Chapter 12

Returning from an early ride the following morning, Owen attended to his waistcoat on his own. He'd already sent Anders off shopping for the day, since the man was convinced he needed both a brass and a silver pocket watch.

Owen didn't care one way or another. But he was more than content to have his bedchamber quiet and still without distractions for the morning. It let him focus on anything he liked.

Until I found myself with a wife.

He frowned when her face flashed in his mind. Recalling the furrow in her brow when she had addressed him the other day in the parlor, acting concerned as though she knew him or even cared, Owen grew uncomfortable. The irritation returned. His ride had done him good, but he'd been gone twice as long in an attempt to put his uncle out of his mind for good.

That worked, but now Georgiana remained.

Pretty Georgiana, with that stubborn, full bottom lip. He wondered how it might curve when she pouted or smiled. Had she yet to smile his way? He doubted it. That long blonde hair of hers always framed her face so neatly. She was a woman in control of herself. She was strong, tall, and refined.

"If I had to take a wife, I suppose it could have been worse," he muttered to himself.

Except strong women seem to think they can open their mouths and say whatever they like. Perhaps that is not ideal, after all.

Shaking his head, Owen tried to put her out of his mind too. One minute he was angry with her, and the next he admired her. All the while, he meant to keep her out of his thoughts.

"Your Grace?"

He turned from where he stood by the window, seeing one of the younger footmen peeking through the door. The man kept his eyes down and his voice tentative, as if he had called to Owen more than once.

"What is it?"

"Mrs. Helen asked for you. You have a visitor," the footman explained.

"At this hour?" Owen glanced out the window again . "It's still early. The Duchess can see to them."

"The Marchioness asked after you."

He froze. He only knew of one marchioness. His aunt, the Marchioness of Carlisle. There wasn't any reason for anyone to request his presence. Half of London still did not know where he resided or cared for his attention, beyond family.

But why now? She never visits, not with her husband keeping a watchful eye on her most of the time. Is she finally leaving him? Or did something happen?

Owen felt his heart skip a beat. He stopped bothering with his cravat, leaving it undone and hanging about his neck. Pocket watches and cravats and wives could be attended to at another time. It was best he saw to Lady Carlisle before anything happened.

Striding across the room, he moved past the tentative footman, who opened the door for him. "Fetch tea at once. And stay outside the room. I may need a physician."

"Yes, Your Grace," the footman stammered out.

"What is your name?" Owen called over his shoulder, bothered he didn't recognize the lad. He didn't look old enough to shave.

"Thomas, Your Grace."

"Be quick, Thomas."

Then Owen hastened across the house, hating its size in every step as he made his way to the front stairwell.

His aunt was sitting in the front parlor like he had expected—the only room she had ever been in beyond the hall. Her nerves didn't allow her to go much further without her husband at her side.

"Aunt Augusta."

Standing up gingerly, the older lady wrung her hands and wrinkled her gloves. "Owen. Oh, how handsome you look."

He didn't stop until he reached her side. Gently putting a hand over her own, he quickly noted the way she favored her right arm. She was wearing powder on the left side of her face. It was quite a bit of powder that would be enough to hide bruises. His jaw tightened.

"I'll fetch my physician," he said.

"Don't." Her voice was soft, but it was strong enough to make him freeze. "Please, Owen. I only wanted to come see you."

After he took a deep breath, he rubbed his jaw. Owen needed a minute to think. Could he convince her to see someone for her injuries? Would she even admit to feeling poorly? It seemed he would have to argue with her to get anything out of her. But he couldn't do that.

"How much pain are you in?"

She smiled, her lips trembling. "I'm just fine. I'll only stay a minute. I didn't want to… intrude on you."

"You know you are always welcome here," he assured her. "There is a room always open to you. Can you tell me what it would take to convince you to stay with me, where you would be safe?"

"It isn't a life meant for safety, I'm afraid. Besides…"

Even though she didn't say it out loud, Owen knew just what she was thinking. It didn't matter. She could run or hide, but her husband would still search for her. Under the law, she was, for all intents and purposes, the Marquess's property. Even Owen could be forced to give her up.

Except I won't. I won't, not after all this time. She can always go to the countryside. Or further. I can send her to the Continent. I can take her with me, and we can go wherever she wants to go. I can collect my plants, and she can finally have some peace.

"Why don't we sit down?" he suggested, changing the subject.

As he helped her sit, Owen had to pause. Something was different. In fact, everything was. He slowly lowered himself into his chair while taking a quick look around the parlor.

The chairs were reupholstered into a bold red that matched the other seats. Gold pillows with frills and such littered the seats. A similar but lighter wallpaper had been placed there, and the curtains were a deep green that matched part of the pattern. It was well put together, he thought, and must have been done very recently. But when?

"Owen?"

"Hmmm?" He turned to his aunt.

She glanced at him and then around the room. "It's nice here. Welcoming. I'm glad married life suits you, Owen."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," he muttered. "Rather, I—"He caught himself. His marriage was heavenly compared to hers. It wouldn't be fair to say otherwise. "I have been rather fortunate, haven't I?"

"You deserve it," she said, her smile fading. She bit her lip before tugging at her reticule. "I wanted to bring you something. A letter."

He scooted to the edge of his seat when her voice dropped. "A what?"

Augusta pulled out a letter and handed it to him. "It's from Benedict," she whispered. "I wanted you to read it. Maybe… maybe he is trying to tell us something?"

A letter from his cousin. Though Owen had offered to send for a search party, his aunt and uncle had said they didn't want his help. But now they had a letter. He felt his curiosity grow, though he tried to ignore it. Remaining calm, he took a deep breath and opened the letter.

Mother dearest,

I cannot imagine the disaster I left behind. Though I cannot tell you where I am, I wish to express my most heartfelt apologies for not being there. For you, for Owen, for the young lady. But I had to follow my heart.

I promise to return soon. I only pray I have not caused any hurt.

Yours,

Benedict.

"Well?"

Owen glanced up.

His aunt gazed up at him hopefully, her hands tucked under her chin. Her wide eyes and anxious expression told him that she was hoping for something that would help them find Benedict. Like clues or a mystery to be solved.

Owen read the letter again only in the hope that she might be right. But he gleaned nothing. Frustration bubbled within him. Even though he wanted to find a clue, not just for himself but for his aunt, he couldn't.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, forcing himself to meet her gaze. It was a punishment he had to bear. "He didn't give a hint about where he is or what he's doing. We'll just have to wait for him to return, as he promised."

"But… there's nothing?" she asked, her shoulders dropping.

Shaking his head, Owen handed her back the letter. She brought it close to her chest. "I'm afraid we can only wait and see, for now. Maybe he'll return soon."

It heightened his frustration to see a wave of emotion wash over her face. Lady Carlisle had worked so hard through the years to protect them, especially Benedict. There was no telling the hardships she had endured for him. Sometimes, the thought of how helpless they all were in this situation consumed Owen.

She rose from her seat, he followed her. "You're not going home, are you?" he asked.

"I must. I promised not to be gone long."

Wrestling with himself, he slowly nodded. "Please be careful, Aunt Augusta. You know you can come here any time. You're always welcome, and my door is always open to you. If anything gets worse… I can get you away from there."

She sighed. "Owen…"

"I mean it," he insisted. "I have connections across the Continent. Even in China. He can't find you everywhere. His reach has limits."

Lady Carlisle leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "You're a good man. I remember how wonderful your parents were. You're just like them, you know."

Owen wanted to say something. Anything. Except there was a lump in his throat. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to think of something he could say. But even his thoughts were stilted. It wasn't even talking about his parents. And it was harder to think about them.

I still remember the scent of the river. The shouting. The water in my lungs, the rain in my eyes…

"Take care of yourself, Owen. You and your wife."

Clearing his throat, he managed to take his aunt's hand and lead her out of the room and down the hall. She leaned heavily on him, so he slowed down. One step after the next. All the while, he tried to think up something that would convince her to escape his monster of an uncle.

"Oh! My apologies." A patter of feet behind them made him stiffen. "I didn't realize we had a guest."

He gave a slight shake of the head as their butler opened the front door for his aunt. Not wanting to force the company of his wife on her, he wanted to make sure she had some peace before returning home.

"She was just leaving. Good day, Aunt Augusta. Send for me if you need anything."

"Thank you, my boy. Your Grace." Lady Carlisle stood in the doorway and offered a fragile nod, before taking her leave.

The familiar footsteps trailed after Owen as he watched his aunt take her leave. It only took a moment before he could smell her. There hadn't been flowers in the parlor, but he smelled that now, realizing it was her.

Georgiana smelled of gardenias. It annoyed him. His entire home would smell of gardenias now. Didn't he have a garden for that?

"That's Benedict's mother, isn't it?" she asked softly. "Is she all right? What happened? I should have liked to visit with her."

"She wasn't visiting," he said shortly.

Her gaze settled on him. He could feel it even without looking her way. "She was here, wasn't she? In the parlor."

"You weren't needed. It was a short visit for family." Owen closed the door, nodded to the butler to indicate he wasn't needed, and steeled himself before facing his wife.

Blast it, she looks beautiful.

Georgiana was fresh-faced as she wore a pout that made those pretty pink lips of hers plumper. There was an errant curl on her forehead that his fingers itched to brush away. The peach color of her dress reminded him of a fresh spring rose—a rare, warm pink. He clamped his jaw shut in the hope that it hadn't hung open while she spoke.

"I am family," she pointed out, dropping her gaze.

His stomach clenched. She was right. She was his family now, and though he sought to protect his aunt, Owen realized his defense had been needless here. Georgiana wouldn't hurt his aunt. In fact, the two of them would probably become good friends. His aunt could use more people in her life.

"Perhaps she will visit again," he said after a minute. Georgiana's eyes flicked to his, and he saw the hope there. "She liked the room, by the way. The gold pillows were… were a fine touch, albeit unexpected."

It appeared his compliment didn't lift her mood like he had hoped.

Instead of smiling, Georgiana frowned. "What do you mean, unexpected?"

"The room is fine." Owen opened his mouth and then closed it. "Just fine."

He nodded, then walked away before he could make a further fool of himself. There was more important work for him to handle than expounding on his compliments.