Owen was dead on his feet but still couldn’t bring himself to go to bed. After that fateful night at the inn when he had lain awake for the duration, his body painfully aware of the temptation sleeping soundly in the next room, he had actively avoided resting anywhere close to Lydia. Something which had been relatively easy on the road, but which was practically impossible now they were freshly arrived back in London.
He had pleaded work as the reason he had abandoned her to what was now their set of rooms, an excuse he suspected he would have to use frequently in the coming days, weeks, months and years in order to remain relatively sane. Unless he set her up in her own household somewhere, which might be the only option open to him if he continued to lust after her with quite as much enthusiasm as he currently was.
He blamed their polite armistice, her perfume and that damned sensible nightdress she had tormented him in on their first official morning as man and wife. How such a capacious and practical garment tied all the way to the neck could send him over the edge was a mystery—but it had. Probably because he had known there was absolutely nothing lying beneath it and that dangerous knowledge, combined with the tousled curtain of dark hair hanging below her unbound breasts, had knocked him sideways. Yet another wholly unwelcome thunderbolt flying out of the blue when he really didn’t need another reminder of the power she held over him.
How exactly was he supposed to sleep, or even function normally, a few scant yards from that?
Even now, the thought of her sleeping in the big bed Randolph had had the foresight to obtain was tormenting him. Lydia lying in the frothy and feminine bedcovers Gertie had probably had a hand in choosing, dark hair fanned over the pillow, those sooty lashes forming a beautiful and alluring crescent on her perfect cheeks. Over a week away from his business and a mountain of work was piled, waiting for him on his desk, and all Owen’s brain could think about was her.
‘You look like death warmed up.’ To make his living hell complete, a yawning Randolph wandered in. Slugger must have awoken him to tell him Owen was home. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’
‘Too much to do.’ For good measure, he grabbed the stack of correspondence he had been ignoring and began to sift through it.
‘It’s four in the morning!’ Another thing he was only too painfully aware of. The last diehard patrons of Libertas had left long before they arrived back and the building was depressingly silent. ‘And what the blazes were you doing travelling through the night? You’re lucky you weren’t accosted by footpads.’
‘It seemed pointless staying in an inn when there were only twenty miles left.’ Owen had mistakenly thought being on familiar territory would make things better. Another chronic misjudgement when he was usually so precise and measured in his decisions. Even Libertas felt odd now she was in it. Everything felt as though it was spiralling out of his control and he didn’t have the first clue how to stop it. The roiling emotions which had led him to act so rashly were no less calm. If anything, they were worse. He couldn’t think straight. Hadn’t slept more than a fitful hour or two at a time in days and was desperately worried the situation was doomed to plunge ever deeper into chaos before it showed any signs of getting better.
His friend climbed into the chair opposite and shook his head. ‘I didn’t expect you till late tomorrow—at the earliest. In a hurry, were you? It couldn’t have been much of a honeymoon travelling at that lick.’
Owen slanted him a warning look. Randolph knew full well this was supposed to be a business arrangement. His friend might not believe it and frankly who could blame him when Owen knew damn well it wasn’t either, but that did not mean he was prepared to deviate from the flimsy lie. ‘What have I missed?’
‘A huge scandal in the papers. Reporters constantly knocking at the door. Rumour, speculation, endless gossip.’ Randolph raised expressive eyebrows. ‘And a massive leap in profits.’
‘Good to hear… Have you paid Lydia’s father?’
‘Two days ago.’
Owen had known it was coming. Thought he had prepared himself for the consequences he himself had set in motion, but along came a whirl of fear regardless at the expected news.
Ten thousand hard-earned pounds. Gone.
Pouf!
Just like that.
‘He didn’t send a thank-you note.’
‘There’s a surprise.’ Now he could add the uncertainty which came from a severely depleted bank balance to the churning cauldron of emotions which threatened to engulf him. Thank goodness there had been an upturn of profits. Too many months feeling this exposed and vulnerable would likely finish him. ‘Has news of the settlement leaked?’
‘No. The last thing Fulbrook wants is for the world to know you had to bail him out of debt. Any more than he wants Kelvedon to learn he shamelessly double-crossed him.’
Not that he had shamelessly double-crossed him in the strictest sense. That suggested Fulbrook had a choice in the matter when Owen hadn’t given him one. Unbeknownst to his friend, he’d used the mortgage deed as leverage—which he supposed was a polite term for blackmail—but there had been no way in hell he’d have allowed Lydia to marry that lecher.
‘And how is the odious Marquess?’
Randolph grinned. ‘The Marquess of Kelvedon is spitting feathers. Not only did his beautiful fiancée run off and leave him in the lurch, but somebody forgot to tell The Times the wedding was off and the joyous news of his nuptials was printed the day after the scandalous news of your elopement leaked. It is widely reported he wants to seek satisfaction on the duelling field—although he is still ensconced at his estate and will probably stay there until the need to polish his pistols diminishes with time.’
‘We expected as much. It’s all bluster to save face. What has the Earl of Fulbrook had to say?’
‘Nothing. Neither has her brother. Both are lying low till the dust settles.’
‘And how is the dust settling?’ Because that was the crux of the matter. If society turned against him, they would turn against Libertas and everything the pair of them had worked, suffered and sacrificed for would crumble around their ears. For a man who didn’t gamble, he had certainly wagered everything including his shirt on this. His best friend’s shirt, too.
‘Very well. Exactly as I predicted.’ Randolph gestured to the stack of letters beneath Owen’s hand. ‘Most of those are invitations. You and the lovely Lady Lydia are suddenly in very high demand. The talk of the town. The modern-day Romeo and Juliet—except without the tragic ending.’ The slow grin stretched from ear to ear. ‘You’ve come out well, Owen. Much better than expected, in fact. You are being lauded a noble hero.’ Largely, he wouldn’t doubt, because of Randolph’s carefully leaked embellishments. His friend’s talent for spinning things to their advantage was legendary.
‘Then my mission was accomplished.’
His friend huffed out a withering sigh. ‘Of course it was… That’s why you’re hiding down here, needing matchsticks to prop open your eyes and staring into space.’
‘I told you I have…’
‘Things to do. Yes… I heard that pathetic excuse, yet we both know you are down here hiding. From the woman of your dreams, no less… The one that got away… The one you could never forget… The one you could not bear to be in the slimy arms of another…’
Owen felt his temper bubble despite the accusation worryingly being spot on. He had done a lot of thinking on the road. And all the introspection had made him realise two inescapable and undeniable things. He had married Lydia because he wanted her—always had, always would—but he really didn’t want her like this.
Not still hating him and distrusting him.
She wanted to put the past aside in a locked box and pretend it didn’t exist. But he had lived it and wanted, if not retribution, certainly recognition that he was innocent, and redemption. Especially from her. Except he had no earthly idea how to get it now all the potential avenues to proving his innocence had gone stone cold. ‘It’s not like that!’
‘It could be…’ Randolph ignored his murderous scowl. ‘It all depends on how you play it. Perhaps it’s time for a bit of wooing…’
‘Absolutely not!’ The flirting was killing him. The only way they seemed to be able to cope with the all great unsaid, certainly the only way Owen could cope with any time spent in her presence, was to behave in a light and superficially sparring fashion. Which inevitably lent itself naturally to flirting despite giving him the upper hand. At least that was how he justified the constant need to flirt with her. Until he had found a satisfactory way of controlling the rest of the heaving mess he had irrationally created, that was the story he could cope with in his mind and he was stubbornly determined to stick to it.
‘I fully intend to keep my relationship with her on a strictly business footing!’ Why, for the life of him, could he not suddenly seem to finish a sentence without raising his voice? Clearly he had a lot of pent-up rage regarding Lydia, alongside all the lust, which he couldn’t release in front of her because of their polite and civil, frustratingly futile and flirting armistice.
‘Then I suppose the alternative is to stay here indefinitely, camp out in your office like a coward and avoid her until you are both old and grey and one of you gives up the ghost, turns up their toes and dies.’
It really wasn’t much of a plan when Owen heard it spoken aloud, but in the absence of a better one, it would have to do until his addled mind could function well enough to conjure up a viable alternative. Until that miracle occurred, he was trapped inside a racing carriage being dragged by a team of horses without any reins. Lost in the outback without water. Strapped to a table in a room full of tiger snakes…
‘Then if you don’t mind, I shall leave you to it.’ His friend slithered off the chair and shook his head pityingly. ‘I have a lovely warm wife to snuggle up to and while it is still the middle of the night, I fully intend to do some snuggling. Enjoy your hard desk, my friend. And your moral high ground. I expect both will be cold comfort.’
He waved his hand and walked away. But Randolph being Randolph, he couldn’t resist one last dig to completely ruin Owen’s night. ‘Seeing as you’re in hiding, shall I send your breakfast here? Only Gertie is planning a welcome breakfast first thing for your lovely new wife, seeing as your sorry, spartan excuse for a home leaves a great deal to be desired and the poor thing has absolutely nothing to sit on—let alone eat at. But don’t worry…’ He gave another theatrical wave. ‘I’ll make excuses for you. Besides, with you absent, it gives us plenty of opportunity to get to know her better. We are both very intrigued…about the pair of you. Then as well as now. You’ll probably feel your ears burning…’
Knowing silence was the best and safest option, he let his meddling partner leave before he groaned aloud and dropped his forehead to the desk.
* * *
Lydia stood in the middle of the cavernous living room and spun in a slow circle. Owen hadn’t lied. What it lacked in furniture it certainly made up for in windows. The sunrise over Mayfair was spectacular. She knew that emphatically as she had watched it from its inception when she had never been one for early mornings. Unfortunately, since her world had turned upside down, she had seen far too many of them—but this was the first she had had to suffer without the restorative properties of a good cup of tea. She had no earthly idea if she had the use of servants or needed to make it herself.
‘You’re up, then?’
Her new husband strode in carrying two heavy-looking dining chairs and looking annoyingly as fresh as a daisy in a clean suit of impeccably tailored clothes, smelling sinfully of the spicy cologne he favoured. The sight instantly galled because she felt, and no doubt looked, a shocking mess. With no apparent maid to help her, she’d had to do her own hair this morning and as hairdressing was really not her forte, the simple, austere knot was lacklustre at best against his golden handsomeness.
Then there was her gown, of course, which was the least crushed from their arduous journey to and from Scotland. She had only packed enough for the trip, assuming foolishly she would have her entire wardrobe at her disposal upon her return. But while she had an enormous new wardrobe in her huge new bedroom, it was as depressingly empty as the living room. Her father could have at least arranged for her things to be sent here. She had selflessly wrenched him out of crippling debt, after all.
‘I’ve brought chairs.’
‘So I see. How positively homely. A miraculous transformation.’
He grinned in response and deposited them in front of the fireplace. ‘I thought you said sarcasm is the lowest form of humour.’
‘Only when it comes from you. From me it isn’t sarcasm, it’s well-timed and witty pathos.’
‘I’m glad to see the double standard is alive and well and residing in my own living room.’
‘Alongside two uncomfortable and impractical chairs, I see.’
One of which he had just sat on. ‘Sit with me, Wife—’ He smiled as she bristled, which had doubtless been his goal all along, and patted the other seat. ‘We have things to civilly and politely discuss this fine morning.’
‘As I haven’t had my tea yet, I can promise neither.’
‘It hasn’t escaped me you are grouchy in the mornings.’ He folded his arms across his chest and stretched his long legs out in front of him, making himself comfortable while she sat stiffly upright in hers, affronted at the accurate observation. ‘Hence I have already taken the liberty of ordering you tea. Slugger should be bringing it up at any moment, so try to remain civil in the interim.’
Slugger, she now knew, was the big brute with ink tears etched into his cheeks. ‘He’s not your typical butler.’
‘That’s because he’s not a butler at all. He’s more of an assistant. A jack of all trades. One who happens to also be very good at ejecting rowdy aristocrats from the club with the minimum of fuss when they get too boisterous as well as gently pouring the inebriated ones into their carriages when they are too deep in their cups to be able to walk straight. He looks more terrifying than he is. In truth, he’s not terrifying at all once you get to know him. Slugger is the archetypal gentle giant and a soulful, suffering artist.’
‘And it was at his easel he earned the delicate name of Slugger, I presume?’
‘No.’ When he held back a grin, he looked too much like the mischievous stable boy she had fallen in love with. ‘He earned that in the ring, of course…where he remained undefeated until he retired from the sport.’
‘Only you would have a boxer for a butler.’
‘He wasn’t so much a pugilist in the traditional sense, more a no-rules, bare-knuckle, spit-and-sawdust sort who happened to paint on the side. Very well, as it happens. In fact, three-quarters of the artwork dotted around this building comes from his talented brush. He is particularly good at copying the old masters, although I’ve always preferred his original compositions.’
‘And a fellow convict, no doubt?’ Lydia made sure she looked straight down her nose, only for him to grin unoffended.
‘Half of Libertas is made up of fellow convicts and I’d trust each and every one of them with my life. And certainly over all of your lot.’ He made a great show of looking down his nose, too, those blue eyes twinkling and charming her when she had been so determined to endeavour not to be charmed once again. ‘But I didn’t come here to discuss Slugger or art or chairs or your disagreeable morning moods. I came here to ask your opinion on something, actually.’
Now there was a novel idea. A man seeking a woman’s opinion. ‘Really?’
‘We’ve received all these.’ From somewhere inside his coat he produced a stack of invitations. ‘In view of the delicious scandal we have caused, I wondered which of these we should accept?’
‘From a business point of view?’ She supposed it was inevitable her new husband would want a quick return on his investment, so she really shouldn’t allow herself to be upset by it. It was, after all, what she had agreed to.
‘Partly… But I am also aware these are your people, Lydia, and I don’t want to make a mistake and unintentionally alienate them from you. I want your friends to remain your friends. In my experience, the world is always a nicer place with friends on your side. Nor do I want to inadvertently throw you into a pit of vipers. There seem to be a lot of those out there.’ He gestured absently through the window towards the city. ‘And most of them seem to also live in Mayfair.’
‘That’s actually very thoughtful.’ Touching, even. ‘There are certain individuals I would like to avoid—for a little while at least. Although I suppose everyone wants an opportunity to gawp and stare at us now that we are the latest scandal.’
‘Then let them. What’s the worst that can happen?’
‘Easy for you to say. You are used to being a scandal. This is my first time. I don’t even know what people have been saying about me.’
‘Randolph saved all the newspapers. Read them if you think they matter. From personal experience I think there is a lot to be said for blind ignorance. If I don’t know someone has been defamatory or told a bare-faced lie, I don’t care about it. It’s much easier to be civilised when you are not spitting nails.’
‘Am I to take that to mean not all the newspaper reports are favourable, then?’ She’d thought she was braced for the scandal. Now that lofty, pride-fuelled bravado was waning.
‘The Marquess of Kelvedon has some supporters.’ Hardly a surprise when he was so well connected. ‘But you have more.’
‘Has my father said anything?’ She wished she didn’t care, but couldn’t help herself. In view of all she had sacrificed, she hoped he would at least defend her.
‘Not to the press. I expressly forbade him from saying anything derogatory in public as part of the agreement.’ Another surprisingly thoughtful thing—unless it hadn’t been for her benefit at all, but his. ‘But he hasn’t been able to stop himself from voicing his disapproval to a few, as you would expect from a man eager to keep Kelvedon on side, and those people have passed his words over to reporters.’
‘Who have doubtless twisted them to make us look bad.’
Of course he wouldn’t defend her. How foolish of her to have hoped her sire might suddenly surprise her when he hadn’t even had the decency to send her belongings over.
Owen shrugged, then sighed, and for once she believed the sympathy she saw darkening his lying eyes. ‘Sticks and stones… But we can postpone our first public outing for another few weeks if you’re not up for it. There’s no hurry.’
‘Would that make it any easier?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Then we might as well get it over with. I presume the press have been told we are madly in love?’
He seemed suddenly embarrassed and uncomfortable in his own skin. ‘I left that part to Randolph.’
She smiled then. She couldn’t help it while he was being so charming. ‘I shall take that as an affirmation then, as from what you have told me about him, I doubt Randolph could contain himself. I dread to think what far-fetched romance he has added to the tale.’
‘He annoyingly leans towards the theatrical. I blame too many years on the stage.’
‘Randolph was an actor?’
‘He likes to think he was. He spent his formative years in a travelling museum of curiosities where I suspect he was the loudest exhibit.’
‘That’s…dreadful.’
‘Maybe for some, but typically Randolph adored it. He enjoys nothing better than being the centre of attention.’
‘Unlike me. I can think of nothing worse. Thank goodness I am not at the centre of an enormous scandal.’ She tried to smile and watched his handsome face fall.
‘I meant it, Lydia…you don’t have to accept any of these invitations if you do not feel ready.’
‘I am not going to cower and hide, Owen.’
‘Then I shall hand these over to you.’ He held out the invitations as the shadow of the aptly named Slugger suddenly loomed large on the floor. ‘For you to peruse at your leisure later. Now, though, you must have a fortifying cup of tea to prepare you for today’s most terrible ordeal.’
The brute looked confused as he came in. ‘Where shall I put this?’ To be fair to him, there was no table or sideboard, so she sympathised with the man’s plight.
‘I suppose the floor will have to do. Until my delightful wife decorates the place.’ Owen cheerfully relieved him of the burden and placed it at Lydia’s feet. ‘Assuming you want to decorate the place, that is. If not, I can arrange…’
‘No… I should like to decorate.’ Not that she had ever bought a single stick of furniture before. There had been no need. Although the idea of building a home from scratch appealed.
‘Thank the Lord!’ Owen joined the tea things on the floor and began assembling cups on saucers as if preparing tea on the floor was the most natural thing for the master of the house to be doing. ‘I’m glad you said that. It’s one less job for me. Randolph keeps a list of reputable and reliable tradesmen and merchants. Use them and get them to send me the bills.’
‘I shall collect some catalogues first for you to…’ He held up his hand, frowning.
‘Just the bills, Lydia. I am stretched to capacity as it is with Libertas—I simply do not have the time. Unless you can magic some additional hours to each day, I shall have to trust your judgement implicitly.’
‘Why?’ Because she was stunned he did not want a say in it all. Her father insisted on his say in everything, from the weekly menu choices to the necklines and colours of her gowns, and what he said went regardless of anybody else’s opinions on the matter. ‘I might do it completely against your taste.’
‘As I have never owned a living room before and will rarely have use for it, surely it should be to your taste?’
A polite way of informing her it would be her room because he really did intend to avoid her. The harsh realities of their marriage of convenience, which she should have been prepared for, but oddly wasn’t. Her new home seemed destined to be as lonely as her old one. Not that she would let him witness her disappointment.
‘Do you at least have a budget in mind?’
‘As budgets are notoriously problematic, I’d say you need to use your discretion. Invariably, from the experience of setting up downstairs, things inevitably cost twice as much as you originally anticipated.’ He handed her a cup of tea and then wielded the ridiculously tiny silver tongs in his big hands like snapping jaws. ‘Sugar?’
‘No, thank you, and that advice is not the least bit helpful.’
He shrugged and loaded his own cup with three lumps of sugar, then for good measure, added a fourth. ‘Then here is some sage advice that is. Never take the first price. Or the second, for that matter. And don’t be afraid to walk away. That is the ultimate negotiating tool as no merchant or trade worth his salt wants you to take your business elsewhere.’
‘That actually is good advice.’ Advice her father would probably benefit from, but would never dream of listening to. ‘Thank you.’
‘I wouldn’t be so quick to thank me—I still haven’t told you about this morning’s ordeal.’
‘Decorating your empty, sparse home is not the ordeal?’
‘Not even close.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘I had Slugger make the tea strong and I shall apologise profusely in advance for the horror I am about to subject you to—because, my dear wife, we are about to have breakfast with Randolph.’