They were going to Lady Bulphan’s at Lydia’s suggestion, now that she finally had all her things and because, undoubtedly, she felt beholden to him for facilitating that. She was boldly taking his advice to face the scandal head on, but while he applauded it wholeheartedly and knew it was absolutely the best way to tackle things, now that the time had undeniably come, he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready.
Since she had laid siege to his office earlier, Owen had been at sixes and sevens. Firstly, he hadn’t expected her so had not been the least bit prepared and secondly she had held his hand.
Something so pathetically tame and innocent had rendered him a complete mess since. For once it wasn’t the uncontrollable lust which was plaguing him, although that had been near constant since their wedding, it had been something else. Something emotional, spiritual and so inexplicably elemental he couldn’t begin to put it into words, let alone rationalise other than it had felt right. There had been no thunderbolts. No shifting axis. Certainly no new understanding of the woman he had married. It was more akin to the comforting warmth of a warm feather eiderdown on a chilly night and he had never experienced anything like it in his life.
And then she had admitted, after he had unsubtly prodded, that she thought him fundamentally decent. Which was unsettling. So unsettling he had avoided her for the rest of the day while he attempted to unravel what it meant.
He couldn’t avoid her tonight, though. There would be no sanctuary he could flee to when he didn’t trust himself around her. No Randolph or Gertie to act as chaperons. They would be in one another’s company for hours playing the happy couple for a rapt audience, Lydia by his side or on his arm—and he already knew that would be pure torture because one simple, innocent touch on his damned hand had wreaked havoc with his senses.
And if all that wasn’t bad enough, he would have to sit imprisoned in a blasted carriage with her, because that was what the aristocracy did when they went somewhere fancy less than a mile down the road. Already his heart was hammering nineteen to the dozen at the prospect.
Irritated, he tossed the penultimate starched cravat to join the three he had already ruined and realised he would need to seek out Randolph, despite flatly refusing his offer of help only minutes ago, and shamefacedly admit a damn necktie had bested him again. His wily friend would know, without any room for doubt, it was because of her.
He snatched up the last one and flung open his bedchamber door and was confronted with her looking so damn beautiful standing in the glow of the fireplace he momentarily forgot to breathe.
‘You look very smart, Owen.’
‘You…are wearing red.’
Her smile faltered. ‘Do you not like it?’
Not like it? It would be a blasted miracle if his eyes weren’t protruding from his head on stalks! As it was, he had to grit his teeth.
‘Should I change?’
Yes! Hours of her wearing that while hanging on his arm would likely be the death of him.
‘Of course not.’ His voice came out strangled and he was forced to clear his throat. ‘You look lovely.’ An understatement. She looked ravishing. ‘I’ve just…never seen you in red before.’
She always wore pale colours. Safe colours. The gowns were always pretty—but conservative. This one was anything but. It wasn’t fussy, yet the plainness of the scarlet watered silk broken by only a gossamer veil of gauze over the bodice was a statement. The low square neckline was, for want of a better word, spectacular. Enough that all the blood in his body decided to pool hot in his groin.
‘That’s because I have never worn red before.’ She smoothed the seductive concoction self-consciously. ‘Papa disapproved of bold colours and would never allow me to wear them, so heaven only knows what possessed me to allow the modiste to talk me into this.
‘But Gertie found it in my trunk and insisted this was the gown I should wear for our debut.’ At least he now knew who to strangle later—if he survived the night. ‘She was adamant the wife of London’s most exclusive gentleman’s club would make a splash.’ Lydia offered a tenuous smile, clearly seeking reassurance. ‘Only I am concerned I might be making too much of a splash…’ her hands flapped awkwardly in the vicinity of her impressive décolleté, drawing his eyes there and giving his body wholly inappropriate ideas ‘…because she thought the cut too sedate and altered it a bit.’
Pregnant or not, Gertie was going to die.
‘You look stunning, Lydia.’ Even her hairstyle was designed to send him mad. And most definitely Gertie’s handiwork again, no doubt. Instead of the demurely arranged knot and subtle ringlets he was used to seeing her in, it was now an artful tumble of loose curls which his fingers itched to plunge into.
She beamed at the compliment before her gaze drifted to the starched bit of linen he was clinging on to for grim death, and she giggled, amused. He felt that damn giggle everywhere like a caress. ‘Were you in such high dudgeon just now because you are struggling to tie your cravat again?’
His ineptness made him feel like a tongue-tied stable boy. ‘Randolph is always better at a fancy knot than I.’
‘I could do it.’ She shrugged her perfect and completely exposed alabaster shoulders. ‘If I say so myself—I have quite a way with cravats. My brother always preferred my knots over his valet’s.’ She reached out her hand to take it, and he momentarily considered running for the hills before he reluctantly relinquished it and wished he were dead.
While he stood as still as a statue, engulfed in a sultry sea of jasmine, and fully and painfully aroused beneath his coat, she looped the linen around his neck. ‘What sort of a knot do you want?’
He couldn’t think of a single knot. All their stupidly pretentious names had escaped him. ‘Whichever you think is best.’
She stepped back for a moment, tapping her lips in thought as she studied him, drawing his eyes there now, too, and reminding his needy body how much those lips enjoyed being kissed.
‘To be frank—I think you should always avoid the fussy. With your height and breadth and handsome face…’ Her teeth suddenly decided to worry her bottom lip, drawing the plump skin so achingly slow beneath it he almost groaned aloud. ‘In fact…’ she offered him a shy and almost tentative smile which he could not begin to decipher ‘…the more I think upon it, I believe a simple cascade would suit best.’
Owen managed to nod and then held his breath again while her fingers went to work, trying and failing to ignore each accidental brush of his neck and the scant few inches of charged air between them.
Or at least it was charged for him. She was so engrossed in the knot she was obviously not similarly afflicted.
She gazed up into his eyes and all at once he remembered how she used to gaze up at him, back when he wouldn’t have hesitated to dip his head and taste her mouth, wondering if she still possessed that earthy passion which had always tipped him over the edge. ‘Do you have a stick pin?’
Another curt nod before he held out his other hand and uncurled his clenched fist, mortified to see he’d clenched the damn thing so hard the ostentatious sapphire Randolph had talked him into wearing had made a deep indent into his palm. He held back the wince this time—just—hoping she wouldn’t notice the damning evidence of how completely she affected him without even trying.
‘Blue…like your eyes.’
Which had been why his meddling friend had insisted he wear it. To match his equally blue patterned-silk waistcoat. The tailor had called it periwinkle, which was a ridiculous shade for a grown man to be wearing. Owen never should have agreed to it. He probably looked like a blasted dandy! One who was trying too hard to impress a certain lady with his refined gentlemanly tastes, who only thought him fundamentally decent, but whom he suspected he still adored.
‘Randolph picked it.’ Seeing as she was already in the process of arranging the jewel in the folds, he stared up at the ceiling rather than stare directly down her cleavage, wishing he had worn black or beige. Dull colours which would help him blend into the wallpaper seeing as the ground was resolutely refusing to open and swallow him in his hour of need. ‘Should I change?’
‘No… Blue suits you. You look…very dashing.’ Her fingers left his neck to smooth his lapels before she finally stepped back, looking every inch as awkward about what had just transpired as he did. Had she sensed he was practically aflame with desire? He certainly hoped not.
‘Isn’t it funny the pair of us took separate sartorial advice from Mr and Mrs Stubbs?’ Her index finger played with a loose tendril against her neck. She had such a sensitive neck. And ears. She used to sigh when his teeth nibbled them. ‘Nerves always make me doubt myself and I cannot deny I am anxious about our first public appearance.’
‘Just look them dead in the eye and smile unapologetically.’ The firelight was picking out the copper in her hair and throwing enticing shadows on her skin. Owen couldn’t seem to stop gazing at her or ignore the loud voice in his head which was suddenly insisting they forget all about Lady Bulphan’s soirée to stay home and get reacquainted. ‘If you appear as if you happily belong there, nobody will question it.’
‘Is that your secret, Owen? Bravado?’
Yes.
Obviously.
The public face of the new Owen Wolfe was a complete fabrication. A battle-ready suit of armour which he could don at will. Except around her apparently. Around her it was as flimsy as a cobweb.
He ignored her question to glance at his pocket watch. ‘We should go.’ It came out more bark than observation. ‘By my reckoning all the other guests should be there now.’
It had been his idea they be a little more fashionably late, reasoning they’d get all the gawping and whispers over and done with in one fell swoop rather than dribs and drabs—but that, too, was making him nervous. Especially if he appeared as overwhelmed with his stunning new wife as he was right now. The gauche stable lad rather than the successful businessman. Fundamentally decent, but desperate to be more.
Lydia nodded and grabbed the heavy velvet cape he had not noticed draped over the chair. ‘Yes… I suppose we should.’
She left the room first and they descended the three flights of stairs in total silence. Waiting for them in the hallway was a grinning Randolph and Gertie and a less frowning Slugger than usual.
‘Oh, my!’ Gertie’s hands cupped her heart. ‘Don’t you both look wonderful! Like a princess and her handsome prince.’ He would strangle the witch for that comment later, too. The last thing he needed was Gertie’s well-intentioned matchmaking on top of her successful attempt at turning his wife into a lethal seductress.
It was Slugger who stepped forward to help Lydia on with her cape, and Owen felt stupid at not having the wherewithal to have offered. But as he felt as though he was stood on the edge of the crater of an erupting volcano, his mind resolutely refused to work properly. Randolph gestured to the open door, sweeping into a courtly bow. ‘Your carriage awaits, Your Royal Highnesses.’
‘Carriage?’ She turned to him, concerned, and Owen felt two inches tall.
‘How else are we supposed to get to Lady Bulphan’s?’ He would brazen this out. If it was the last thing he did, he would muster every last drop of bravado to act convincingly nonplussed about the locked box on wheels encasing him and the jasmine-scented enchantress who was scrambling his wits.
Owen stalked in the direction of the mews, expecting her to follow, but she hesitated on the frosty cobbles, then gazed up at the stars and her sigh turned to wispy clouds in the frozen air.
‘As it is such a lovely night and as I am in no great hurry to be a public spectacle, would you mind if we walked? We are less than five minutes away…’
She was rescuing him. He was simultaneously humbled, grateful and thoroughly touched at the gesture. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t mind the walk.’
‘Good…because we need to talk about wallpaper.’
‘We do?’ Because it seemed expected, and suddenly felt entirely natural, he held out his arm and she took it.
‘I was thinking stripes—unless you prefer a pattern?’
‘I like stripes.’ And bizarrely some of his nerves lessened as they strolled companionably together into the night.