They also knew absolutely everything about his doomed romance with the vixen and how it had left him shattered, too. Because he had stupidly confessed everything on a number of occasions after a little too much alcohol—back in the days when he had never dreamed of ever seeing English soil or the blasted Lady Lydia Barton again.
He bitterly regretted those heartfelt, damning conversations now as they were obviously the root cause of Randolph’s current meddling. Ammunition of the worst sort because Owen had provided it.
‘I donate to the poor! I don’t marry them!’
‘Still… I know the way your noble mind works. It might be worth thinking about…for your own peace of mind…’
‘It isn’t.’ The very thought was preposterous. ‘I have no need of a wife, I’ve never wanted one and, if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be her! I’ve already spent seven long years in purgatory thanks to that woman. What you’re proposing is a life sentence!’
‘Perhaps…’
‘Perhaps! There is no perhaps about it. We loathe one another.’
His friend waved that away as if it were an inconsequential detail easily surpassed when it was the whole crux of his preposterous idea. ‘I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. You are a rescuer at heart, so it will make you feel better about her tragic circumstances if nothing else…’
‘Believe me—I am not that charitable.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘Not for me it isn’t.’
‘Because the more I think upon it, the more I see the concept has some merit…’
‘Merit?’ Owen folded his arms and shook his head. ‘I cannot wait to hear this! Your flights of fancy are always entertaining. This one surpasses all of the previous ones by a country mile.’
‘Well, it does have merit.’ Randolph jumped off the chair and came towards him. ‘Firstly, your cynicism about love and marriage is what makes it so perfect! We can take all the conventional aspects of it, all the emotion, all the anxiety and all the sighing out of the equation and make it purely about business. She’s an earl’s daughter.’
‘So?’
‘It stands to reason you being married to a member of the aristocracy, especially one as well thought of as her, will open doors for us. And, as you yourself only just stated, it makes sound business sense to keep up with the gossip, to know the state of our clientele’s finances—especially when it comes from such a reliable source. She’s from within their own ranks, Owen!’ There was an almost maniacal gleam in Randolph’s eyes now as he waved his arms around expansively. ‘One of the elite! Just think of all the enlightening little pearls we shall glean first-hand!’
‘Good grief…’ Owen shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or scream. ‘You’re an imbecile. I’ve gone into business with a three-foot imbecile.’
‘I’m three-foot-six.’
‘What difference do six paltry inches make?’
‘A lot in certain places if you haven’t got them. Although fortunately I have.’ His friend winked saucily. ‘That’s why the ladies have always loved me… But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes…and secondly…’ Randolph ticked the next ludicrous point off on his upstretched hand. ‘With all the rumours flying around about her impending marriage and the prospective unsavoury and thoroughly repulsive groom, the ton have a lot of sympathy for her now. They all know what Kelvedon is and they’ll all work out why he was foisted upon her, too. You stepping in and graciously saving her from a fate worse than death can only serve to enhance your reputation and the meticulous intricate myth which surrounds you.’
‘The myth?’
‘The wealthy man of mystery. The ruthless man of business. The poor boy made good. The hero who never fails to step up…’ He shot him a pointed look at that one. ‘The charmer… The aloof gatekeeper… The man you dare not cross…’
‘Oh, good Lord!’ Owen flicked open his pocket watch and yawned. ‘Surely you are done?’
‘The returned convict… The wronged man who was transported for a crime he didn’t commit…’
‘I was transported for a crime I didn’t commit!’
‘Semantics.’ His outrage was dismissed with a genteel flick of the wrist. ‘All I mean is nobody outside of these four walls quite knows who Owen Wolfe really is. This would certainly put the cat among the pigeons and confuse and intrigue them all over again. Libertas will be the talk of the town again! Just think of the romance of the tale! Her family banished you to the other side of the world—’ he swept out one arm theatrically ‘—yet instead of seeking revenge as any normal human being cruelly denied their freedom would, you rose above it and rescued their daughter out of the goodness of your heart.’
‘I thought I was supposed to be mysterious and a little bit ruthless?’ The pair of them had worked hard on cultivating that image and, much as it pained him to make Randolph right again, it was working wonders for their business. ‘Suddenly playing the good Samaritan would go against the grain.’
‘Au contraire, my handsome and cynical friend! It adds yet another layer to the conundrum that is Owen Wolfe. A delicious layer which hints at that heart of gold beating loudly beneath the aloof and impenetrable business exterior. One which appeals to the feminine mind…’
‘Libertas is a gentlemen’s club.’
‘All the ladies will be swooning and clambering to invite you to the many entertainments you have thus far been excluded from—because it is the ladies who organise these things, Owen—and with those invitations comes fresh male customers. Fresh rich male customers.’ He wrapped his palm around his ear like a shell, knowing the lure of money was Owen’s nemesis. ‘I can hear the glorious tinkle of coin already.’
‘Imbecile.’
‘Face it, my friend, everybody loves a hero, especially such an intriguing and enigmatic one as you are shaping up to be—and we’ll make a fortune on the back of it. You marrying her is a business opportunity!’ He threw out both arms this time. ‘A glorious business opportunity!’
‘Yet I am surprisingly ambivalent about it.’ Owen turned to leave, only to feel his friend’s strong grip tugging his coat tails. ‘A lifetime shackled to a woman who hates me simply to utilise her connections in society sounds like a living hell. For me, that is. Not for you, of course. And the truth is, I am not that concerned about her welfare.’
‘And thirdly…’
‘Lord, give me strength.’ Owen threw his own hands in the air. This was all going from the sublime to the ridiculous. So typically Randolph. He pulled his coat away from the lunatic’s strong grasp. ‘You’re delusional. Completely mad. Why am I even still listening to you? Why the hell do I keep listening to you?’ He tapped his temple, bending at the waist to look his friend dead in the eyes. ‘When you’ve clearly gone soft in the head. I knew all the sun in the Antipodes would do you damage in the end. I repeatedly told you to wear a hat. Why did you never wear a hat?’
‘And thirdly…’ said Randolph, undeterred by the insults and plainly enjoying himself. ‘She’s always been the itch you couldn’t scratch. If you marry her…’ he drew a saucy hourglass in the air with his hands while raising his eyebrows suggestively ‘…then you can scratch it whenever you want to!’
‘Go to hell!’
Owen did slam the door this time and was halfway down the winding staircase when he heard Randolph’s smug voice on the landing.
‘The heart always wants what the heart needs, Owen. And I suspect, regardless of all the armour you’ve strapped on since, you might want to visit the surgeon because the tip of Cupid’s arrow is clearly still wedged in yours.’
CHAPTER THREE
Owen did not dignify that with a response, entirely because he couldn’t think of one which didn’t have him stamping his foot in denial, but silently seethed as he briskly stomped the mile to Covent Garden, hoping the chilly November air would calm his temper in time.
Blasted Randolph needed to mind his own business!
Except he had to concede it was entirely his own fault for making it his friend’s business the second he had heard the first hint of the rumour.
He had known that was a mistake the moment he had asked and witnessed the intrigued glint in his canny friend’s eyes. But what other choice did he have? Nobody could gather information like Randolph. Nor did anybody know him quite as well as his friend did. In the absence of proper clarity, because Lord alone knew Owen couldn’t see the wood for the trees himself, and with Randolph’s meddling wife’s interference, it was hardly a surprise his friend was putting two and two together and making five. One of these days he was going to strangle Randolph and enjoy doing it!
Cupid’s blasted arrow!
It would be laughable if it wasn’t all so tragic.
Owen hadn’t been hit by an arrow. An arrow was too delicate a weapon for the havoc she had caused. It had been a thunderbolt which had knocked him sideways the first time he had set his eyes upon Lydia all those years ago. It had been only his second day in the Barton stable when her carriage had rolled in. He had fetched the steps as he had been instructed, opened the carriage door and… Boom!
The spell was cast and all rational thought evaporated.
She smiled at him, took his proffered hand briefly and the earth seemed to shift on its axis. Then for a while all was utterly perfect in his world, simply because she was in it.
Until it all crashed around his ears and he was hauled off by the constable and sent to the other side of the globe in irons against his will, completely powerless to stop it and his tender heart and all his ridiculously romantic illusions about love and Lydia shattered completely.
Randolph and Gertie knew all of that. Every last sorry detail. Which was why they could make such fine sport of it at his expense.
But what Randolph and Gertie did not know, what nobody knew aside from Owen, was that he had been hit by another damn thunderbolt the second he clapped eyes on her upon his return to England!
And this one had knocked him backwards, sent him flying, then left him winded and dumbstruck. Until he finally battled through the mire and found the wherewithal to rationalise his wholly unexpected and monumental response properly. Something which had taken the last year and a half to achieve and still wasn’t fully formed in his mind—but it was close. Close enough that he had started to feel better about it.
Before news of her impending marriage had churned him all up again and confused the hell out of him.
Rationally, Owen needed to take this past week’s events out of the equation to focus on the absolute truths he now understood plainly. Only those would calm him down and hand control of the situation back to him. It wasn’t love this time. He knew that for sure. And perhaps it hadn’t been love all those years ago either? With maturity and experience came a level of understanding about the way things were between a man and a woman which he’d not had a clue about at eighteen. What had slammed into Owen that second time was lust. Lust as primal, all-consuming and as carnal as any he’d ever felt for any other woman—and all because Lydia possessed every one of the feminine attributes which specifically called to him as a man. It was as if all his desires and fantasies had been rolled into one being, made expressly for him by nature, to his specific design. On the outside, Lydia was the woman of his dreams. What flesh-and-blood man could fight that?
When she had been sixteen he had wanted to kiss her. Now she was all woman in every sense of the word, his body wanted to possess her. It was that basic and that simple.
It was that same lust which had made him continually seek her out in the months since. It did not take a genius to work out her impending marriage signalled the end of all hope of ever slaking it. Not that he had dared try. He did not like the way Lydia made him feel. The power she had held over him was as destructive as it had been disastrous. And if she made him feel all at sea from a distance still now, he feared he would drown if he ever got too close.
Therefore, Randolph and the fanciful Gertie were entirely wrong. He didn’t still love her, but he had always wanted her. That was his truth and his curse. Because Lady Lydia Barton was his own personal siren, calling him to the treacherous rocks he knew only too well and determined to make him suffer while he was pummelled ruthlessly against them.
He was so infuriated by it all, he almost collided with a handcart as he turned into Piccadilly, then only narrowly avoided backing into a hackney as he swerved too close to the road for comfort.
Urgh! More pointless philosophising to fire his temper when he needed to stop going around and around in circles! His face was aching with the force of his frown, when he needed to be charming and just a little bit mysterious and aloof with just a hint of ruthlessness and danger thrown in for good measure. The public face of the mythical Owen Wolfe.
He scrunched up his features to relax them as he stalked into Covent Garden and only just managed to smile as he walked through the theatre doors to greet his illustrious host. The Earl of Grantley was a good customer and a supremely well-connected one.
‘Owen!’ The Earl pumped his hand enthusiastically. ‘I was beginning to despair of you ever arriving!’
In a city where it wasn’t what you knew, but who you knew, it was these connections, these invitations, these occasions, which had seen his business and his fortune double in size in only six months. And with money came power. After spending most of his life at the mercy and whims of others, he was finally the master of his own destiny. Something which had taken ten long years to achieve and which he would protect until his dying breath. This was a much better use of his time than pontificating over Lydia.
‘My apologies…urgent business, I’m afraid.’ Unfinished business which would soon be well and truly finished. And he would welcome its end!
‘Not to worry and entirely understandable. A successful and popular man such as yourself must be pulled every which way.’ Grantley reminded him of a puppy. So happy to see him. So desperate to please. ‘At least you are here.’ The young Earl clearly considered his presence a coup. As did several others who watched impressed in the crowded lobby. Proof at how much effort he and Randolph had put into his public persona to cultivate the myth. ‘Allow me to introduce you to my other guests.’
A bevy of eager young gentlemen bounced on their feet as they surreptitiously looked him up and down. They had all doubtless bent over backwards to secure this introduction. They all knew membership to Libertas only came via a personal invitation from the owner, a strategy which Owen had initially had his doubts about when Randolph had suggested it, but which had absolutely worked to their advantage.
That was the fundamental element of the dance they had choreographed.
Nobody wanted to be in a club anyone could join and, as he knew to his cost, it was human nature to want what was repeatedly denied to you. Therefore, when he sent out just one invitation the next morning to the gentleman who had impressed him or irritated him the most, he knew it would only spur the unlucky four on to court him harder in the future—just like the over-keen Grantley. Libertas in the heart of well-to-do Mayfair, like White’s, Almack’s and indeed the King’s Royal Court, was the domain of the elite. The most exclusive of exclusive gaming clubs for the most preferential and superior of clientele. And Owen intended to keep it that way.
With no more pointless distractions.
‘This is Hugo Brent, heir to the Viscount Warley, Sir Peter Tyne of the Charteris family…’ Taking a mental note of all the names and pragmatically evaluating their provenance and potential value to his business, he shook five pairs of hands and made small talk, his mind struggling to stay focused, but spiralling back to her regardless.
Blasted Lydia…
Ten long years. Incarceration. Deprivation, hunger and back-breaking work on the other side of the globe. Injustice. Terror. Total heartbreak and the blackes
t despair. Owen had beaten it all, yet still the allure of Lydia held the power to hold him captive. It made no sense and he loathed it. Almost as much as he wanted to loathe her—but couldn’t.
Marry her! That was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, when he would rather never see her again. He didn’t want to have to constantly think about her either. He didn’t want to feel compelled to seek her out whenever fate provided him an opportunity or an excuse to do so. Owen did not want to be that unworthy smitten stable lad any longer. And he certainly did not want to keep wanting her either. She hated him and he hated that he didn’t quite hate her. Therefore, what was the point in even thinking about it? His obsession with Lydia was as unhealthy as it was irrational.
‘And this is my sister… Lady Annabel St John.’
A sultry pair of green almond eyes locked boldly with his, then when he took her proffered hand she squeezed his fingers in obvious invitation. ‘Mr Wolfe… What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. I have heard so much about you this past year I simply had to cast off my widow’s weeds and come tonight.’
And in that one sentence, he knew exactly where he stood. A blessed relief on the back of all the shifting quicksand that was Lydia.
‘Lady Annabel…’ He kept his gaze firmly on hers as he brought that bold hand to his lips. Took in the lovely face, the fine figure, the knowing glint in her eye as he lingered over the kiss. ‘The pleasure, I can assure you, is all mine.’
Ruthlessly, he suppressed the pang of guilt which always accompanied any flirtation with another woman. He had nothing to feel guilty about! If he was riddled with unspent lust, here was a prime opportunity to relieve himself of some of it. Lady Annabel was clearly ready, willing and able and Lydia was not his problem. A mantra which he had repeated often this past week when his brain continued to mull over her predicament and suggested he was somehow responsible for it. She was shallow and cowardly and not worthy of his concern. Kelvedon was welcome to her and she him. A loveless marriage to a wealthy peer was hardly as horrendous a punishment as seven years’ hard labour in Botany Bay for a crime he did not commit!
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