‘It’s Lydia Wolfe now.’ And, Lord help him, he liked the sound of that.
‘It is. For better or for worse we are stuck with one another…’ She speared a potato with her fork and waved it at him like a flag. ‘Something which might become a little easier if we call a truce.’ He didn’t want to spoil the moment by reminding her that he had tried that repeatedly since his return.
‘A truce? When you are still furious because you think me a thief and I am still furious at you for believing it?’
Her tone became tart again. ‘If you would only apologise, then perhaps…’
‘I have nothing to apologise for, Lydia.’ He watched her bristle, sighed because he knew she was about to argue and held up his palm. ‘And neither can I prove my innocence categorically—although, believe me, not for want of trying. So we are at an impasse. Hardly the most solid of foundations for a truce. But even so, I do not have the energy to wage constant war with you.’
‘Then perhaps we should agree to put the unfortunate past to one side…’ Tellingly not behind them. Or to forgive and forget—not that he’d done anything to need forgiveness for. ‘Never speak of it…’ Because those seven stolen years were by the by as far as she was concerned. His just punishment for being so despicable. ‘And try to make the best of things…such as they are.’
Owen was sorely tempted to kick the solid oak table leg. ‘We would require an armistice, not a truce.’ With a truce, you shook hands and moved on. This was more complicated. Messy and maddening.
‘Then let us call it an armistice, then. A ceasefire. An agreement to end the war between us.’
That at least would keep things contained. And give him some control back. ‘How do you suggest we proceed? When there is so much bad blood between us?’
‘Tentatively, calmly… And shall we also try politely?’ She smiled again, mischief dancing in her lovely dark eyes. ‘Let’s start with a civilised discussion over a meal and then, in another decade or so, we might even learn to tolerate one another.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
In a strange sort of way, seeing a glimpse of the Owen she remembered helped calm her nerves and for the first time in a fortnight there was a small square of stable ground beneath her feet.
He still had a temper. A temper which flared quickly over nothing, burned briefly incandescent and then just as quickly burned itself out. Bizarrely, it was one of the things she had always liked about him. Those spontaneous bouts of noise and bluster were as harmless as they were entertaining and for some reason, despite his unusual size and propensity to dominate the space when in the grip of an outburst, they had never intimidated her. Which was odd when one considered how much she had always feared her father’s temper. But then Papa’s had nearly always had dire consequences and brought out his callous side. The impact of his lingered while Owen’s seemed to clear the air.
Last night, for the first time since he had returned, they had behaved a little like their old selves. Understandably, both were guarded. As Owen had rightly pointed out, there was too much of an ugly chasm between them to completely ignore. Each time Lydia thought of his betrayal, it broke her heart, so not talking about it was sensible.
That was one of the main reasons she had suggested an armistice. The other was pure self-preservation. Because the pathetic truth was she also couldn’t think about his betrayal without wanting to deny it, too. A decade on and her silly heart still wanted to believe he wasn’t a thief. Something which undoubtedly made her the biggest of fools but which she was damned if he would ever know.
* * *
But with the armistice freshly in place, they had found some common ground in their carefully chosen reminiscences over a very polite and civilised supper. It felt like a start, but went no way towards alleviating Lydia’s stresses about her future as his wife and, the bed sharing aside, exactly what all that entailed.
She should have tackled the subject last night when he had been amiable rather than enjoy a brief hour of their not being at loggerheads. After the meal was done, he had swiftly declared a ridiculously early start. Tomorrow, he promised, would be exceedingly arduous because he had neglected his business long enough. Which necessitated a punishing travelling schedule that could not be helped.
However, now the first signs of dawn were pushing away the darkness and signalling tomorrow had indeed arrived, she was resigned to the fact sleep had evaded her. How exactly did one do so soundly when a man you happened to almost loathe slept but feet away separated by one thin and ill-fitting door? His presence alone sent her mind whirring.
And whirr it did all night, the numerous good and long-buried memories warring with the bad. The Owen she had thought she had known, the heart-wrenching truth and his new facade. Because his sudden bout of histrionics had also shown her the real Owen Wolfe was still there behind all the impeccably tailored coats and shiny new gentlemanly manners.
His accent had slipped.
Not by much, because he had obviously worked hard to polish those rough edges. Yet in the grip of his fury his Ts had not been so pronounced, his vowels had been flatter, and for some reason that tiny detail bothered her the more she considered it. It warned her he was every inch the chameleon, his public face very different from his private one. Something which would not be so worrying if she knew exactly which face he was wearing in front of her. And had she ever?
Every time he shifted position in the night, Lydia heard him. If she concentrated really hard, she was sure she could also hear his breathing. Once or twice he had sighed, making her wonder what he was dreaming about. How did he think? What did he feel? What mattered to him now beyond the realms of his business? Did anything? And, most importantly of all, where did she fit in to the picture? How would they co-exist? Where would they live? Exactly how much contact would they have on a daily basis? And with so much still up in the air, was it any wonder sleep evaded her?
Beyond the door she heard a thud, then a stream of muffled expletives. Realising he was clearly up and keen to get going, she decided to grab the bull by the horns. She flung off the bedcovers and dashed to the door, pulling it open intent on demanding answers, only to have the questions die in her throat.
Owen stood in the pale light of the window, the curtains still grasped in his hands as if he had only just tugged them open, his eyes a little wide as he blinked at her over his shoulder in the doorway. He was stripped to the waist and barefoot. Her eyes drank in all those things as they travelled the long, lean length of him, before they settled back on his ridiculously broad shoulders and the flock of intricately tattooed birds taking flight up his right arm from his elbow, over an impressive bicep and stopping a few inches shy of his neck.
‘I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to wake you.’ He’d now turned to face her. His accent had slipped again, so she took his apology as fact, but conscious she was openly staring, forcibly dragged her gaze to meet his. ‘I couldn’t find my shirt in the dark and stubbed my damn toe on the sideboard…’ His eyes followed hers to his naked chest again and he winced as he snatched the errant garment from the back of the chair. ‘Sorry…’ His head disappeared inside the fabric and briskly came out of the collar. ‘I was going to wash down at the pump and then see to the horses. I really didn’t mean to disturb you.’
Now that the distracting birds were covered up, Lydia at last found her voice.
‘I was wide-awake anyway. I have never been good at sleeping in strange beds.’ Especially when there was a strange man just feet away. A half-naked strange man. An unexpected and particularly distracting sight which was already seared on to her memory, replacing the feel of the younger Owen’s chest beneath his shirt from all those years ago.
Except now it was fully grown. Bigger. Broader. The dusting of hair which arrowed down through his navel was also new. The tattoos most definitely were. Her fingers seemed to itch with the sudden need to explore both for comparison, so
she tucked her hands into the capacious folds of her thick winter nightgown. ‘Seeing as we are both up, why don’t I save you a doubtless miserable visit to the pump and order some hot water so you can wash here?’
Bizarrely, her palm was sweating as she gestured behind her with her thumb. ‘I could order some breakfast, too…seeing as it is going to be a long day.’ To give herself something to do, she scurried to the bell pull and gave it a spirited tug. ‘I wanted to talk to you anyway and over breakfast is probably going to be my only chance.’
Now that his shirt was back on, Owen had folded his arms over his chest, causing the muscles beneath to strain intriguingly against the soft linen. He had filled out. Practically everywhere. And, good gracious, did it suit him. ‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘Us.’ His eyes widened. ‘How everything is going to work… Back in London, I mean. The living arrangements…etcetera?’
Etcetera! That pathetic word covered a whole host of variables, none of which she could find the correct language for because now that the distracting birds were hidden, she was noticing other things she really would be better off not noticing. Like the way his tawny hair was delightfully rumpled from sleep or the manly shadow of morning stubble decorating his square jaw which also suited him. The old Owen had barely started growing a beard. The new one looked like he was fully capable of sprouting a vigorous one in a matter of days.
Thankfully, before she started babbling inanely to cover her awkwardness, the maid tapped at the door, giving Lydia the perfect excuse to turn away from his hypnotic eyes. She ordered food and hot water before he could argue, using the distraction to give herself a stiff talking, too.
This was no time to allow her foolish head to be turned by a mere flash of bare skin and a pleasingly broad pair of shoulders. He had always been handsome! Too handsome for his own good, so she needed to swiftly learn to control her pathetic reaction or else he would use it to his advantage. He had seen her staring. That had to be the first and last time she allowed him that liberty.
It was such a stern talking, too, she felt quietly confident she was over the worst as she closed the door, only to be hit with another wave of unwelcome desire when she turned to find him tucking in his shirt. Something which shouldn’t have been the least bit attractive but was, largely because it highlighted his flat stomach. Then he bent over to pick up his boots and in so doing, drew her traitorous eyes to his taut behind and irritatingly muscular thighs. Was the wretch doing it on purpose?
Probably, but she would have to act nonplussed and therefore give him the benefit of the doubt.
‘Where will I be living?’ Her voice came out a tad too high-pitched.
‘With me, I suppose.’
‘You suppose?’
‘I haven’t given it much thought.’
‘Then might I suggest you do? Seeing as I am now your wife…’ which sounded uncomfortably proprietorial and possessive, making Lydia’s face heat ‘…albeit in name only.’
‘Thank you for clarifying that last part. I had quite forgotten it.’ He couldn’t hide his amusement at her stilted embarrassment. ‘But you are right. We should discuss the living arrangements. For the time being my set of rooms makes the most sense.’
A set of rooms didn’t sound anywhere near big enough now that she had seen those birds. ‘And where is that?’
‘At Libertas.’
‘Your club?’ She hadn’t expected that answer. ‘You expect me to live in a den of iniquity?’
He found that statement amusing and grinned. ‘It’s hardly a den of iniquity—but even if it was, the residences are completely self-contained and have their own entrances quite separate from the club.’
‘There are residences?’ Which suddenly sounded much more promising. ‘As in plural?’
‘Indeed. Two of them. Mine and Randolph’s.’
‘Oh.’ She felt her shoulders slump. ‘Are they spacious?’
‘If by that you mean will you have your own bedchamber—then, yes. You could even have two if you wanted.’ He was mocking her. ‘We’ll make sure the vacant one stands steadfastly between us as we sleep in case I am sent mad by the scent of your perfume and I go on the rampage.’ He was enjoying her discomfort far too much.
‘That is not what I meant and you know it. There is no need to resort to sarcasm when I am merely trying to get a picture of what I am going home to. That is hardly an unreasonable request. Especially as I am the one who has to endure all the upheaval. I thought we had agreed upon an armistice? A polite one.’
He rolled his eyes, but was still smiling. ‘Very well. In the spirit of our polite armistice I shall resist the urge to resort to sarcasm. You will be going home to a very nice, if very sparse, set of rooms. There is a cavernous living room which is positively ringed with windows that let in the light, three bedrooms, all large enough to pace in when I inevitably irritate you, and a dining room which I was told by the builder who renovated the space is intimate—which I presume is the fancy society word for small. I wouldn’t recommend you pace in there.’
His charm was winning her over and she felt her own lips curve into a reluctant smile. ‘Would you care to clarify what sparse means?’
‘It means I’ve had much better things to do this past year than decorate the place. Aside from my bedchamber, I have no furniture whatsoever.’
‘None?’
‘I believe that is what the term no furniture whatsoever means.’
Lydia felt her lips twitch at his purposely dour expression. ‘That sounds dangerously like sarcasm, Owen—which we all know is the lowest form of humour.’
‘What can I say?’ Those broad shoulders shrugged as amusement broke through again. ‘We all know that as a man I am undoubtedly of the lowest form—or should that be the lowliest—so it will undoubtedly be a hard habit to break. Even with your helpful chastisements.’
‘If only your bedchamber is furnished, am I to sleep on the floor?’
‘I am hoping Randolph has had the forethought to procure you a bed. Which I am sure he has. He’s one for detail is Randolph. Surely you noticed that?’
She hadn’t noticed that. Hardly a surprise when she had only met the man briefly while she had still been dumbstruck and reeling after accepting Owen’s proposal. Because of that, she couldn’t really recall much about his business partner. All she remembered clearly was being decidedly shocked to meet him. Firstly, because up until that moment she, like the rest of London, had assumed Owen was the sole owner of Libertas and, secondly, because Randolph was, for want of a better word, a dwarf.
‘And if he hasn’t?’
‘Then you are welcome to sleep in mine.’ He was flirting now, something he had always lapsed into with predictable regularity to deliberately set her off-kilter. A few weeks ago she had found it galling. This morning, and to her dismay, more than a tad thrilling.
Of their own accord, she felt her chin dip to gaze back at him through her lashes. ‘I may very well take you up on that offer…’ he wasn’t the only one who could flirt on command and she was rewarded by the flash of unmistakable interest in those twinkling blue eyes ‘…seeing as I already know you are so comfortable on the floor.’ His eyes narrowed and Lydia couldn’t help but smile with triumph at the tiny victory. ‘Or here is a better idea—why don’t you have Randolph move into your sparse residence and I could live happily separate from you, and perfectly contentedly, in his?’
‘I wouldn’t suggest that idea to him! He might actually take you up on it.’
‘And that would be a bad thing because…?’
‘His wife and three children will be very put out.’
‘Randolph is married?’ She supposed that shouldn’t really be such a surprise. He had been friendly towards her. Kind as well. He had plied her with tea, reassured her everything would turn out all right in the end and all while simultaneously plann
ing the logistics of her elopement with Owen across the table.
‘Indeed he is and for these past eight years. Although Heaven only knows how poor Gertie puts up with him as he is a menace.’ This was accompanied by a subtle smile which told her plainly he was extremely fond of his friend. ‘Something you will doubtless learn soon enough once we get back to town. I would be quite remiss in my duties as your husband—albeit in name only—if I didn’t forewarn you. Randolph is a meddling, loud and thoroughly irritating force of nature. His offspring aren’t much better, truth be told, but Gertie is lovely. I hope you will like her.’
An odd thing to say when Owen’s original proposal had suggested they live almost entirely separate lives. ‘I am sure I will.’ The thought of another woman and children in the house made her feel better about it. Maybe she wouldn’t be lonely after all. Or maybe she would. These were Owen’s friends first and they might not take well to the woman who would never be able to get over the fact he was a shameless thief. And on the subject of his thieving…
‘Can I ask a question, Owen?’
‘Does it contravene the terms of our polite armistice, Lydia?’
‘Maybe—but I need to know. How did you find the money to build Libertas?’
The flirty smile disappeared behind a stony mask. ‘Did I steal it, you mean?’
‘I just want to understand what sort of place I am going home to.’ And what sort of man she was going home with.
For the longest time she thought he would refuse to answer, but then he raked a hand through his already mussed hair, wandered to the window to stare out of it and surprised her.
‘Gambling was rife in Port Jackson—not that I was ever a gambler. I am not sure I’ll ever understand what possesses a man to wager away his hard-earned money on a game of chance, but Randolph dragged me to a hell one day for something to do and as I sat around those gaming tables at night watching it all unfold, I found myself staring at the dealers and then the owner and saw my future. Because while fortunes are won and lost over cards or dice or reckless wagers—I couldn’t help noticing the house always wins. So to cut a very long and difficult story short in order to adhere to the terms of our armistice, we started our own hell in the colony.’ He turned then, his jaw jutting proudly as he stared her dead in the eye. ‘An honest and entirely above-board hell—and a popular one as a result. Consequently, our fortunes rapidly grew and we saved practically every penny because we had plans for bigger and better things one day.’
Harlequin Historical July 2020 - Box Set 1 of 2 Page 9