Chapter 24

Owen had been in a good mood. A brilliant mood, even.

He had spent a good forty minutes or so talking with Lord Blythe and studying the pineapple plant. The servant who had led them there had not been the gardener but had been able to answer some of their questions.

Pineapples were treasured citrus only for wealth. That was why most of the ton cared for them, along with others across the Continent. But they were notoriously difficult to grow in this colder climate, and so one usually had to travel to study them.

"If I were a younger man, I would be in Jamaica this very minute," Lord Blythe had said when they first reached the little greenhouse. "I wouldn't need much money with one of these in hand."

"Because you could make yourself wealthy with these," Owen had pointed out. "How many of these do we see only once they have begun to rot?"

The Earl had nodded with a pained look on his face. "They deserve much better. And everyone only purchases them to show off their wealth. They don't really know what they have."

"But we do."

"Yes, we do, indeed. Now, what do you make of the pattern? I know we discussed maths found in nature, but to make that God's design may be deemed presumptuous. What if…"

It hadn't taken them long to delve into philosophy and nature and geology. Their letters had entertained Owen on many occasions. He hadn't expected to feel such appreciation for the Earl. He didn't even mind how often the man laughed, for soon he was chuckling along as well.

How pleasant it had been to talk with Lord Blythe in person, more freely than Owen felt he was able to do most of the time. Georgiana had shown him it was possible. Benedict had always said it could be done, that he should try to enjoy himself. So set on his ways, Owen seemed to lose sight of most things when he wasn't paying attention.

His recent conversations with his wife had been promising, slowly bringing him out of his shell. He was learning to open up just enough, and he didn't like the thought of this being ruined.

"Do you think you'll travel again? If anyone could keep these alive on a long journey, I'm certain it could be you," the Earl had said kindly.

Such a compliment had honored Owen. He had felt a small pang of guilt when he didn't have a good answer for him.

"Not to worry," Lord Blythe continued. "You have a wife now, and that is a blessed treasure as well. My own wife has been my closest companion, whether we are together or apart. It's time you had one as well. Just think about how lucky we are to be here this evening, looking at this pineapple. I admire how prickly it is!"

This had been his chance. Owen didn't have any other journeys planned at the time, especially now that he was married. So, he had spent a good part of the evening taking sketches and studying the fruit.

Everything had been going so well until he saw Lord Hornstooth talking with his wife.

I wouldn't even call it talking. Something more along the lines of acting like a despicable scoundrel and disgusting blackguard, to put it lightly.

He didn't know how long their conversation had been going before his arrival. It was best he didn't think about it too much, he supposed, because he had a feeling he wouldn't like the truth.

But he had heard enough.

He had heard the Viscount make suggestive remarks to Georgiana while discounting him. That last part didn't bother Owen, but he was impressed by how it bothered her. She cared. It surprised him every time, though he couldn't explain why.

Georgiana cared, and she had stood up to the Viscount. By then, Owen didn't doubt she would stand up to anyone. She could lead an army to battle and win with just the fierceness of her gaze.

Her words should have been enough for anyone, including Lord Hornstooth, to leave her be.

Instead, he dared to put his hands on her.

Owen inhaled sharply as he walked toward the Viscount once his wife had left them. Staring up at him, Lord Hornstooth moved backwards until he was nearly buried in the vines crawling up the wall.

The urge to crush him nearly became overwhelming. Staring him down, Owen tried to determine what he could do next.

Murder hardly seemed the right direction. He didn't want to duel, not really. That was tedious, and he didn't trust someone like Lord Hornstooth to behave with honor through such a private––and illegal––matter.

"You touched my wife," Owen growled, unable to stay still any longer. "You had no right."

He thought of the flush he had seen on her face, the indignation in her eyes. Even before reaching them, he had known something was wrong. Georgiana's hands had been balled into fists, her back ramrod straight. She had been far from pleased. Now, so was he.

"I meant nothing by it. I don't know what you think you saw, Your Grace," Lord Hornstooth sputtered. "But I can assure you that it was innocent."

"Then she asked you for your aid?"

The Viscount hesitated. "Well, no."

"So you had no right to put your hands on her. She doesn't belong to you, Lord Hornstooth. You would do well to remember you have no right to be even in her line of sight," Owen added sharply.

Lord Hornstooth scrambled to stay upright while not touching Owen or the vines at his back. He tried not to act like it as he shifted about and his eyes looked everywhere but at the Duke. "As I said, it was innocent."

"Would my wife agree?"

Lord Hornstooth scoffed. "Women will say whatever serves them best. You don't need to believe a thing they say."

"On the contrary, my wife is quite trustworthy. I saw you with your hands on her, and I heard her telling you to leave her be. It is one thing to be disreputable but another thing to be disrespectful toward my wife," Owen barked. "You will not ever approach her again. Do you hear me?"

Slumping, Lord Hornstooth gaped up at him, his beady eyes wide. His teeth were yellowing, and his nose was red. Owen could not fathom how anyone had invited him to a proper affair like this ball.

"What do you care?" Lord Hornstooth protested. "You don't care about anyone. You're the duke who everyone forgets because he's too high and mighty to join us in London."

"I stay away so I don't have to suffer the company of fools," Owen fired back.

"Oh, and you think that will change now that you have a wife? You're no different than the rest of us. You'll forget about her and leave her be. That's what they all do. All I did was offer her a bit of company," the Viscount snarled.

Narrowing his eyes, Owen couldn't help but think murder might not be too awful a deed. "You will leave her alone. You know nothing about me, and you know nothing about her."

"I know enough. Anyone who gets close to you ends up dead or hurt. Parents, remember? Your own cousin disappeared," Lord Hornstooth rattled off his paltry list. "It won't be long before your wife disappears, too."

Owen didn't carry weapons, but he thought his hands might fit around the man's neck. He blinked back the urge as he said, "My wife is not your concern."

"Oh? What if she wants to disappear? She doesn't have to do it alone. We all know how inhumane you must be. I'm more than happy to?—"

Grabbing Lord Hornstooth by his coat, Owen shoved him against the wall. His patience was spent. All he could see was red. The Viscount had no right to speak to him like this, to talk about his wife like this.

"Don't you dare come near us again. I won't warn you again. I can protect my wife, and I always will. I will do whatever I must to keep her safe. That means," Owen added bitingly, "keeping her away from you. Do not come near us again, Lord Hornstooth."

He refused to hear another word from the man. He shoved him aside and stepped back, feeling a certain measure of satisfaction when the blackguard hastily picked himself up and scampered off.

There. That is done. It's over. We'll just return inside and act as though nothing happened. Good Lord, what a mess.

He turned just to see Georgiana standing in the doorway, a crown of light over her head, watching him. His body tensed up. Her face was cast in shadow, but as she tilted her head his way, it seemed to confirm the question in his mind––yes, she had heard every word.

Mixed emotions rippled through him.

Never before had he shown such rage toward someone. Even with his uncle, he managed to restrain himself. But he knew how it feels to be helpless, and he had seen Georgiana trapped there. Something had to be done.

She reached him in a few steps and took his hand. He glanced down to see it shaking between her gloved hands.

She heard what I said. Not just my threat, but my promise to protect her.

"It's been quite a long night," Georgiana said in a measured tone. Her eyes searched his. Not with distrust or fear, he was surprised to find, but with gratitude. "I'm afraid I find myself quite tired. Why don't we retire a little early tonight?"

"Are you certain?" he asked hoarsely.

"Quite certain."

Offering a small smile, she nodded before tugging him away. Instead of going back inside to exit through the front door, she led him down the terrace and through the gardens toward a side exit.

Neither of them said a word.

It didn't take long for them to find their carriage, since there was no queue yet. Folks wouldn't start departing the ball until another hour or two had passed. Still, the hour was late compared to the usual country hours.

Owen blamed his silence on that as they climbed into the carriage and drove home. Across from him, Georgiana didn't seem inclined to speak either. She looked through a slit in the curtains with a contemplative look, moonlight streaming across her face.

Soon, they had arrived back home. Owen climbed out first to help Georgiana down. He was out of the carriage and turning toward his wife when he caught sight of something on the edge of the drive.

Another carriage. He furrowed his brow. It didn't look familiar. There were no colors or crests. Not quite a yellow hackney, but surely it belonged to someone. He glanced at the footman stepping out of the house and heading toward them––the servants would know about the carriage.

As for Georgiana, Owen blocked her view of the carriage as she descended.

"Thank you," she murmured to the footman who had brought a parasol. A light sprinkle had started during their journey home. She accepted the coverage while sticking close to Owen.

They were home. That was what mattered now.