Page 6 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
He paused at the looking glass in the hallway by the stairs, checking his appearance. He looked a little disheveled, his dark gray jacket rain-dampened, his hair in disarray, He ran a hand through it swiftly, then walked downstairs. In the hallway, he was met by a tall woman with long auburn hair streaked with gray. She wore a dark brown gown, elegant and refined, and her long, slender face was serious. She was his father’s elder sister, and he could see the resemblance to Papa in her dark eyes and that solemn expression.
“Aunt,” he greeted her, inclining his head politely as he took her hand fondly. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, nephew. And you.” She smiled up at him, but her gaze was worried, a line creasing her forehead. “It’s good to see you at home.”
“I’m surprised by your visit. Do I owe this honour to something?” he asked as they walked up the stairs together. His aunt laughed, a bright, happy sound in the dark corridor.
“Oh, Owen.” She chuckled. “Honour, indeed. I just wantedto come and see you to check how you are faring.”
Owen swallowed hard. He could see the concern in her gaze, and he was touched.
“I’m fine, Aunt,” he said at once. “A little busy, is all.” He paused, feeling his heart twist. How could he say that? His pain was ongoing, his grief too big for words.
“I can see that’s not quite so,” she said gently, taking his arm comfortingly. “But I understand that you don’t want to talk about it. I wanted to talk of other matters. Like the party this evening.”
“Party?” Owen stared at her, then his head cleared as he remembered her annual ball. His light mood turned to a sort of fear.
“Aunt...I’m not ready to go. I can’t just...” he trailed off, looking around. His chest felt tight, heart thumping swiftly and fists tense. He couldn’t find words to tell her what he meant—he couldn’t find it in himself to laugh and dance and act as though he was carefree when the death of his entire family, the only members of it he’d ever known, left his heart as empty and desolate as a starless sky.
“Owen...sitting here suffering isn’t going to make any difference. I’m in mourning, too,” she said gently, gazing down at the somber dark brown dress she wore. “And I know you don’t want to come out and dance. But maybe it’s not actually a bad thing. Maybe, when you’re doing it, you’ll forget that sorrow. Just for a moment.” Her voice was soft, and he could hear her care.
She gazed up at him and Owen looked down.
“It’s hard, Aunt,” he murmured. He had been able to look emotionless and cold in front of the staff for weeks. But here, with his aunt’s caring and her wise words, he found it hard to hold back the emotions that haunted him.
“I know,” she murmured gently. “But riding a horse washard when you did it first.” She grinned at him. “I remember when you first rode round the lawns at Ivystone. I was so proud! I was watching from the big terrace. How you grinned when you came back to the front of the house. How I cheered!” She giggled, her smile wide, her eyes sparkly but also a little sad as she recalled that long-ago time.
“I recall it too.” He had to smile. Aunt Julia had shrieked and clapped and that had made him so terribly shy. He had been six years old, and he’d felt nervous but so very proud. His father had cheered him too, his dark eyes crinkling in the corners.
Suddenly, his throat was tight with tears, and he had to look away.
“Sorry, Aunt,” he said tightly. “I should go and refresh myself. Excuse me a moment.”
“No need to rush, young fellow,” his aunt replied in a soft tone, looking around. They had reached the drawing room, and she went to stand by the fire. “I’ll ring for tea while I wait.”
“Thank you, Aunt.”
Aunt Julia rang the bell and Owen hurried into an anteroom, taking out his handkerchief and pressing it to the tears that threatened to fall. He stifled his sobs and his fingers were twisting the cloth as if he was trying to strangle it. He stuffed it back into his pocket. He couldn’t let himself cry now. He didn’t want to feel ashamed.
He felt another tear trickle down his cheek, and then decided that he wasn’t ashamed to cry here, in a dark antechamber, with nobody to see him except perhaps the shade of his lost loved ones. It felt good to cry. It was right to mourn. It had felt wrong to act as though they didn’t exist, as though their death was meaningless.
Once he had cried, he felt drained, his head aching, but he felt better, too. It was the first time he’d really cried. When he’d heard the news he’d sobbed, but it hadn’t been like this. This wastears of mourning, tears for his own sorrow. He wiped his face clean with the handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket again, then walked slowly to the drawing room. Aunt was sitting at the low table, a pot of tea and two cups in front of her. She looked up at him as he came in.
“Do try the Madeira cake. My cook can’t do better.”
Owen grinned. He felt a wash of affection for his aunt, who was one of the only people he would have felt comfortable with knowing he’d cried. She could surely see it—his face was damp, his eyes too—and she was ignoring the fact. He felt grateful for that.
“Thank you, Aunt. Our housekeeper is excellent. One of the few good staff we have,” he added, voice still tight. “I wish I could pay her accordingly.” He ran a hand through his hair. His worry, like his grief was hard to hide from someone trustworthy.
“You know, nephew,” his aunt said as he sat down. Her gaze held his, firm and strong. “Heiresses do exist, you know. And dowries. You could make a marriage to secure some wealth. It is something to think of.”
“Aunt!” Owen stared at her, jaw gaping. “No! I wouldn’t do that.” His stomach twisted painfully. He didn’t agree with such things, though he knew they happened. It was common practice in the nobility and gentry, but he was firmly against it. That was no reason to choose someone. His Papa had loved his mother—he saw that love in the lines at the corner of Papa’s eyes, the white in his temples. He had wed for love, and Owen would do no less. He couldn’t think of trapping a woman in a loveless world.
“It’s worth thinking about, is all I mean.” She poured him some tea, gazing over at him with real fondness.
Owen looked down. He didn’t want to be angry with her, but the idea she suggested had really shocked him. He hadn’t expected it. He focused on his tea, stirring in some sugar—eventhough he didn’t much like sugar in the tea—and drinking it. When she changed the subject to the weather, he let her change it.
He talked pleasantly with her until she excused herself, and he walked her to her coach, standing on the terrace as the carriage rolled through the gates and onto the main road.
