Page 20 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
Owen laughed and leaned back in the chair, staring over at the window where the ochre velvet drapes covered the night outside. He found his mind drifting, thinking about his aunt’s insistence and the young lady at the ball. Her face swam before him, slight and pretty. He felt his heart twist.
I don’t think I could really do that.
Whatever Leonard said, however much he tried to make it into something amusing, Owen couldn’t find it so. It was a lady and her life, as well as his own.
He focused on Leonard, distracting himself from his weary thoughts. Leonard was talking again, relating some incident that happened on his estate, and Owen tried to listen, but his head was aching and weary and he ate another sandwich—he knewhe had to eat if he was going to sleep properly. He stayed for another half hour, trying to make polite conversation, and excused himself, saying that he was too tired to sit and talk.
“Of course, old chap,” Leonard said affably. “You go and sleep. I’ll sit here and eat the rest of the sandwiches, if you don’t mind, and then ask Crane to show me out. More likely to show me the door of Perdition, that one.” He sniffed.
Owen grinned. “He is a bit sour,” he agreed. His grin shifted to a frown as he thought about it. He needed to solve the problem of the estate and its debts. Then perhaps Barrow would stop acting like he owned the place and remember his duties. “Thank you, old chap,” he added to Leonard gratefully. “You can stay here if you like? The guest-suite is still rather comfortable, and it’s too cold and dark to ride now.” His brow lowered in concern.
“I’ll be quite fine, old chap,” Leonard said calmly. “It’s just two miles back to London and it’s not properly dark yet. With all these sandwiches in my belly, I’ll fly home like the wind. Preferably not, actually—it's awfully strong today.”
Owen was still smiling as he went down the hallway.
When he got to his chamber, his mood became more serious. He sat down on the bed in the dark—Mr. Crane hadn’t yet lit the lamps and the fire was burning low—and his fingers laced through each other where they rested on his thigh, a habit when he was thinking.
Maybe Leonard is right,he thought silently. It wasn’t a terrible idea—half theTondid it, as he had said. And his aunt herself had suggested it.
He stood up and washed his face in the bowl on the nightstand, then started to undress for bed. It was early, but his mind was racing with thoughts, and he was too tired to do anything else. He shrugged into his nightshirt and slipped into bed. The more he thought about it, even Lord Walden’srude conversation seemed directed at this same end. He wanted Owen to marry his daughter. And so maybe it was no bad idea. Maybe it really was one thing he could do to solve his problems, the answer to all his troubles.
As he fell asleep, his thoughts were gripped with fear about the estate and the debts—the total debt was too frightening, too large to contemplate. The only sense of calm came from his aunt’s suggestion, and that was when he knew. He had decided. His back was stiff and there was a sour taste in his mouth, horror filling him at the thought of what he was going to do.
He was going against his own values and principles. He was doing something he would never normally do. But his aunt’s voice had filled his mind as he slept, reminding him that it was no bad thing, and his ancestors would thank him. He had to do it, however bad it felt.
The next morning, he slipped out of bed, tense and stiff but resolute with his newfound conviction. He had to do this...it was the only way.
“My blue jacket, Mr. Crane, and the gray trousers.” His heart twisted. He wasn’t wearing mourning clothes anymore, either. That also didn’t feel right, but he had to.
He couldn’t do what he planned in mourning.
He dressed swiftly and hurried downstairs to breakfast. The food was like ash in his mouth, tasteless and cold. His horse, Shadow, was waiting and he saddled him and rode the two miles to London.
The streets of London were busy, but not as busy as later in the morning. Stallholders were trundling their carts to a small marketplace and a newspaper-seller shouted to attract buyers.
“Gentleman’sGazette! Get it now! The latest news!”
The sunshine was bright, painting spots of gold on the cobblestones. London was waking up.
Owen paid an innkeeper to mind his horse for an hour andthen proceeded on foot towards his destination. He didn’t know where Worthington House was, but the innkeeper had given him a general idea, and he knew Kensington well enough from his younger days. He walked on and reached the place in half an hour.
The building rose up before him, a flight of stone-faced stairs leading to a front door decorated with columns. His legs felt too heavy, impossible to move but he made himself step forward and go up the stairs, one step at a time. It felt like a march towards an invading army. He knocked at the brass-plated knocker, and the door opened at once, a thin-faced butler greeting him.
“Good morning, sir?” His words were polite but guarded. Owen wasn’t surprised—after all, he’d never visited the baron before.
“I’m here to speak with Lord Walden,” Owen replied, passing his calling-card to the man. His throat was tight, and he forced the words out. “Let him know Lord Ivystone is here on urgent business. If he could meet me at his earliest convenience?”
The butler’s gaze grew wide. “Yes, my lord.”
Owen waited on the step, stomach in knots. A moment later, the door opened.
“My lord?” the butler greeted him again. “Lord Walden is here, and he would like to meet with you directly.”
Owen swallowed. He hadn’t actually prepared for that. Before he could reply, another voice called out.
“Lord Ivystone! Come in. Come in, do.” The baron sounded pleased.
“Good morning, my lord,” he greeted him. His own voice sounded small and nervous, and he coughed to clear his throat.
