four-fifths of a mile along the length of Hyde Park. Others used the Old King’s Road to promenade later in the evening during the five o’clock crush, but it was the serious riders who took to Hyde Park first thing in the morning.

  “Are you up for a hard ride?” asked Reid.

  A cheeky grin came to his lips at what he knew to be a deliberate double entendre on Reid’s part. His fellow Noble Lord was also one for hunting female flesh among the early morning riding set.

  “I’m ready to give you another good thrashing,” he replied.

  He pointedly ignored the loud laughter of his friends until he too found himself chuckling. It was a rare day when Owen came anything other than stone motherless last.

  “Be prepared to be staring at my horse’s arse the whole time. And just remember, it’s the only arse you are likely to be seeing until we can start winning back some women from our Italian friends. I don’t know about you chaps, but this lack of sex is killing me. I haven’t slept a wink in days,” said Reid.

  Kendal waved his concerns away with his riding crop. “Tell your cock to stop worrying. Now that we know the structure of their musical set, I fully intend to have a selection of pieces ready for us to rehearse this morning after breakfast.”

  A grumble went around the group.

  Kendal rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yes, we will be playing something by fucking Mozart.”

  Owen beamed at Reid. Thank God. Mozart, the great skirt lifter.

  “Reid’s cock says thank you, Kenda
l. He knows how much it will pain you, but he is looking forward to getting a pair of lips around him,” said Callum, with a grin.

  Kendal winced and shuddered in mock horror. “I never want to hear my name and Reid’s cock mentioned in the same sentence ever again. Do you hear?”

  Owen leaned over his horse and guffawed loudly. What would he do if he was ever without these fools in his life? The four of them—Reid, Owen, Callum, and Kendal—had been bickering and fighting amongst themselves since they were children, but they were tighter and closer than blood brothers.

  When he had finally finished wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes, Owen turned his horse’s head toward the start of the riding track. He was keen to get the ride over with and start rehearsals in earnest. Reid moved his chestnut gelding up alongside him. The track was wide enough for riders to compete two at a time. He would race Reid, then Callum and Kendal would face off against each other.

  Callum rose up in his saddle and produced a lady’s pink silk chemise from out the back of his trousers. He held it high. Kendal stared at him, a look of awe on his face. Callum simply gave a one-shouldered shrug.

  “Ready, gentlemen? Go!” he cried and dropped the chemise to the ground.

  Owen dug his heels in hard and his horse kicked away. Reid did the same and they raced neck and neck down the track.

  Owen settled in low over the reins of his bay stallion and urged his horse on. The deep cuts on his fingers and knuckles from the rose bush hurt like hell but he had to hold on. He chanced a look across at Reid and his heart sank. Reid was sitting high in the saddle, smiling. He gave his horse the merest of nudges, then waved at Owen as his horse sprung away and into the lead.

  “Ta ta!” he sang.

  “Bastard!” Owen cried after him.

  The distance between the two horses quickly became farcical and Owen soon pulled back gently on the reins. There was no point in pushing his horse to the limit; Reid was probably already at the finish line.

  At the sound of thundering hooves coming from behind, he turned just in time to see Callum and Kendal’s horses bearing down on him at a furious pace.

  “Come on, Owen. Stop worrying about the wind messing with your hair, you big girl!” shouted Callum. Kendal roared with laughter.

  Owen sat and watched resignedly as their horses disappeared into the distance.

  “Big girl? I’ll have you know if I could afford a better horse, I would leave the lot of you in the dust,” he muttered.

  He leaned over and gave his mount an apologetic pat on the neck. His horse was a fine and sturdy animal—the best his current state of finances could afford.

  Knowing the others, they would spend time chatting at the end of Rotten Row, eventually making their way back down the track before returning to Windmill Street for breakfast. Owen turned his horse’s head and pointed it in the direction of the front gate of Hyde Park. If he left now, he would have plenty of time to return his horse to Lowe House, change and meet the others when they got back to Reid’s house.

  Other riders were making their way down. He caught sight of one of his more recent sexual conquests as she rode a chestnut mare slowly by. He urged his horse on and rode over to her.

  The lady in question had ample breasts and a generous arse. Owen was a man who appreciated a woman with assets. His fingers itched to grip tightly onto her hips as he sunk himself deep into her luscious body.

  “Good morning. Nice day to be out enjoying the air.” Though I would much rather be enjoying you under me.

  “Good morning, Lord Morrison. It is a lovely day,” she replied.

  He caught a hint of discomfort in her tone of voice. He gritted his teeth. This did not auger well for his plans to have her naked beneath him and ready to satisfy his needs.

  He tried again. “Have you been in the park long?”

  This innocent-enough question was actually Hyde Park secret code for how long do you have if we plan to go somewhere and fuck?

  “Yes. We are leaving shortly,” she replied.

  The clip of hooves on the soft earth signaled the arrival of another rider. Owen schooled his features into those of a disinterested gentleman.

  “Morrison.”

  He turned and met the stony-faced gaze of the woman’s husband.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. The gods of lust have forsaken me.

  “Good morning. Your wife was telling me you are about to leave the park. Pity. I was hoping to race her, but perhaps another time,” he replied.

  Fury flashed in the eyes of the other man. Owen nipped the end of his tongue gently with his teeth. It was the closest he would ever get to actually biting it. He had crossed an invisible line; now it just remained to see what the cuckold of a husband would say.

  “My wife will not be racing you today, Morrison, nor any other day. Perhaps it is time you went and got your own damned bride and stopped interfering with the wives of other men,” replied the male rider.

  Owen bowed his head.

  The lady rider shifted uncomfortably in the saddle and gave her husband a tight smile. “Perhaps we should take our leave, darling.”

  Her husband gave a gruff snort of agreement and the couple continued on down the track.

  Owen’s shoulders slumped as he watched his hopes for sexual relief disappear into the morning mist. “Bloody interfering husbands.”

  Chapter Eight

  An hour later, Owen had returned his horse to the stables at Lowe House and, after coming back to Windmill Street, sought out his valet. He suspected that Reid and Kendal more than likely would be coming into breakfast still in their riding garb, and Callum would no doubt be continuing to wear his battered evening clothes.

  Only Owen was painstaking enough about his dress to bother with bathing and changing into fresh clothes. As far as he was concerned, riding clothes were only meant to be worn when one was planning to be on the back of a horse.

  His valet gave him a close shave and lightly oiled his hair. Owen then dressed in a pair of tan buckskins matched with his favorite dark brown tasseled hessian boots. The elegance of a pure white linen shirt and mail-coach knotted cravat were completed by a black jacket of the finest Scottish wool. The reflection which stared back at him in the mirror showed him to be every inch the English lord.

  He made his way downstairs, happy to be greeted by Reid’s sister and chatelain, Lady Eliza.

  “Good morning, Owen. I trust you slept well,” she said.

  He bowed low, gifting her with a smile. He and Eliza had been friends since childhood. They had shared violin lessons for a number of years before the untimely death of her parents had stilled her love for playing.

  “I did thank you. Your servants have done a wonderful job in getting the house ready for all of us at such short notice and, as always, you run a tight ship,” he replied. Eliza did not need to know that one of her guests had barely slept a wink in his comfortable bed; she would only fuss.

  She took hold of his hand and raised it to her lips. “Thank you. Oh, and congratulations on your betrothal. I don’t know Lady Amelia Perry, but I expect she is perfect for you and the two of you shall both be very happy.”

  He forced a tight smile to his lips as he silently cursed Reid for having revealed his engagement. Not that Reid could change anything, but just hearing other people mention it in public made it all too real.

  “Thank you. I don’t know her either, but my father is a good judge of character, so I have to trust his choice,” he replied.

  Eliza frowned. “Oh. I didn’t realize it was that sort of a marriage. I suppose I secretly had you pegged as someone who would meet a mysterious woman and, after falling head over heels in love with her, would have a huge, romantic wedding at St Paul’s cathedral. But then again, I am a hopeless romantic.”

  That sort of marriage. Owen was suddenly filled with inexplicable sadness. It had never occurred to him that other people might see an arranged marriage as being something less than perfectly acceptable. Or at least le
ss than perfect.

  They stood for a moment in awkward silence.

  Oh, thank god. He was relieved to see Reid make an appearance at the front door, but surprised that he was carrying the day’s newspaper.

  “Where have you been?” asked Owen.

  He caught the strange look which passed between Eliza and Reid but thought better about saying anything. Obviously, it was a private matter between the two of them.

  “Just a turn around the block. I like to stretch my legs after a riding session. Are you ready for breakfast?” said Reid.

  “Famished.”

  He followed Reid upstairs and into the breakfast room, where they discovered Kendal and Callum were not only already seated at the table, but both had large plates of food in front of them. Kendal at least appeared to be making an effort to make a hole in his breakfast, whereas Callum was just pushing a slice of bacon around on his plate. He didn’t seem too keen on his food. Owen’s gaze fell to the sideboard. Reid was a good host. There were eggs, bacon, salmon, roast beef, and cold potatoes laid out on various platters. As Owen took a seat at the antique mahogany dining table, a footman stepped forward and filled his cup with coffee.

  “Cuban, arrived last week,” said Reid.

  Owen picked up his cup and sipped at the dark, hot brew. Tea might be a cheaper brew than coffee, but he could not bring himself to drink it. He was grateful that Reid held the same opinion.

  Kendal sat opposite him, sipping on his tea, and casting disdainful looks at Owen’s coffee. The battle lines between them and breakfast brews had long ago been drawn. It was a beverage war that no one was going to win.

  “I take it you had no luck in Hyde Park this morning,” said Kendal.

  Owen shook his head sadly. “No. For just a brief moment I thought I might be able to tempt one of my regular lady friends, but her bloody husband turned up. Instead of getting my leg over, I got a lecture about meddling with other men’s wives.”