Owen groaned and rolled over. The sunlight pouring through the window wasn’t helping his pounding skull … not one bit. He rubbed his hand over his face slowly, then flexed his hands and feet. Must check for all limbs after a night of extremely heavy drinking. But wait. He hadn’t drunk heavily last night. No. His headache was from not drinking much. He pushed himself up to a half-sitting position and rang for his valet to bring him a bottle of brandy. Good man, his valet. The chap could be counted on to perform a wide variety of tasks.
While he waited, Owen slowly contemplated the events of the night before. There had been dinner, wine, arguing, and … He groaned again. Kissing. He’d gone and kissed Alex. Well, at least he hadn’t punched a tree. That was something, but what the hell had he been thinking? He thumped his palm against his forehead. That had been a bad idea. The valet returned with a tray that contained a brandy bottle and a glass.
Owen snatched up the bottle. “Thank you. That will be all.”
If his valet was surprised by his employer’s behavior, he did not so much as raise a brow in indication. Owen popped the stopper off the bottle, and raised it to his lips. Alex’s voice rang in his head. “Not to me. Never to me,” she’d said when he asked her if she thought him a scoundrel. “I see who you are. You can’t pretend with me.” Damn it. He eyed the bottle of brandy and called his man back. “Take this.” He shoved the bottle into the man’s arms.
The valet eyes rounded. “Yes, my lord.” He turned to leave.
“My father hasn’t been here, has he?”
“No, my lord,” the valet replied.
Thank God.
“Good. Should he arrive, please tell him I am unavailable.”
The valet bowed. “As you wish, my lord.”
A lot of good such a pronouncement would do. His father was always told he was unavailable, and the older man never cared. Owen laid his head back against the pillow. What had he been thinking about?
Oh yes, last night. Dinner, kissing, wine. Not entirely in that order. He’d kissed Alex. Why? Because he’d wanted to.
She’d kissed him back. Why? Because she’d wanted to? He had no earthly idea. It was no use examining her reasoning, then. He must examine his own.
His father was correct about him. He was a scoundrel, the worst sort. Only such a scoundrel would kiss the younger sister of the lady he was supposed to be courting.
The worst part wasn’t even that he’d done such a thing. No. The worst part was that he felt no guilt over it.
Perhaps it had been poorly done of him, but the truth was he’d wanted to kiss Alex last night, and more truth was he wanted to do it again.
Alex was everything he was not: fresh, young, innocent, idealistic, hopeful. Why in the world the girl had allowed him to kiss her, let alone kiss him back with such eagerness, he’d never know.
She was also everything her sister was not. Lavinia was shrewish, spiteful, hateful, and cold. When faced with the prospect of spending the rest of his life with that one, perhaps it wasn’t such a mystery why Alex was more tempting.
But that still didn’t grant him an excuse for kissing her. The only good thing about it was that he’d done so in private. There would not be a scandal. Alex’s reputation was not in danger.
For a moment he wondered if that were true, but then he relaxed. If so much as a hint of a scandal were afoot, his father would already be here, upending the bed. No. Owen could rest assured on that count, and that was a relief.
Alex didn’t deserve a scandal. All she’d ever done was try to help him. She didn’t deserve his dirty reputation to smear off on her. He had to stay away from her. For her sake.
After last night, it was clear he possessed little self-control when it came to her. If he couldn’t keep his hands or mouth off her, he could bloody well keep himself away from her entirely.
“You’re a member of the ton. A male. You have so much power, and you don’t even choose to use it,” she’d said, staring up at him with those big beautiful brown eyes. So full of trust and hope and … something else he didn’t want to contemplate.
Alex was right. He was a male member of the ton, but he could no more affect change than if he were a washerwoman. No one would take him seriously in Parliament. He was a known rakehell, a wastrel. He wasn’t like Claringdon or Swifdon or even Upton or Cavendish. Owen didn’t belong in the sacred halls of Westminster, giving speeches and attempting to sway his countrymen into voting the way he saw fit.
No. After his father died, Owen fully intended to be one of those members of the House of Lords who arrived seasonally for the sessions and missed more votes than not, due to social obligations. That was common enough, wasn’t it? And no one was the less off for it. He’d leave the introduction of difficult bills like the one for the families of the soldiers to men who’d actually fought next to those who’d died. Owen hadn’t stepped foot on foreign soil. He’d been carousing the clubs and taverns of London, not risking his life against Napoleon’s forces.
Owen wished he hadn’t sent the brandy away. He called for his valet again. Yes. His father was right about him. He was good for nothing but shaking off last night’s drinking with today’s drinks. And Alex—pure, sweet, innocent Alex—was wrong about him, too. So wrong. He wasn’t a hero. He was an arse. Someone like him couldn’t make a difference. But he could do one decent selfless thing. And he would. He would stay far away from Alexandra Hobbs.