Alex rushed back into the house and up the servants’ staircase the same way she’d come minutes earlier. Only this time she was completely changed. She’d sneaked outside to get a bit of air to clear her head. She’d had no idea she’d encounter Owen alone in the gardens and even less of an idea that he’d kiss her, of all things.
And good heavens—what a kiss it had been. More than a kiss. An entire assault to her senses. One she hadn’t wanted to end. She pressed her fingertips to her burning lips. If only she could keep her mouth untouched forever with the feel of Owen’s lips meeting hers, seared in her memory.
She inspected the back of her torn dressing robe and night rail in the looking glass as best she could. They weren’t ripped badly, but they were still ruined. She’d have the devil of a time explaining it to Hannah. She tugged off both garments and pulled a fresh night rail from her wardrobe. She crumpled up the ripped ones and stuffed them into the back of the cabinet. She’d ask Hannah to cut them into bits for the poorhouse tomorrow. There was no possible way her mother would see them and not ask questions.
She climbed under the covers and took a deep breath, trying to still the pounding of her heart. Owen Monroe was a conundrum. He didn’t believe in himself. He should, but he didn’t. He’d asked her if she respected him. Of course she did, but she’d wanted him to admit why it mattered to him what she thought. She’d wanted him to admit that he cared about her, cared for her. And he had. “I want you,” he’d said. He’d admitted it. He’d tasted like wine. He’d obviously been drinking, but she’d overheard her father say often enough that a sober man’s thoughts were a drunken man’s words. Had he been drunk when he kissed her? She was too inexperienced to tell for certain. But Owen did care for her. She was sure of that. And that’s what she’d wanted to hear. Only it didn’t matter, because he’d made it clear that he still intended to marry Lavinia.
Alex considered the kiss again. Their first kiss in Cass’s ballroom when she hadn’t stepped away, that had been pleasant, memorable even. But this one, this was the kind of kiss you remembered when you were a very old lady with a very poor memory. This kiss had been full of passion and longing and—when he’d pushed himself between her thighs! Oh yes, she’d be on her deathbed remembering that kiss.
Which presented the problem: How in heaven’s name would she go about forgetting it now? Owen couldn’t have been more clear yesterday when she’d asked him about Lavinia. He still had every intention of marrying her. He had even accepted her parents’ dinner invitation tonight with the express purpose of continuing his suit. He would remain adamant until Lavinia herself agreed. How much more obvious did it have to be that he was planned for Lavinia? Even her mother had said so. Everyone, it seemed, wanted the match, except Lavinia and Alex. But no longer. Alex intended to remove herself from the equation. It was madness and heartache to continue to hope for something that could not be. She was through with the whole awful, painful thing. She tossed herself onto her bed and viciously tugged the covers over her head. Anger filled her. If Owen Monroe was such a lackwit that he couldn’t see what was so obvious … well, he deserved to spend the rest of his life with her sister.
Lavinia would be the only obstacle. Lavinia herself. Owen seemed to believe he could convince her. Or perhaps Mother and Father would change their minds and attempt to talk some sense into her. At any rate, the man was meant to be Alex’s brother-in-law, and they’d already kissed, more than once. There could be no more of such things or it would make for exceedingly awkward family holidays in future.
This was it. No more.