Page 19 of Her Tiger of a Duke
“Yes…well…” Owen was not sure how to respond to that, so he merely took a small sip from his drink.
Lord Stanton, ever the tactful companion, deftly steered the conversation back toward safer ground. “My wife had so many questions about your bride, and I have been unable to answer a single one, for I do not know anything about her. I suppose that you do not, either?”
“I know enough. She is kind, and she has moments where she speaks her mind but other than that she is timid and soft-spoken. She is passionate about our household, too, and is reading about the history of it as we speak.”
“That is hardly surprising. Your home is fascinating.”
Stanton swirled his brandy around his glass a few times, watching it before looking back at Owen.
“Does she know abouther?” he asked. “Lydia was not much older, after all. They could well have met.”
“She has not asked, and I have not said anything. My father kept her loss as guarded as possible, as he did not want the spectacle to follow, and so she is another lady lost tragically young to… was it pneumonia in the end?”
“A flu,” Stanton corrected. “Do not tell me that you did not even learn of that?”
“I wanted nothing to do with it. I know what happened. I– I was the one who found her. I cannot bear the thought of lying about how we lost her, which is precisely why I do not talk about her at all.”
“You have some growing up to do. Do you not think that your new bride will learn of your sister eventually? What will you do when she stumbles upon her old room and sees that it is untouched?”
“Her room is off limits and located in my wing of the household. Beatrice was not taken there during the tour, and she will know better than to search my wing. I have thought of everything.”
Everything with the exception of the papers, that was.
“Even so, I would hate to keep such an important secret from my wife. She would be furious.”
“Your wife is made furious by anything and everything,” Owen joked. “Besides, there is nothing for Beatrice to be angry about, for she will never know. I trust that you will not do anything to jeopardize that.”
“Of course, nor will my wife. She hardly knows anything as it is, and miraculously she is one of many who believe it truly was a sickness, and not one of those many other theories.”
Owen grimaced at the thought. There were several, and yet none of them were the truth. Some claimed that she had run away, others that she had fallen from a window. The worst was murder, but those suggestions were few and far between because it was well-known how much Owen adored her, as did their parents. She was the perfect sister and daughter, taken away far too soon, and though Owen knew she had been the one to walk out of the house that day alone, he shouldered the blame.
He should have stopped her, taken her by the shoulders and marched her inside. Owen could have locked Lydia in her room and made sure she was taken care of properly. But such wishes and dreams were fanciful and fruitless. At the time, of course, he was only a boy himself, and there had been nothing that he could do to stop her. She had always been fiercer than him.
“So, when will we meet this wife?” Stanton asked. “You should come to dinner. It would be an opportunity to see her around children, too, for I assume that you will want an heir eventually.”
“It is something I will be consideringeventually, yes, though not for a long time. Dinner would be wonderful, as Beatrice will be able to meet your wife and possibly make friends.”
Both gentlemen chuckled, knowing what would happen. Nobody was good enough for Lady Stanton, and so it was better if another couple was invited alongside, so that Beatrice would have someone to engage in conversation with.
“I shall invite the Dentons,” Stanton nodded. “Lady Denton is more accepting of newcomers, and she will like to hear of the history your wife is learning.”
“Excellent,” Owen agreed. “Next Thursday, perhaps? I will be going into the village the day before, and I intend to invite Beatrice to accompany me. She needs to meet the people there.”
“Then next Thursday it is. Be sure that she is prepared for my wife, for she is a lot to handle as you know. I would hate to frighten the new Duchess.”
Owen thought back to the taller friend of Beatrice that he had met, foxlike and intense, and knew that she would be perfectly capable of handling Lady Stanton.
All the same, when he returned to his home that night, Owen thought about how he would explain to Beatrice that she was to meet a lady who would not like her, and that it would be no fault of hers but simply how the lady was.
It sounded ridiculous, but that was who Lady Stanton had become since marrying her husband. Lord Stanton was incredibly wealthy, and when he chose her, it was because she did not care whether he had money or not. Then, once she became accustomed to the lifestyle, she changed, or at least that was what his friend told him.
She wanted more expensive gowns, more lavish balls, everything always had to be bigger and better and there was no stopping it, for Lord Stanton could always afford it. Owen wondered, as helaid in his bed, if that would happen to Beatrice. She was a sweet lady, but she had asked Owen about his finances, and once they had settled into their lives it was entirely possible that she would change in the same way that Lady Stanton had.
It was his final thought before he fell asleep.
When he woke up, he went to breakfast wondering if Beatrice would already be there. He took his seat, and she joined him shortly after. She seemed tired, and he wondered what she had been doing in his absence.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You seem as though you have not slept.”
