Page 18 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“It’ll be here in a moment, my lord,” Mr. Crane replied swiftly.
Owen settled down to read, feeling weary. He had learned a lot that morning. The news about the creditors was worrying, as was Barrow’s insistence that their only choice was to sell off the art. And now Mr. Crane, relating that Mrs. Crane was not happy in the kitchen...that was not good. People like Mr. and Mrs. Crane were valuable assets to the household. He couldn’t afford for them to be upset. Mayhap he could do something to make their work more enjoyable here. But of all the things he could think of, only a raise seemed fair. And he couldn’t pay them more.
He gritted his teeth in annoyance.
“I need to do something about all this,” he said aloud.
Mr. Crane appeared with the tea just then, and Owen sipped it, then looked around the room. His aunt’s visit just the previous day came to his mind. She’d sat just here, drinking tea,and told him that she thought he would do well to find a woman with a large dowry.
I could do that,he thought to himself sadly,but I think it’s wrong.
Miss Worthington was in his thoughts again, as she had been, on and off, all morning, and he winced at the memory of their conversation that day. She was so lovely, so refined. He remembered her grace-filled curtsey, her quick commentary on the painting they’d looked at. She was pretty, and seemed learned, and had a hundred lovely qualities. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t wed her for her money. It was cruel. It was wrong.
There had to be another choice.
He reached for the book again, wishing that somewhere he could find an answer to his troubles, and then he put it aside and walked wearily upstairs to the study again. He had promised to check through the debts that Barrow had added up; a task that wasn’t getting any simpler by evading it. He settled down tiredly at his desk and wished again that he could think of some way to solve the problems that faced him. Some other way. The way his aunt had suggested seemed just too cruel.
Chapter 7
Owen blinked wearily as he stood up. It was evening, the sky at the study window darkening with dusk. He stretched and groaned, his back sore from where he’d slept sitting up.
“Damn these books,” he swore, looking down at the account books that covered his desk.
He walked, legs aching from being bent, to the door and into the hallway. He checked his watch in the soft glimmer of light that poured through the window. It was almost six o’ clock. It was dark—Barrow, who had been living there even before Owen’s father had died, clearly hadn’t lit the lamps yet, which was one of his obligations. Or maybe, Owen thought sourly, he wasn’t intending to light them to save money. They had already cut back on so many things, maybe he’d cut back on this too.
Owen walked onward, finding his way by touch. His stomach rumbled—he’d barely eaten lunch. He had worked in the study all morning, gone riding to clear his head and then gone back again, desperate to find some means of repayment that didn’t involve selling bits of his house.
He wandered down the darkened hallway, pausing at the head of the stairs. There was someone down there in the entrance-way, talking. He tensed, straining to hear what they had to say.
“Good evening, my lord. Yes, yes...he’s upstairs. I’ll inform him that you’re visiting.”
Owen felt his heart thud. It must be a creditor who’d come calling—at suppertime, impossibly rude as always—but then he realized that Mr. Crane had called the visitor, whoever he was, “my lord.” His frown deepened. He was about to go down, but he heard footsteps coming up.
“My lord?” Mr. Crane addressed him urgently. “My lord, Lord Alford is here.”
Owen grinned. That was Leonard’s formal title as Baron Alford. He felt relieved.
“Tell him to come up. And please bring some sandwiches and ale for us?”
“At once, my lord,” Mr. Crane said with a grin. “I’ll send him upstairs to the drawing room.”
“Thank you.”
Owen walked to the drawing room and glanced briefly in the looking-glass beside the door—he didn’t look too bad, considering he’d just woken up in his study. He combed a hand through his hair and went to stoke the fire. He was just about to add more coal when he heard footsteps at the door.
“Owen! A fine good evening!” Leonard was beaming as he came in. His chestnut hair was awry from his top-hat and the wind, and his grin was bright and swift. He looked exactly as he always did and Owen’s spirits soared on seeing him.
“Good evening, Leonard,” Owen greeted him warmly. “Come in. Miserable evening for a ride, eh?” he asked as he stoked the fire and went to sit down comfortably in one of the wingback chairs.
“Well, I did reckon I’d get here faster just holding my cloak out like a ship.”
They both chuckled. Owen glanced around, thinking that Mr. Crane could draw the curtains when he came in—it was dark already out there and the wind was raging.
“So? You went riding today?” Leonard asked, stretching his long legs out toward the fire. He was taller even than Owen, with long limbs and a long oval face that was often lit with a roguish grin. His chestnut-colored hair glimmered in the firelight. It could have been any evening when Leonard came to visit him at Cambridge, except that now they were older, and they weremeeting at the estate and so much was different.
“No,” Owen said slowly. “I didn’t.” He was about to explain that he hadn’t had time, that he’d been busy all day, but footsteps in the hallway interrupted them.
“Good evening,” Mr. Crane greeted them politely once again, interrupting as he came in with sandwiches and two glasses of clear ale. He drew the curtains without Owen having to ask and left three lamps lit before he went off for the evening.
