Owen made it all the way into the widow’s bedchamber before he realized he wouldn’t spend the night with her. Or, more precisely, he couldn’t spend the night with her. Helena was gorgeous, lush, and curvaceous. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips attached to his, but he felt nothing. Hollow. All he could picture was Alex’s sweet face when he’d said, “Go back to your party.” She’d lifted her magnificent chin and faced him head-on. He could tell she’d been struggling to keep from crying. Damn it. Damn him. He was nothing more than a scoundrel. He wasn’t good for Alex. He wasn’t good for anyone.
Owen swallowed hard and pulled the widow’s arms away from his neck. Her face immediately screwed into a practiced pout. “What’s wrong, darling?”
“I have to go.” He stepped away from her.
“Go?” She laughed a throaty laugh. “You must be joking.”
“No. I’m not. I find I’m—ahem—indisposed this evening.”
“Indisposed? What the hell does that mean?” Her brows were two furious blond slants above her gray eyes.
He turned toward the door.
“If you leave here tonight, Monroe, you won’t be offered another opportunity.”
He paused only briefly. The hint of a smile touched his lips. “I understand.” And then he was gone, down the stairs, across the marble floor of her impeccable foyer, and out the front door to his coach, which was still waiting. The coachman had clearly settled in to take a long nap; his hat had been covering his face and he’d been slumped to the side of the conveyance.
Owen rapped once on the side of the coach. “Home,” he barked.
The coachman jumped so quickly and so high that his hat flew into the air and he fumbled to catch it. The poor man looked beyond shocked to see him. “Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord,” he choked, righting his hat atop his head and speedily gathering the reins in his hands.
The conveyance took off down the street moments later with Owen inside cursing furiously at himself.