‘Make no bones about it—being invited to stay at Aveley Castle is quite the coup, Owen. And just before Christmas, too! The Aveley Christmas soirée is legendary. Very intimate and very exclusive. They never invite more than twenty people, so to be one of them is beyond impressive. My father would have given his eye teeth for such an invitation.’ It was past midnight and they were walking home from a sumptuous dinner at the Renshaws in Grosvenor Square. ‘The Duke must be very taken with you...or is it the Duchess you have so thoroughly charmed?’
Life had settled into its own rhythm over the past two weeks and Lydia found herself surprisingly comfortable with many aspects of it. She had made great friends with Gertie, which had been lovely, adored helping her with the children and found Libertas feeling more and more like home. One by one, the individual pieces of furniture, curtains and rugs she had meticulously chosen began to arrive and the barren living room was now a cosy oasis—albeit one her husband rarely stopped in for long.
After their first public appearance, which had gone far better than she could have possibly imagined, they received a flurry of invitations to different events and she and Owen had gone out as a couple at least twice a week since. As he had predicted, the romantic fairy tale, which the newspapers had helped embellish, ensured they were largely accepted wherever they went. While she was in no doubt this was probably more to do with the appetite for gossip than her former standing in society, in the main most were polite at least and some went out of their way to be friendly. A few turned their noses up and she didn’t feel ready to call upon acquaintances again yet, but all in all the dust had settled and most of the initial scandal seemed to have passed.
That was such a relief. It was nice to feel able to venture out in the world again, especially as she no longer needed to worry about chaperons or asking her controlling father’s permission. As a married woman, she had more freedom and independence than she’d ever had and was grateful her new husband was nothing like her father.
It was nicer still slowly rediscovering aspects of her friendship with Owen on these quiet evening strolls when it was just the two of them. She hadn’t realised quite how much she had missed it and found herself wishing they spent more time together at home. But he religiously maintained his distance from her there unless Gertie and Randolph were around—or they happened to be en route to or from a social engagement like tonight.
‘As I am sure you are well aware, Wife...’ He slanted her a mischievous glance. ‘I have such a way with the ladies, it is obviously the Duchess. Are you jealous?’
‘Not in the slightest. She has a ridiculously handsome duke who is obviously madly in love with her... Why on earth would she want you?’ Gertie had let slip the real reason, because as usual her husband was annoyingly tight-lipped about anything personal. ‘Aside from your money, of course. I should imagine she is delighted to receive your monthly donation to her orphanage... And her soup kitchen.’
‘Have you been gossiping with Randolph again?’
‘Surely discussing your generosity isn’t gossip? Although why you would keep it a secret is beyond me. Where I come from, people brag about how philanthropic they are.’
‘A few pounds do not constitute philanthropy, Lydia.’
‘Indeed, they do not—but a few hundred do, Owen.’ She nudged him playfully with her elbow, enjoying the solid feel of his arm beneath her gloved hand a little too much. ‘And before you blame Randolph for that titbit as well, I should confess I got it first-hand from the Duchess herself.’ Since discovering he had suffered eight months on a hulk, Lydia had been on a mission to glean as much information about him as she could, justifying it to herself as trying to better understand the man he was now because he was so reticent about telling her anything. ‘Why did you feel the need to keep it a secret when you might have known she would mention it when she extended the invitation?’
‘Because nobody likes a braggart.’
‘Or more likely you enjoy being a man of mystery.’
‘Perhaps a little. Being mysterious has turned out to be very good for business.’
As if to prove him right, as they turned into Curzon Street the long line of carriages was still queueing to deposit eager gentlemen at Libertas. Fridays were always a particularly busy night, especially when the other entertainments and parties finished.
‘For what it is worth, I think it is a very generous and noble thing to do.’ Beneath her fingers, the muscles in his arm tightened, a sure sign he was uncomfortable with the compliment.
‘It simply makes sound business sense. People like a charitable man.’
He was exasperating. ‘Liar. You do it because you know how it feels to have nothing. And you know what it is like to have nobody in the world. You were orphaned at eight, Owen, and stuck in an orphanage until you were fourteen. You hated it. Especially the food. You developed a lifelong hatred of porridge on the back of it. And you were there till you were fourteen because you were too big to stuff up a chimney. Nobody would take you on as an apprentice in the other trades because you were too tall—they thought you would eat too much.’
He stopped dead. ‘You remember all that?’
Why was he surprised? ‘Of course I remember. Once upon a time you used to tell me things.’
‘That was before we had an armistice and agreed never to talk about the past.’
Which he had taken literally, no doubt to vex her, when she had never intended the dratted thing to encompass all their past. Just the bit which always broke her heart to dwell upon. The bit she still did not want to believe, but had to accept. But how to tell him all that without reopening the wound? ‘I also remember exactly where we were when you told me about it. We were in our spot. Behind the trees at the back of the Serpentine.’
‘Hidden from the world.’ She detected a distinct hint of bitterness in that statement as he started forward again as if he were suddenly annoyed.
‘Why do you say it like that?’
‘Because I was your guilty secret.’ Which sounded dirty. ‘And you were ashamed of me... Of us.’
‘I was neither ashamed nor guilty. But I was mindful of the fact life would become impossible for us if anyone suspected our relationship then.’
‘Really?’ It was disbelief this time, rather than bitterness. ‘It obviously had absolutely nothing to do with me being a stable boy who wasn’t good enough and you being an earl’s daughter who was destined to do better.’
‘Absolutely not!’
‘Then why did we creep around? Why did you beg me never to tell a living soul about us?’
‘I was sixteen, Owen.’ They weren’t even discussing the past, yet were still arguing. Her own fault, she supposed, as she had been the one to stupidly dig it up rather than leave it buried. ‘I had barely any freedom at all, if you recall!’ If he was going to accuse her of being selfish and shallow, then she was entitled to defend herself. ‘You know full well my father controlled everything! And I knew if word found its way to him about us, he would have dismissed you on the spot and I would have been sent to some horrible ladies’ school somewhere in the back of beyond run by nuns and we would never have seen each other again.’ A grim fact which had given her so many nightmares at the time. ‘I couldn’t bear that because—’ She clamped her errant jaws shut. That was undoubtedly more information than she was comfortable giving.
Owen’s step slowed and, when hers didn’t, he tugged her back. ‘You couldn’t bear that because...?’
She fumbled for an excuse which skirted around the intensely personal truth, but there was something about the power of his gaze which wrenched it out regardless.
‘Because I never wanted to be apart from you, you wretch. I adored you! I thought once I reached my majority we...’ Her toes were curling inside her slippers and she bitterly regretted wandering down this cringingly awkward path in the first place. This was all too personal. Too mortifying. Too truthful. ‘For pity’s sake! I was sixteen, Owen! Filled with the silly romantic notions all sixteen-year-old girls have.’
‘You adored me?’ The ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth and his dazzling blue eyes were twinkling. He was clearly enjoying her abject discomfort and was intent on milking it for all it was worth. ‘Genuinely adored me?’
That he doubted it made her roll her eyes. ‘I was an idiot. Fresh from the schoolroom and green around the gills.’ A trusting, smitten and reckless fool. ‘But I soon realised my mistake.’ All the hurt came rushing back then. The disbelief followed by the crushing grief of his betrayal. ‘And swiftly got over it.’
‘So am I to assume that once you reached your majority, you had plans to run away with me?’
She gripped the edges of her cloak and marched forward without him, furious at herself for confessing that much. ‘I was sixteen, Owen!’
‘But you knew then you wanted to marry me?’ She cursed his long legs for effortlessly keeping pace with her. ‘Were we going to elope?’
Yes.
A mad and romantic dash to Gretna Green.
Although that irony was not lost on her now. All her foolish dreams had come true—in part. This certainly wasn’t how she had envisioned things. ‘I hadn’t thought that part through.’
She felt his hand on her arm a split second before he spun her around. ‘Liar...’
His gaze locked with hers, seeking the truth, and to her utter disgust she feared he saw it. All at once, his eyes seemed darker. The irises stormy. Hypnotic. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but couldn’t seem to tear hers away. He smoothed his palms down her arms until he found her hands, then tugged her closer. He dipped his head a little, then hesitated.
His warm breath caressed her cheek. Her lips tingled with awareness.
Time stood still...
‘There you are!’ Slugger’s voice came out of nowhere from behind the parked carriages, making them simultaneously jump apart. ‘Step lively, the pair of you! Gertie’s gone into labour!’
‘What have I done? What have I done?’
Randolph was pacing and, after an hour of constant self-flagellation since Gertie went into labour, was on the cusp of rending his garments.
Owen had given up trying to make him calm down, knowing from the last three labours that nothing he did was going to work. His friend would whip himself into a frenzy until he heard the babe cry and saw with his own eyes his beloved wife was alive and well. Then—and only then—would he miraculously and instantaneously become rational once again. In the meantime, he would be a wreck. Which was damned inconvenient because Owen had better things to think about.
Like Lydia’s confession she had planned to run away with him all those years ago because she had adored him.
Adored him!
Her exact words and he still wasn’t quite over them. She had said as much back then, of course, and more. But tonight he saw the truth in them.
Lady Lydia Barton could have had anyone—yet she had wanted him.
Behind the door, Gertie moaned in pain, dragging him back to the present, and Randolph clutched his own stomach in sympathy as he paced and practically howled, ‘She’s hurting, Owen! She’s hurting! And it’s all my fault!’
As technically it was, he had no words of comfort to ease his friend’s guilt. Instead, Owen unfolded himself from the chair and wandered to the sideboard to pour him a brandy. ‘It will all be over soon.’ He held out the glass and wrapped one arm around the other man’s shoulders. ‘Come. Sit. Gertie’s sailed through every labour so far and I’ve heard it gets easier each time.’
Randolph nodded, clasping the glass in both hands as if it were the Holy Grail, and swallowed the entire contents in one go before handing it back for Owen to refill it. ‘I keep telling myself I should abstain... After all these years I know exactly when to avoid it... When I should sleep in another room... But I cannot help myself.’ His pained expression was tragic. ‘You’ve seen her. She’s a goddess... A seductress... I can’t keep my hands off her. I do not possess your willpower, Owen.’
He wasn’t entirely sure he possessed it now either. With every passing day it got harder and harder. Tonight, if Slugger hadn’t interrupted, he’d have kissed her. And then what?
She would know he still had feelings. Know she still had power over him. Either one gave her the upper hand and frankly scared the hell out of him.
Another moan came from the bedchamber beyond and, as Randolph threw his arms in the air and began to flagellate himself again, the door flew open.
‘Any sign of the physician?’ Lydia was wide-eyed and clearly panicked. The evening gown she was still wearing was hanging limply from one shoulder and half of her artfully tousled hairstyle had collapsed.
‘He’s just finishing up another birth on Bruton Place and will be here presently.’
This news did nothing to placate her. ‘And the midwife?’ Her voice was unusually high pitched.
‘She is not at home...but we have a man posted there to fetch her here as soon as she materialises...’ One hand reached out and grabbed his cravat.
‘The baby is coming, Owen!’
His eyes swivelled to the clock on the mantel and then he smiled in reassurance. ‘No, it isn’t. It’s much too soon. She’s only been in labour an hour. We’ve at least another three to go.’