‘You made money as a convict? I didn’t think…’
‘That commerce could flourish over on the other side of the world? Or that I had it in me to be an entrepreneur?’
‘Neither…’ She flicked him an awkward glance, debating whether to ask what was on the tip of her tongue. ‘I didn’t think…you had that much freedom over there. I assumed all prisoners were…locked up.’
He laughed without humour and shook his head. ‘There was no point locking us up, Lydia—we had nowhere else to go.’
‘Was it…very bad there?’ Because suddenly she wanted to hear the entire long story to better understand him now.
‘That definitely contravenes the parameters of our armistice.’ She heard the note of bitterness in his voice as he folded his arms once more and lent his weight on the sturdy windowsill. ‘Because recounting it is guaranteed to make me angry. All you need to know is by day I worked at His Majesty’s pleasure building roads or planting fields for no wages.’ Which explained where he had acquired those intriguing muscles. ‘And in our hell every night for myself. So to answer your initial question, Lydia, I earned every single penny that went into building Libertas—fair and square. And worked damned hard for it, too.’
She released the breath she had not realised she was holding because she believed him. ‘Thank you for putting my mind at rest.’
He nodded, but continued to stare intently. ‘I believe I am entitled to ask a personal question now, too.’ She wanted to say no because the directness of his gaze was unsettling her and she feared he already knew too much already—but knew she couldn’t.
‘Go ahead.’
‘Why did you never marry?’ His gaze swept the length of her and she felt it everywhere. ‘You must have been asked.’
‘I was, but…’ My misguided foolish heart only ever wanted you. ‘I was waiting for the right man…’ His head tilted. That insightful and hypnotic blue gaze stripping her bare as it searched for the truth. ‘And he never came along in time.’
‘Perhaps he did and…’
The arrival of the maid spared her from whatever else he intended to say, and Lydia was only too grateful to usher her in. Bizarrely, Owen seemed ridiculously grateful for the interruption, too, and rushed forward to relieve the girl of the two heavy steaming buckets she carried. This tiny gesture earned him a beaming, if bashful, smile from the maid which he returned so charmingly the poor thing blushed all the way to her toes before she bobbed a curtsy and dashed away.
‘She seemed very taken with you.’ The words popped out before Lydia could stop them.
‘Don’t be jealous… I’m a likeable chap.’ The serious man of a moment ago was gone once again, replaced by the flirty rogue who had vexed her at too many social engagements over the past two years.
‘I wasn’t the least bit jealous.’ Although deep down, and much to her chagrin, a minuscule part of her was. Jealous and flustered and feeling entirely exposed. His fault for asking her why she had waited. ‘I was merely making an observation. You have a…knack with people. Which explains why you have done so well in business.’ She was momentarily pleased with her quick and reasonable response. Then, because clearly her mouth had developed a mind of its own, more damning words tumbled out—waspish and unbidden. ‘Especially with the ladies.’
His bark of laughter galled. ‘Is that your way of asking me not to flirt with them? Now that we are married…’
Lydia kicked herself for inadvertently giving him the upper hand. ‘I really couldn’t care less who you flirt with, Owen.’ She tried to sound bored as she looked down her nose at him. ‘As long as it is not with me.’
He simply smiled in response as he effortlessly carried the buckets through the bedchamber door and poured one into the washbowl. All the while her stupid eyes watched him and the easily waylaid feminine part of her openly appreciated his form while she kept thinking about those dratted birds tattooed on his dratted gorgeous bicep.
As if he knew that, he took his sweet time in fetching his shaving equipment and a fresh shirt, before he casually sauntered back to the bedchamber and lingered at the door. ‘If I curb the flirting, can I keep the sarcasm?’
‘I really do not care either way.’ Irritatingly waspish again when she was trying so hard to be nonchalant.
He nodded, his eyes dancing, looking more obnoxiously handsome than he ever had before. ‘If you say so… Wife.’
Then he winked before he closed the door and, heaven help her, she found herself more than a little charmed as well as flustered as she stared back at the wood.
CHAPTER NINE
Owen was dead on his feet but still couldn’t bring himself to go to bed. After that fateful night at the inn when he had lain awake for the duration, his body painfully aware of the temptation sleeping soundly in the next room, he had actively avoided resting anywhere close to Lydia. Something which had been relatively easy on the road, but which was practically impossible now they were freshly arrived back in London.
He had pleaded work as the reason he had abandoned her to what was now their set of rooms, an excuse he suspected he would have to use frequently in the coming days, weeks, months and years in order to remain relatively sane. Unless he set her up in her own household somewhere, which might be the only option open to him if he continued to lust after her with quite as much enthusiasm as he currently was.
He blamed their polite armistice, her perfume and that damned sensible nightdress she had tormented him in on their first official morning as man and wife. How such a capacious and practical garment tied all the way to the neck could send him over the edge was a mystery—but it had. Probably because he had known there was absolutely nothing lying beneath it and that dangerous knowledge, combined with the tousled curtain of dark hair hanging below her unbound breasts, had knocked him sideways. Yet another wholly unwelcome thunderbolt flying out of the blue when he really didn’t need another reminder of the power she held over him.
How exactly was he supposed to sleep, or even function normally, a few scant yards from that?
Even now, the thought of her sleeping in the big bed Randolph had had the foresight to obtain was tormenting him. Lydia lying in the frothy and feminine bedcovers Gertie had probably had a hand in choosing, dark hair fanned over the pillow, those sooty lashes forming a beautiful and alluring crescent on her perfect cheeks. Over a week away from his business and a mountain of work was piled, waiting for him on his desk, and all Owen’s brain could think about was her.
‘You look like death warmed up.’ To make his living hell complete, a yawning Randolph wandered in. Slugger must have awoken him to tell him Owen was home. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’
‘Too much to do.’ For good measure, he grabbed the stack of correspondence he had been ignoring and began to sift through it.
‘It’s four in the morning!’ Another thing he was only too painfully aware of. The last diehard patrons of Libertas had left long before they arrived back and the building was depressingly silent. ‘And what the blazes were you doing travelling through the night? You’re lucky you weren’t accosted by footpads.’
‘It seemed pointless staying in an inn when there were only twenty miles left.’ Owen had mistakenly thought being on familiar territory would make things better. Another chronic misjudgement when he was usually so precise and measured in his decisions. Even Libertas felt odd now she was in it. Everything felt as though it was spiralling out of his control and he didn’t have the first clue how to stop it. The roiling emotions which had led him to act so rashly were no less calm. If anything, they were worse. He couldn’t think straight. Hadn’t slept more than a fitful hour or two at a time in days and was desperately worried the situation was doomed to plunge ever deeper into chaos before it showed any signs of getting better.
His friend climbed into the chair opposite and shook his head. ‘I didn’t expect you till late tomorrow�
��at the earliest. In a hurry, were you? It couldn’t have been much of a honeymoon travelling at that lick.’
Owen slanted him a warning look. Randolph knew full well this was supposed to be a business arrangement. His friend might not believe it and frankly who could blame him when Owen knew damn well it wasn’t either, but that did not mean he was prepared to deviate from the flimsy lie. ‘What have I missed?’
‘A huge scandal in the papers. Reporters constantly knocking at the door. Rumour, speculation, endless gossip.’ Randolph raised expressive eyebrows. ‘And a massive leap in profits.’
‘Good to hear… Have you paid Lydia’s father?’
‘Two days ago.’
Owen had known it was coming. Thought he had prepared himself for the consequences he himself had set in motion, but along came a whirl of fear regardless at the expected news.
Ten thousand hard-earned pounds. Gone.
Pouf!
Just like that.
‘He didn’t send a thank-you note.’
‘There’s a surprise.’ Now he could add the uncertainty which came from a severely depleted bank balance to the churning cauldron of emotions which threatened to engulf him. Thank goodness there had been an upturn of profits. Too many months feeling this exposed and vulnerable would likely finish him. ‘Has news of the settlement leaked?’
‘No. The last thing Fulbrook wants is for the world to know you had to bail him out of debt. Any more than he wants Kelvedon to learn he shamelessly double-crossed him.’
Not that he had shamelessly double-crossed him in the strictest sense. That suggested Fulbrook had a choice in the matter when Owen hadn’t given him one. Unbeknownst to his friend, he’d used the mortgage deed as leverage—which he supposed was a polite term for blackmail—but there had been no way in hell he’d have allowed Lydia to marry that lecher.
‘And how is the odious Marquess?’
Randolph grinned. ‘The Marquess of Kelvedon is spitting feathers. Not only did his beautiful fiancée run off and leave him in the lurch, but somebody forgot to tell The Times the wedding was off and the joyous news of his nuptials was printed the day after the scandalous news of your elopement leaked. It is widely reported he wants to seek satisfaction on the duelling field—although he is still ensconced at his estate and will probably stay there until the need to polish his pistols diminishes with time.’
‘We expected as much. It’s all bluster to save face. What has the Earl of Fulbrook had to say?’
‘Nothing. Neither has her brother. Both are lying low till the dust settles.’
‘And how is the dust settling?’ Because that was the crux of the matter. If society turned against him, they would turn against Libertas and everything the pair of them had worked, suffered and sacrificed for would crumble around their ears. For a man who didn’t gamble, he had certainly wagered everything including his shirt on this. His best friend’s shirt, too.
‘Very well. Exactly as I predicted.’ Randolph gestured to the stack of letters beneath Owen’s hand. ‘Most of those are invitations. You and the lovely Lady Lydia are suddenly in very high demand. The talk of the town. The modern-day Romeo and Juliet—except without the tragic ending.’ The slow grin stretched from ear to ear. ‘You’ve come out well, Owen. Much better than expected, in fact. You are being lauded a noble hero.’ Largely, he wouldn’t doubt, because of Randolph’s carefully leaked embellishments. His friend’s talent for spinning things to their advantage was legendary.
‘Then my mission was accomplished.’
His friend huffed out a withering sigh. ‘Of course it was… That’s why you’re hiding down here, needing matchsticks to prop open your eyes and staring into space.’
‘I told you I have…’
‘Things to do. Yes… I heard that pathetic excuse, yet we both know you are down here hiding. From the woman of your dreams, no less… The one that got away… The one you could never forget… The one you could not bear to be in the slimy arms of another…’
Owen felt his temper bubble despite the accusation worryingly being spot on. He had done a lot of thinking on the road. And all the introspection had made him realise two inescapable and undeniable things. He had married Lydia because he wanted her—always had, always would—but he really didn’t want her like this.
Not still hating him and distrusting him.
She wanted to put the past aside in a locked box and pretend it didn’t exist. But he had lived it and wanted, if not retribution, certainly recognition that he was innocent, and redemption. Especially from her. Except he had no earthly idea how to get it now all the potential avenues to proving his innocence had gone stone cold. ‘It’s not like that!’
‘It could be…’ Randolph ignored his murderous scowl. ‘It all depends on how you play it. Perhaps it’s time for a bit of wooing…’
‘Absolutely not!’ The flirting was killing him. The only way they seemed to be able to cope with the all great unsaid, certainly the only way Owen could cope with any time spent in her presence, was to behave in a light and superficially sparring fashion. Which inevitably lent itself naturally to flirting despite giving him the upper hand. At least that was how he justified the constant need to flirt with her. Until he had found a satisfactory way of controlling the rest of the heaving mess he had irrationally created, that was the story he could cope with in his mind and he was stubbornly determined to stick to it.
‘I fully intend to keep my relationship with her on a strictly business footing!’ Why, for the life of him, could he not suddenly seem to finish a sentence without raising his voice? Clearly he had a lot of pent-up rage regarding Lydia, alongside all the lust, which he couldn’t release in front of her because of their polite and civil, frustratingly futile and flirting armistice.
‘Then I suppose the alternative is to stay here indefinitely, camp out in your office like a coward and avoid her until you are both old and grey and one of you gives up the ghost, turns up their toes and dies.’
It really wasn’t much of a plan when Owen heard it spoken aloud, but in the absence of a better one, it would have to do until his addled mind could function well enough to conjure up a viable alternative. Until that miracle occurred, he was trapped inside a racing carriage being dragged by a team of horses without any reins. Lost in the outback without water. Strapped to a table in a room full of tiger snakes…
‘Then if you don’t mind, I shall leave you to it.’ His friend slithered off the chair and shook his head pityingly. ‘I have a lovely warm wife to snuggle up to and while it is still the middle of the night, I fully intend to do some snuggling. Enjoy your hard desk, my friend. And your moral high ground. I expect both will be cold comfort.’
He waved his hand and walked away. But Randolph being Randolph, he couldn’t resist one last dig to completely ruin Owen’s night. ‘Seeing as you’re in hiding, shall I send your breakfast here? Only Gertie is planning a welcome breakfast first thing for your lovely new wife, seeing as your sorry, spartan excuse for a home leaves a great deal to be desired and the poor thing has absolutely nothing to sit on—let alone eat at. But don’t worry…’ He gave another theatrical wave. ‘I’ll make excuses for you. Besides, with you absent, it gives us plenty of opportunity to get to know her better. We are both very intrigued…about the pair of you. Then as well as now. You’ll probably feel your ears burning…’
Knowing silence was the best and safest option, he let his meddling partner leave before he groaned aloud and dropped his forehead to the desk.
* * *
Lydia stood in the middle of the cavernous living room and spun in a slow circle. Owen hadn’t lied. What it lacked in furniture it certainly made up for in windows. The sunrise over Mayfair was spectacular. She knew that emphatically as she had watched it from its inception when she had never been one for early mornings. Unfortunately, since her world had turned upside down, she had seen far to
o many of them—but this was the first she had had to suffer without the restorative properties of a good cup of tea. She had no earthly idea if she had the use of servants or needed to make it herself.
‘You’re up, then?’
Her new husband strode in carrying two heavy-looking dining chairs and looking annoyingly as fresh as a daisy in a clean suit of impeccably tailored clothes, smelling sinfully of the spicy cologne he favoured. The sight instantly galled because she felt, and no doubt looked, a shocking mess. With no apparent maid to help her, she’d had to do her own hair this morning and as hairdressing was really not her forte, the simple, austere knot was lacklustre at best against his golden handsomeness.
Then there was her gown, of course, which was the least crushed from their arduous journey to and from Scotland. She had only packed enough for the trip, assuming foolishly she would have her entire wardrobe at her disposal upon her return. But while she had an enormous new wardrobe in her huge new bedroom, it was as depressingly empty as the living room. Her father could have at least arranged for her things to be sent here. She had selflessly wrenched him out of crippling debt, after all.
‘I’ve brought chairs.’
‘So I see. How positively homely. A miraculous transformation.’
He grinned in response and deposited them in front of the fireplace. ‘I thought you said sarcasm is the lowest form of humour.’
‘Only when it comes from you. From me it isn’t sarcasm, it’s well-timed and witty pathos.’
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