Chapter 20

Owen gave himself an evening followed by a quiet morning to consider what had transpired in his study the previous afternoon.

It was time he pulled himself together. He still didn't know how it had happened, telling his story to Georgiana. Or most of it. He'd kept his uncle out of the conversation because that wasn't the time or the place. The less he thought about the awful man, the better off he was. He was tired of his uncle always winning.

But the other day in his study, with the painting and his wife, Owen wasn't certain if someone had won. He had felt like he lost, but upon waking up that morning, his shoulders felt lighter.

She would be thrilled to hear she was right.

As soon as he had that thought, he quashed it. Thoughts like that only got him into trouble.

He had promised her he would try. As a gentleman, Owen knew he needed to try harder than he had as of late. Georgiana asked for much from him, whether she knew it or not. But he wasn't about to break his promise.

Once more, the memory of her touch on his face came to mind. Her soft hand had been so gentle. No one had been that gentle with him for so long. It had brought back an old memory of his mother wiping dirt off his cheek while they were laughing.

When he thought of that, he couldn't remember why he kept fighting Georgiana.

She wanted to be happy in her home. Didn't he want the same? This place haunted him with the past, but he was beginning to realize that he was sick and tired of that. The past hurt in ways he could not explain. Perhaps it always would. Talking with his wife in his study had made him reconsider his strategy.

Though Owen was committed to the notion, it still unnerved him. He wasn't used to changing his mind. In particular, changing his mind for Georgiana left him rather unsettled.

Sitting at his desk once more, he found the pile of papers had only increased since yesterday. He hadn't made it through a single one. As he glanced at the one laid out before him, he didn't have a clue what it might be about.

"Your Grace?"

"Yes?" he asked with a resigned sigh. Rubbing his eyes, he heard nothing. He dropped his hands back to his lap to see the footman standing in the doorway with a silver tray. "Do not tell me I have more correspondence."

The footman glanced about warily and then nodded. "This is not correspondence for you, Your Grace."

"Is it?"

"Some of it," his footman admitted. "Most of these are invitations. Mrs. Helen said that all invitations should be handed to Her Grace. Is that acceptable, Your Grace?"

"Yes. No. Wait. I want to see them," Owen said suddenly. He rose to his feet, itching for a distraction. "Hold on a moment."

He picked up the larger pile that the footman referenced, curious about the sort of invitations that were sent to them. It wasn't a normal business to concern himself with. London held no interest for him, so he saw no need for others to have an interest in him.

"There are quite a few," he noted as he opened the third invitation.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Do we receive many invitations?" Owen paused as he held one, turning to his footman. He frowned when he remembered the conversation at White's, where those three fools talked about how charming Georgiana had been.

She was allowed to do as she liked. It was the freedom they had spoken about. But, he realized now, it meant that she did this without him. Everyone else could see a part of his wife he had not seen before.

That shouldn't bother me. This is exactly what I wanted. So why does it make my skin prickle?

"Quite a few, Your Grace," his footman responded. "I believe you and Her Grace are in high demand. Few other houses on the street receive so many invitations."

"Is that so?"

Owen supposed that it was a good sign, that he had not been shunned like he sometimes assumed. He opened the last invitation to find it was for a ball. There were invitations for two musicales, an opera, two picnics, one evening at Vauxhall Gardens, and one ball.

The ball. She had been charming at the ball. It was a masquerade ball where she had worn that bright gown. I remember it. She had practically glowed in the evening light. A peacock, I believe she must have been. Does she like all balls?

He hadn't been to many balls. One in London many years ago, and two out in the country. But country balls were an entirely different affair.

The thought of attending a fine event like that in London rattled him. Though he meant to toss away the invite, he couldn't stop fiddling with it. The paper was quite nice, and he thought it smelled of roses. It was a personal invitation from Lady Marjory.

"A silly thing, a ball," he mused.

His footman shifted. "Very well, Your Grace."

"I shouldn't waste my time at them," Owen thought out loud.

"Yes, Your Grace."

It was best if he threw it away. That was what Owen meant to do. He didn't need balls, and his wife didn't need balls either. There were plenty other ways they could spend their time. Besides, there were countless other events they could attend instead.

Then he remembered his promise to Georgiana. He wanted to keep it. Part of him was annoyed at what he had said, and yet there was another part of him that wanted this. Wanted a chance to get to know his wife, to see what she was so passionate about.

She didn't hate him. He was certain of that, though it surprised him. Remembering the way she had intertwined their fingers made him wonder if she might do that again, if the opportunity presented itself.

Before he really knew what he was doing, he grabbed the other invitations and tossed them in his wastebasket. The footman glanced down with palpable confusion. Owen's letters were also in that pile.

Then he put the invitation to the ball back on the silver platter.

"There. Take that to the Duchess," he ordered before he could change his mind.

"Er, yes, Your Grace." The footman bowed before taking his leave.

Returning to his seat, Owen stared at his desk before spending the next couple of hours attempting to make progress through his stack of bills, correspondence, and other such matters.

Mrs. Helen came in shortly after dark with a set of fresh candles which she placed on his desk. "I'll have your supper brought up in the next hour," she promised. "We're having veal tonight."

"Very well." Then Owen paused, lifting his head as another idea came to mind. "Actually, Mrs. Helen, I believe I'll take my supper in the dining room this evening."

The housekeeper's mouth dropped open, but she was quick to close it and stare at him through wide eyes. "You will, will you?"

She acts as if I've never done any such thing. It's like she is determined to make assumptions about everything I do. Can't a gentleman have his evening meal anywhere he likes in his own house?

He huffed. "I will. Do you have a problem with that, Mrs. Helen?"

Any hope he might have had that her smile would fade away quickly died.

She shook her head. If anything, that smile of hers only widened. "I don't have any problem with that. I'd only like to say it's about time you grew fond of that wife of yours. She's a treasure, that one."

"Fond?" Owen sputtered. "I wouldn't say that––"

But then his words died in his throat, for his housekeeper had already curtseyed and started out the door. He fell quiet when it clicked shut.

Fond? Don't be absurd. I'm not fond of Georgiana. Just because I like the way she smells and I've agreed to make our marriage work doesn't mean anything at all. It isn't as though she consumes my every waking thought.

Owen glared at his stack of papers. He'd replied to one letter and addressed one bill. Never before had it taken all day to do so little.

"Very well," he told himself.

While he continued to reassure himself that he was not fond of his wife, he decided to dress for the evening. One should always ready themselves for supper. He assumed there would be several courses, and he would be prepared as a duke should. Hopefully, that would prove to everyone he wasn't actually fond of his wife.

It was over an hour later when he paced in the drawing room. He hadn't been in there for some time, since he had no use for the space. Though he couldn't recall the last time he had been in here, he could tell it was slowly being redecorated. There was art missing from the walls, and he could smell the glue from the blue wallpaper. Owen studied it curiously, enjoying the plant print as he named all eight specimens, but then he paused at the nearby mirror.

There was a hair out of place. He frowned and brushed it back, wanting to look his best. If he was going to dine with his wife, then he was going to do it correctly.

"Owen."

He twisted around so quickly that he got a crick in his neck. "Georgiana."

Striding forward, his wife smiled. "I'm so glad you're joining me for supper this evening. Here, allow me."

Before he could ask what she meant, Owen watched her reach up to tuck the stray curl behind his ear. There was her touch on his face again. Just a moment, and yet he still forgot to breathe.

The pounding in his heart made him lightheaded. Steeling himself, he tried to think of something to say when his wife lowered her hand.

"How was your day?"

She looked lovely. Her hair had been pinned up atop her head and was held back with jeweled pins of some sort. It showed off her long neck. He hadn't thought of necks being beautiful until now. Then she also wore a fine gown that accentuated her best features. He could hardly take his eyes off her while he tried to remember how to answer her question.

"Futile."

She frowned. "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

Owen opened his mouth to explain his predicament and then caught himself just in time. He couldn't very well tell her why he hadn't been able to work. That would only embarrass them both.

"Nothing," he said at last. "It wasn't a bother. Erm, and you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you. How was your day?"

A sheepish smile touched her lips. "Oh, yes. My day. It was pleasant, thank you." Georgiana's gaze roamed over him with a level of interest that told him something was on her mind. He waited for her to speak. Lately, she had proven she was more than willing to say whatever was on her mind. So he was surprised when she asked, "Shall we go in for supper?"

Glancing down, he saw her extend her hand. He hurriedly lifted his arm and tried not to feel awkward. "Ah, yes. Certainly."

It was impossible to recall the last time he had escorted someone to supper. Had he ever had reason to do so?

And yet as she walked alongside him, her hand in the crook of his arm, Owen had the most bizarre sensation that this was exactly where he was meant to be. Standing beside Georgiana, tall and striking, felt familiar and safe and encouraging.

He might have had little training in these particular manners, but he remembered enough to help Georgiana to her seat and then take his own. They were seated across from one another at one end of the table.

Has this room changed at all? I don't come in here much either. Actually, I don't even know if I have been in every room of this house. How strange that is. But it is true, I never meant to stay here long. I wonder if I should change that. My plans to move back to the country have hardly been a marked priority as of late.

"Owen?"

"Beg your pardon?" Jerking his eyes back to his wife, he tried to focus. He couldn't seem to find the proper balance between not staring at her and still looking her way.

A smile slowly tugged at her lips. "Oh, it's nothing. I didn't mean to intrude on your thoughts."

"You weren't. I was merely studying the room. It doesn't look as though it has been redecorated at this point. But you were speaking, weren't you? What did you say?"

"I was only asking about… well, the food. It's a silly subject, isn't it? Instead, I can answer your question. I haven't redecorated this dining room. None of my ideas seem quite right for it. Perhaps next year I'll have some inspiration," she added with a small sigh.

He nodded when his drink was poured. "If you like it enough, then you can leave it as is. It's a fine room."

"You sound surprised."

"I haven't spent a lot of time in here," Owen responded hesitantly.

The last time he had been here, he had stomped right out of the room to avoid her. He glanced her away again and wondered if she remembered. Then he wondered if that bothered her.

"But I suppose I like it."

She straightened in her seat. "Then I won't redecorate it."

Stiffening, he scrambled to think. "No. You don't have to do that for me—that's not what I was saying."

"I know. Maybe I'll redecorate it later. But you like it, and I think I like it, too." The smile Georgiana offered was friendly and charming. It was impossible for him not to return her smile. "For now, I think we're just fine the way we are."

Is she still talking about the room, or something else?

There wasn't a chance to ask Georgiana the question, as their first course was served. Owen nodded his thanks for the soup. He enjoyed a few sips before his wife asked politely about his horse-riding habits.

It was a friendly sort of conversation. There were safe topics for them to discuss, he learned—ones that wouldn't irritate him. As he kept in mind his promise to Georgiana, Owen worked hard to make the most of their supper.

But the invitation to the ball was still somewhere in his thoughts, fishing around for a chance to make its way into their conversation. During the last course, he couldn't take it any longer.

"I noticed the mail today," he said lightly, hoping it didn't come across as suspicious.

Glancing up from her fruit tart, Georgiana started to smile before her expression sobered up. "The mail? Did anything interesting arrive?"

"Erm, not much. Mostly correspondence…" He realized he was tapping his leg and hastily stopped. "But I did find an invitation. It looked like it might be for a ball."

"It looked like it might be for a ball?" she echoed.

This was not going as well as he had hoped. Owen considered changing tact. Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, he mumbled, "I might have glanced at it. Only for a moment. Maybe it didn't say it was for a ball, after all."

Setting down her cutlery, his wife said, "No, you are right. Or I should say your suspicions were right. My aunt and uncle are hosting a ball, and my cousin, Marjory, specifically requested my attendance." He glanced back down. "I wasn't certain I would attend."

Owen glanced at her. "No?"

Georgiana sighed loudly. "Balls can be so tedious and lonely. I would have Marjory, of course, but she would be helping her mother, you see."

"Ah. I see."

"Yes. So… I don't know if I will go."

He nodded while staring at his mostly uneaten fruit tart. It was a delicious little treat. He liked it more than the chocolate cake that was usually served. Resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the table, Owen stewed in the growing silence. It gnawed at him like a hungry dog would a bone.

He hadn't attended many balls in the past. He understood what Georgiana meant about attending on her own. Even attending with family or friends didn't guarantee an exciting evening. Just the thought of having everyone stare at him left him feeling rather unsettled. They would stare and whisper and wonder. He couldn't very well forget all the rumors about him circling about the ton.

And yet he could also picture Georgiana there, smiling, dancing, laughing, with the candlelight flickering across her soft features. She would surely dazzle everyone present, and a woman, he found himself thinking, deserved to dazzle.

Maybe there is something I should do about this. Would that be reasonable? But perhaps she doesn't actually want my company. Or she does, and she doesn't know how to ask for it? Would she, after everything I have put her through?

"I could," Owen blurted out suddenly. "I could go. With you, that is." He cleared his throat and pulled himself together. This was not the time to act like a child. "Perhaps we should make an appearance. That way, you would not attend alone. Only if this is something you wish for, of course."

"Really?" Georgiana leaned forward, smiling at him. "You would? I mean, that would be rather nice. It could be nice, don't you think?"

Feeling inordinately pleased, he nodded. "Yes, I agree."

"Very good. Then we shall attend the ball together this week."

The two of them sat across from each other, smiling like fools until a footman appeared to clear away their plates. It broke the strange silence in the room. A strange silence that had not been awkward or tense or upsetting. In fact, Owen thought it had been rather nice.

He excused himself after supper, hastily leaving the room. Up the stairs, he went to his greenhouse. The place was quiet and empty and peaceful.

Still, his heart hammered in his chest as he stared about at his growing plants. Owen tried to focus on his plans for every one of them. But even here, he could hardly focus, especially after supper. This might have been the one place where everything went his way, but now Georgiana was on his mind.

I have the strangest feeling that she is going to be there for some time. Perhaps I should get used to it. What happens if I stop fighting her?

It was a question that began to consume him.