The first laden coach arrived at dawn the next morning. By eight, Lydia was surrounded by a sea of hastily packed trunks and boxes strewn haphazardly in the hallway, containing every last stitch of clothing she owned. Clearly Owen had worked a miracle with her stubborn father, although heaven only knew how as he had yet to make an appearance. He had apparently disappeared first thing in another temper, according to Slugger, but nobody knew where he had gone or why. But as Randolph had just informed her he was finally holed up in his office again, she was determined to find out and sick of waiting for the opportunity.
Lydia turned away twice before she found the courage to knock on his door. She had always considered his office sacrosanct and he had never given her cause to think otherwise. However, whether he wanted her there or not, and no matter how awkward she felt by encroaching on his private and personal space, she genuinely needed to thank him for coming to her aid.
He answered her second knock with a distracted enter, so she did just that and found him hunched over the desk, his chin resting on one hand while the other held the quill which scratched as he wrote.
He was also coatless.
Meaning she was treated to the sight of the tight cream silk of the back of his waistcoat stretched taut over his impressive broad shoulders while the soft linen sleeves draped the muscles in his arms as they moved. Her thoughts instantly drifted to the all-too-brief sight of his golden skin, and more specifically the flock of birds etched into it, and all at once, she felt hot as well as awkward.
He finished what he was writing and glanced up, then appeared thoroughly stunned to be confronted with her.
‘Hello, Owen.’
‘Hello...’ He quickly slipped the sheet of paper he had been writing on beneath a ledger and laid down his pen, looking every inch as uncomfortable about her intrusion as she felt. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘I came to thank you for liberating my things.’ Suddenly she had no earthly idea what to do with her hands, which seemed to want to twiddle with her hair, and instantly regretted not bringing him a cup of tea to give them some purpose despite that being a very wifely thing to do. ‘It was noble of you to confront my father and call him out about his petty behaviour on my behalf.’
‘It was no trouble.’
‘As my father is nothing but troublesome, I suspect it probably was.’ She pulled out the chair opposite him and perched on it. He hadn’t invited her to sit—but standing was making her self-conscious and she wanted some answers. ‘How did you manage it?’
‘I reasoned with him.’ Clearly getting any conversation out of him this morning was going to be like squeezing blood from a stone.
‘Impossible.’ She found herself smiling at his implausible explanation. ‘My father cannot be reasoned with. And you left in such a temper, I doubt you were capable of being reasonable either. There must have been quite the to-do because he wouldn’t have relented otherwise’
‘It was a bit more than a to-do, I’m afraid.’ He winced, looking delightfully wary. ‘You know me...and my temper... I fear I went too far.’
Clearly he thought she was going to be angry at him for that, when nothing could be further from the truth. She was supremely grateful and inordinately proud of him in equal measure. Nobody had ever fought her corner with quite so much dedication and determination, and absolutely nobody—not even her brother—had ever got her father to see reason. Not once in all her six and twenty years had he ever overturned a decision after he had made it—no matter how wrong he was.
‘As I’m not feeling particularly charitable towards him after he left me stood on the doorstep, I dare say he deserved it.’
He winced. ‘I might have caused a bit of a scene on that same doorstep.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I might also have threatened to rip the front door down with my bare hands if your lily-livered sire continued his cowardly refusal to grant me an audience.’
‘Lily-livered?’
His pained expression was completely disarming. ‘It was one of a stream of colourful adjectives I might have used in the heat of the moment.’
Instantly, she pictured him shouting blue murder and flinging his arms about as he had that evening at the inn and felt laughter bubble. ‘I should imagine the neighbours greatly enjoyed that.’
He smiled for the first time and it was devastating. ‘I think they did. I was in full flow by then and drawing quite a crowd.’
‘And that was all it took? A noisy scene on the doorstep for him to wave the white flag of defeat?’ Had she known that, she might have been brave enough to do it herself, even though it went against years of genteel breeding and doing as she was told.
He shook his head then raked a hand through his hair, clearly considering the best way to answer which might lessen the blow. But he needn’t have bothered. It might well be petty, but the thought of her stubborn and pompous father cowering in front of a furious Owen, magnificently incandescent with rage, was too glorious to discard.
‘Once I was inside, I might have threatened to accidentally drop my copy of the settlement document and my extensive list of the Barton family debts on the doorstep of the Morning Chronicle and allow them to publish them with impunity.’
‘I am sure that went down well.’ Her father was used to his word being final. A challenge like that would have given him an apoplexy.
‘He threatened to sue me if I did. For libel of all things. And then had the audacity to remind me of my place and his superior connections.’
Two things guaranteed to rile Owen to his core. ‘To which you doubtless told him to do his worst.’ She could picture it. Owen defiantly standing tall, impressive shoulders pulled back. Perfect jaw lifted as he stared her father straight in the eye.
‘I might have called his bluff.’ He winced again. ‘Actually, I’m certain I did go too far. You see... The thing is...’ He huffed out an irritated cross between a huff and a grunt, his features scrunched in consternation. ‘Because I was angry...’ He was so blatantly annoyed at himself, Lydia gave in to the urge to reach for his hand across the desk. It was big and strong and comfortingly warm. ‘I might have used...’
She touched his arm. It was gloriously solid. ‘Whatever you did, I am sure he deserved it, Owen. All of it and more. My father is not a nice man. In truth, I’ve never particularly liked him.’ It felt cathartic to finally say that out loud and not fear the retribution. ‘In fact... I am glad somebody finally put him in his place because I cannot stand him.’
‘Yet you married me to save him from ruin.’
‘It wasn’t him I was saving. It was my brother, the tenants and servants, the pensions...’ Which all sounded far too noble and selfless when it wasn’t entirely true. ‘And myself, of course. I couldn’t bear the thought of for ever with Kelvedon.’
‘You preferred a thief over a lecher?’ Lydia couldn’t decipher the intense emotion suddenly swirling in his intense, unnerving gaze.
‘Better the devil you know.’
Which she realised was an outright lie as soon as she said it and before she saw the flash of disappointment on his face. Maybe there had been some truth in it when she had first accepted his out-of-the-blue proposal, but even then, there had been so much about Owen that appealed more. Now she was supremely grateful she had ignored her brother’s advice and listened to her heart and not her head. In the short time they had been married, it was obvious a great deal of the old Owen still remained. He was kind and noble. Thoughtful. Gentle. Loyal to the core. Regardless of the informality of Libertas, his staff adored him. That spoke volumes in itself. And deep down, beneath all the murky, unpalatable and disappointing aspects of their relationship, she instinctively felt she could trust him once again. She also realised she still liked him—very much—warts and all.
‘You still think me a devil?’ He stared down at where her palm covered his so intently before politely extricating it, doing his best to disguise his obvious disappointment behind a bland expression which failed to reach his expressive eyes.
‘No... I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’
‘Then what did you mean?’
‘I realise things are complicated and very probably insurmountable between us—but I married you because I still believe you are a fundamentally decent man...and I knew he wasn’t.’
‘Fundamentally decent?’
‘It’s a start.’
‘To what?’
She shrugged, a little shaken by the stark honesty which had suddenly materialised out of nowhere between them, but which also felt necessary. ‘I have no earthly idea... Do you?’
Their eyes locked. Then held. And for a moment she saw as clear as day the old Owen completely in those fathomless blue depths. The one she had fallen head over heels in love with. But then, his flicked away, he shook his head and when they returned the old Owen was gone. ‘This is uncharted territory for both of us, Wife, and until we can find the map, I suppose a start will have to do.’