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A week after the incident with Lily, Owen strolled into his mother’s morning room to find her sitting with Miles Brandon, the third son of Lord Bartley—a close friend of his late father’s which meant Brandon and he had known each other since they were children.
Forced proximity created a tenuous friendship between the two sons—a friendship that grew more dubious as they grew older. At times, Owen appreciated Brandon’s bombastic personality and need for constant entertainment, since it echoed his old spontaneous nature before Lily’s betrayal and his father’s death. But mostly, his wild ways incensed Owen, who wished the man would mature enough to reflect his age.
“There you are,” his mother exclaimed with a note of relief that amused him. It seemed as if he wasn’t the only one who needed to take their family friend in small doses these days. “Dear Brandon was telling me about one of your jaunts in Italy.”
“I’ve arrived just in time to save you the sordid tale, then.” He shot a cease and desist glare towards Brandon, who lounged indolently on the settee, legs spread wide as he sipped his cup of tea. The periwinkle blue of his frock coat matched the wallpaper coverings, and Owen wondered if he’d intended the coordination.
“Leave it to you to end our fun,” the man groused.
“Not entirely. I’ve come to discuss the ball. Are you prepared to be bombarded by guests, Mama?”
The dowager smoothed a hand over the striped silk of her day gown and smiled. “I look forward to the gifts and a chance for my son to inspect prospective brides.”
A coughing fit erupted from Brandon at the implication, but Owen ignored him. He knew this conversation would come up sooner or later—the fact that she’d waited seven months as he settled in after his travels proved a boon. But the ball would be the first societal function they’d host since his return, so he supposed it was natural she’d use it as an excuse to broach the topic.
At least it shan’t be as overwhelming as it would be if we had it in London for the Season.
Thank goodness his mother had opted to stay with him in the country.
“The night’s meant to celebrate you—not serve as a marriage mart.” He took a seat opposite her. “I’m not interested in marrying any time soon, so I’d advise against raised hopes.”
Marrying at all lacked interest from him these days, but as an earl, it was his duty to continue the line. He figured years from now he’d tie himself to some poor young chit, but that was a long way off. And certainly not while Lily remained so near.
“I don’t see why we can’t kill two birds with one stone,” she explained, a calculated gleam in her eyes. “And it would be the greatest birthday gift a mother could ask for—her son happily married with future grandchildren soon to come.”
The happy part’s debatable.
“Yes, have a care for your mother’s wishes, Trent,” Brandon teased from his seat, well aware that he faced no danger of the parson’s noose as a third son. While his family would like to see him settled, it wasn’t necessary for him to produce an heir.
“Stay out of this.” Owen pointed at Brandon in exasperation before turning to his mother. “And you...content yourself with me for the foreseeable future. If you’re in dire need of interaction with little ones, I’m sure we can find one of the village children to keep you company.”
“You can’t remain a bachelor forever.” Sunlight glinted off her auburn hair—the same rich color as his own—as she shook her head in denial, stubborn lines deepening the frown on her face.
“I’m not saying forever. I’m saying not now or in the near future.” A battle of wills warred between them until she relented with a sigh, and like a pardoned prisoner having the rope removed from his neck, relief at the reprieve loosened the stiffness tightening his muscles—the war not won, but a small victory at least.
“I only wish for your happiness. I don’t like how isolated you’ve been since you’ve returned home,” she said, her expression softening. “A good wife would ease some of your burdens.”
Not when the woman he wanted fought him at every turn.
You don’t want her; you want who you thought she was.
“My lady, with respect, Trent’s like any young buck. When he’s finished sowing his wild oats, I’m sure he’ll settle into respectable domesticity. Until then...” Brandon lifted his hands in resignation while Owen took offense at the reference of his oats in front of his mother, but the man never cared for propriety.
They’d cut a swath across the Continent together—Brandon landing them in trouble and Owen getting them out. If he hadn’t been living in a numbed state for the past seven years, fraught with regrets and pain, he might have abandoned their wild trek, but the shameful truth was he’d needed the escape into Brandon’s reckless adventures.
“Is that true? Because I confess to disbelief. You don’t act like a man enjoying his bachelorhood.” His mother made a fair point, knowing him all too well. Most days consisted of meeting with tenants, seeing to their needs, or dealing with the multiple ledgers outlining investments and other financial accounts—hardly relaxing matters.
However, he derived a certain satisfaction from upholding his duties to the people under his care, even if most men of his stature preferred leaving the majority of such work to land managers. But his father had seen to the workings of the estate personally, and Owen intended to continue the tradition and emulate the man he sought to live up to.
“I enjoy it well enough,” he replied. “Now, can we return to the original subject? Is everything set for tomorrow night? Any last-minute changes I need to be aware of?”
“They’re not changes, but you should know I invited the Taylor girls.” The comment sounded innocuous enough, except for the slight dare in her voice. “I ran into Miss Taylor in the village and didn’t think it would be right to celebrate without our closest neighbors, especially with the lot of you growing up so closely together.”
“Miss Taylor...she’s the eldest of four sisters, correct?” Brandon asked as he leaned forward to brace thin arms on his knees.
Owen regarded the man with irritation. “Can’t you remember? You’ve met her about a dozen times during your visits during our school holidays.”
“That was years ago. I can’t be expected to recall every woman I’ve ever met.” It would be nearly impossible with the way he ran through them anyway—the key point Brandon left out.
“She accepted the invitation?”
“Naturally. It would be rude to deny an invitation from the person of honor.” And Caraway followed polite etiquette. She’d never risk rudeness if she could help it. Which meant Lily would be in attendance.
His mother carried on as if nothing was amiss. “That bad business involving Miss Lily is water under the bridge, as far as I’m concerned. To be honest, I never fully trusted that boy’s iteration of events.”
This was the first he’d heard her opinion on the matter. He’d never discussed his plans for Lily with his parents—didn’t know for certain how they’d respond despite their unconventional ways. Though, he always assumed his mother would offer immediate support while his dad would’ve taken more convincing.
Doesn't matter now.
“What happened?” Brandon asked, but Owen refused to relay the story. There had been enough reminiscing this week, and his kiss with Lily came to mind. Hunching over at the wave of heat heading south to his groin, his mouth flattened into a foreboding line.
“Nothing that concerns you.” Turning to his mother, he said, “Surely, they’ll feel out of place among Society members and deal with a fair share of questioning looks.”
“They’re grown women who know how to handle themselves. They’ve done it well enough since the passing of their parents. A few haughty stares from the nobility won’t phase them, I’m sure.” Pausing, a shrewd expression appeared. “Is there a particular reason you don’t want the Taylor sisters to attend?”
Yes, because one of them is the bane of my existence and a trap waiting for me to fall into headfirst.
“Not at all,” he denied with a shrug. “If you want them to come, let them. It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”
Except I’ll be sure to keep a healthy distance from them—or more specifically, the tall one with lithe curves and a temper to rival Artemis.
***
“WE LOOK RIDICULOUS.” Lily paced across the room, accompanied by rustling from her taffeta skirt. The scarlet fabric resembled its richer cousin, silk, yet the shinier quality and distinct noise during movement declared its inferiority.
“Nonsense,” Caraway said as she grabbed the matching reticule to her emerald gown. “We’ve removed unnecessary layers and slimmed it down in the front for the current style. No one will know the difference.”
An unladylike snort came from Lily at the ridiculous statement. “These aren’t common villagers like us. They’re the nobility. It’s written in their blood to notice the passé.” She didn’t mention how, even when the gowns were new nearly a decade ago that they still wouldn’t have passed muster.
“I wish you wouldn’t be so grim.” Iris placed a beseeching hand on her arm as they waited for the Trent carriage to arrive. Lady Trent had graciously included the conveyance in her invitation. Otherwise, their old mare would’ve tugged them to the Trent estate in an open wagon.
Country bumpkins, indeed.
“While you may look like the fairy in Hazel’s stories, you might remember you don’t actually live in a children’s tale.” It vexed her how they tried to ignore their looming doom—as if pretending everything was sunshine and rainbows would make the problem with Laramie disappear.
She hated being the bearer of bad news, the one to point out their harsh reality all the time, and if it came out rude or blunt, it couldn’t be helped. There were only so many times Lily could remind her sisters of the facts before it became ridiculous and increased her ire.
“Lily! Try to be kind,” Caraway scolded. “Can’t we agree to enjoy tonight? It’s not often we get to attend such a lavish party.”
Ironically, the last party they attended had been Hazel’s wedding hosted by the Trents, and now they were headed back for another milestone celebration.
The jingle of carriage horses offered a reprieve from their argument, and they filed out of the cottage to meet the gleaming black conveyance with a golden crest on the side. A footman helped each of them into the velvety interior before the driver encouraged the horses forward at a sedate pace.
Torches lit the gravel drive lined with carriages of guests, and a knot formed in Lily’s stomach. Setting aside her displeasure with Iris and Caraway, for the time being, her thoughts shifted. The opinions of society weighed less on her than the high possibility of seeing Owen. Their caustic departure the week prior would serve as an uncomfortable backdrop to the unavoidable meeting.
If you remain calm and collected, there’ll be nothing to fear. He’s hardly going to insult you in front of his mother and guests.
Moments later, they joined the receiving line to greet their hosts: the Dowager Countess and Earl of Trent. A task Lily wished they could skip.
“Good evening, my lord and my lady,” Caraway said as the three women curtsied.
“Ah, Hampshire’s Garden Girls... Isn’t that what you call them, dear?” The dowager turned to her son with a playful swat of her fan. Diamonds glimmered at her ears and neck with the movement, and Lily felt the absence of their own elaborate jewelry keenly—a paste necklace weighing heavily around her neck. “Though we’re missing young Hazel, aren’t we? I would’ve adored hearing another one of her fantastical tales.”
“Yes, responsibilities kept her and her husband in Manchester, I’m afraid. But we’re hopeful for a visit soon.”
“Ah, too bad. Their wedding was lovely, and I’d hoped to witness their marital bliss. Though, it was peculiar—the youngest sister married before the elder. But perhaps we can remedy that this evening.” Her ladyship smiled encouragingly. “Plenty of available gentlemen in attendance for beautiful young women such as yourselves.”
“Mama...” Owen warned before facing them. His jacket buttons gleamed under the chandelier, punctuating the polished visage of a healthy young earl. From the top of his styled auburn hair to the shine on his shoes, he emanated wealth and superiority—a man confident in his worth and wasn’t afraid to let everyone around him know it, either. “I apologize for my mother’s impudent remarks. She has matrimony on her mind. It seems no one can escape it.”
His gaze met Lily’s with an unreadable expression, but it didn’t surprise her that the dowager wanted Owen married off. All these years, she’d waited for the news of an engagement yet nothing, but that might change sooner rather than later as Lily studied the sparkling ladies around her. Her throat spasmed with a hard swallow as she swept an unsteady hand down the pale column. Owen’s attention narrowed to the spot, riveted by the small act.
“No apology needed. We appreciate the suggestion,” Iris said, her navy gown complementing the darker tones in her gray-blue eyes. “We’re honored to be guests at such an auspicious event.”
Lady Trent smiled at her enthusiasm, and Lily resisted a puff of disgruntlement. She absolutely would not be searching for a husband tonight. Especially not with the man who once frequented her girlish dreams in attendance.
After bidding the Trents adieu, they followed the crush of people towards a beautiful ballroom, a river of colorful fish waiting to be caught up in the sea of dancing and flirting—herself excluded, of course.
Planting her back to a wall, Lily observed the glittering crowd with a sigh of resignation and waited for the night to pass uneventfully. Iris and Cara could do as they wished, but she would not be lured into merriment.
Absolutely not.