Page 34 of Everything But the Earl
“Apologies.”
“What keeps you awake?”
Owen sighed. “Swirling thoughts, I suppose. I am trying to invent a faster conveyance than a carriage so that I might make the journey between here and London in a matter of hours instead of days.”
“Not looking forward to the long trip?”
“Wishing I could pass between here and my home in London faster or at a whim.”
“The trip is arduous.”
That wasn’t what he meant. What he wished was that he could go to London, take care of his business in town, and be back in Grace’s arms that same night. But perhaps that was just his lust talking.
“I know we’ve discussed this at length,” he said, “but I’ll take you back to London if you wish. Unfortunately, I must go because I have business in town.”
“I am certain.” She paused and looked to the side. Her long hair cascaded around her shoulders, and Owen’s fingers itched to comb through it. Then she said, “Imagine spending your whole life confined to one house, only leaving under intense supervision, having your every move watched like a hawk. Did you know, I always behaved myself? Kissing you at the Rutherford ball was the most scandalousthing I have ever done. One reason I wanted to marry you was freedom. And I recognize that I am tethered to you, and that I am now in Wales instead of closer to my home in London. But I am no longer under my father’s thumb. I am no longer subject to my mother’s scrutinizing gaze. And that is liberating. I do not relish the two of us being separated, but I—”
Her answer surprised Owen. “When we first agreed to this, that was essentially what you said. You wanted to live in the country.”
“I dislike London, to be honest. I dislike how loud it is, how smoky, how crowded. And spending time at your cottage on the sea today—it’s so beautiful, Owen. The sea air is lovely. I want to stay here. It’s better even than what I pictured.”
“And you want freedom.”
“Yes.”
“And to make sculptures.”
“Yes. I intend to convert part of the cottage into my studio. Just so you’re aware.”
“Of course.”
“And I feel like I made the right choice in husbands because you are allowing me to do that.” She smiled. “Owen, hear me when I say that our arrangement is what I wanted and that you need not feel guilty for bringing me here and giving me a lovely home. Our arrangement… It has far surpassed my dreams. I will miss you, of course, and I hope you do not stay away too long, but this is what I want. I promise.”
Owen nodded and tried to internalize that. Perhaps he was imposing his own sadness about their parting on her, something she did not seem to feel. She wanted to be here. She was satisfied with their arrangement. Why was he fighting this? He’d wanted a marriage with minimal interruption to his life, and that was exactly what he was getting.
“Just promise me,” Owen said, “that no other man but me willwarm your bed.”
“I promise,” she said, not even pausing to think. “You are my husband.”
“All right.” He leaned up and kissed her forehead. “I did not anticipate us being together in bed like this, though, even when I agreed to this marriage. It is a happy bonus. You are so beautiful.” Owen cupped her cheek. She leaned into his touch. “Perhaps I am a little sad to leave.”
She laughed softly. “You want me to go back with you to London so that we can keep doing this. You want to use my body.”
“Well…yes.”
She lay down beside him. “Perhaps this will serve as an incentive for you not to leave me alone too long. I do enjoy your company. I shall not be sad if you choose to visit more frequently than you originally proposed.”
“Good to know.”
“And we can write letters when we are apart. My friends have said I am a good writer. I had the best governess money could buy.”
“Oh.” He supposed he should not have been surprised by that, given how much she read. She spoke and had the quick-thinking skills of someone who had gone to school, even though she hadn’t. “I am not the strongest writer, but I will happily respond to letters from you, especially if you wish to keep me up to date on your plans for my estate.”
“I promise not to change too much.”
Owen found he was astonished by the talents of his new bride, not just in bed, but the fact that she wrote letters—there were some aristocratic women who were barely educated because of old-fashioned notions of women being docile servants to their husbands—and she made art. What couldn’t she do?
“Change whatever you like,” Owen said, “except my study. I decorated that myself and would like for it to stay as-is.”
