Chapter 30

Owen stared at his footman. "What do you mean she left?"

Thomas glanced over at the groom and then back at him. "Er, Your Grace… she left. On her horse."

"But where?" Owen demanded.

They were going around in circles, he was certain. He was growing dizzy. His stomach was in knots, and he could hardly think straight.

There were only two things he knew right now. One, that Georgiana had run away from home. From him. And two, no one could tell him where she had gone.

I don't understand it. I don't understand her. We were talking, weren't we? Why wouldn't she let me explain? Just because Benedict loved someone before her didn't mean that he wouldn't have come to love her eventually if they married. I wasn't in a position to tell her. But I apologized. I never meant to hurt her.

No matter what Owen did, he couldn't seem to piece together exactly where things went wrong. He felt like he was missing something.

Her. I am missing her.

He hated missing anything. But never had it felt like this. There was a hole in his heart, and he was bleeding profusely. It hurt to move, to breathe, to think.

Never had he expected to be caught up in the throes of feelings such as these. He knew how dangerous they could be. Caring for others brought risks, but he had never known just how it could hurt in this way.

"Gah!" Pent-up rage had him kicking the ground, tossing up dirt and rocks. It was childish, but he couldn't help himself. He clenched his hands into fists and wondered how he could possibly fix this.

"Oh!"

He whirled around as a slight figure stumbled back and dropped the two bags she had been carrying. Although she hadn't come in contact with him or the rocks, she must have rounded the corner quickly without expecting to see him.

"I beg your pardon," Owen said tersely. He picked up one of the fallen bags and tossed it to Thomas before turning for the other one. Then he froze upon seeing the young woman grabbing that second bag, recognizing her. "You."

The maid hastily curtseyed. "Your Grace." She dared a glance at him and then at the stables. "I beg your pardon in return. I didn't mean to interrupt. Perhaps I'll just be on my way."

Holding the bag to her chest, she moved to his right. He mirrored her movement, blocking her path.

"Beg your pardon," she said again before darting to his left.

He mirrored her movement again. "You're the maid. Georgiana's maid. Joan, isn't it? No, Jean. We haven't exactly met."

"We did. Once," she added and then caught herself. "Er, Your Grace."

"Right…" he trailed off, studying her before eyeing the bag in her hand. It was shabby and worn out. But the other bag was firmer, a little nicer and… He glanced back at Thomas to assess it. Shaped like a trunk but soft and flexible, it could mold to the contents that filled it to the brim. "She left, and she's taking you with her."

A small squeak escaped Jean. "I…"

At the same time, his groom mumbled something about horses and disappeared into the stables like he didn't wish for trouble.

Owen didn't blame him, but he had no problem with the man. The only problems he had at the moment, however, he felt could very well be solved with the assistance of the young woman standing right in front of him.

He crossed his arms and studied Jean.

The maid was loyal to her mistress, just as she should be. He hadn't had any concerns about hiring another servant at the time, since he hadn't been prepared to take a wife. At the time, he thought it a blessing on all of their parts for the maid to accompany the lady from one household to the other.

But now it raised a potential problem if the maid was more loyal to her mistress than the man who paid her wages.

"Go on," he urged in a tone he meant to be friendlier, but it didn't quite sound right. "Tell me where you were going just now with two bags."

"Erm." She glanced away. "Would you believe I was on my way to visit my family?"

His answer was immediate. "No."

Her shoulders slumped. "I shouldn't say, Your Grace. Please don't make me answer."

"Don't beg me, Jean. I should be the one begging you to tell me where she is," he amended. The softer tone finally came through. "I don't understand what happened between Georgiana and I."

When her gaze fixed on him next, it was such a drastic change from her meekness to a hard look that nearly made him flinch. "Are you certain about that, Your Grace?"

He hissed out a breath. "I should like the chance to explain myself instead of being falsely accused of such wrongdoings. How is it a mistake to let my cousin find love when he had the chance?"

"What?""What?"

Furrowing her brow in confusion, Jean took a step back. She glanced beyond him. Thomas was still watching them with a bewildered look on his face.

Since he had nothing to add to the conversation, Owen turned back to the maid.

"Is that all you think this is about?" she asked carefully.

He threw his hands up in the air as his frustration flared again. "Isn't it? Mrs. Helen said there was a letter, but I haven't seen it. She said my wife knew about Benedict loving someone else. Perhaps I should have tried harder to keep him in London, but I never expected him to––"

"Wait," Jean interrupted. "That's it?"

"That's what I just said," he reminded her in a growl. "What more is there?"

"There's… more!" she sputtered. Then she shoved the bag in his arms. He grabbed it instinctively and watched as she pulled it open and dug through her things. "Where did it go? I know I just had it. Must be… Here it is!"

Out came her fist with a crumpled piece of paper in it. She shoved it against his chest so hard that he stepped back and dropped the bag. As Jean let go of the papers to pick up her bag, he took the papers.

The letter was indeed ripped in two. It was rather neatly done, just like everything Georgiana did. He hurriedly pieced the two halves together to read the contents.

Every line was a dagger to his heart, bringing him lower. He could hardly bear to read the accusations. But he had to. He read them and thought of Georgiana, how this had broken her.

Owen wavered and clenched the papers tighter.

No, not all of it is true. Dear Lord…

"You love her," Jean whispered in a voice so low that he nearly missed it. "Goodness me, Your Grace, you love her."

"I…" He looked up, ready to deny it.

Love went beyond caring for another. It brought more pain and more risks. But he reconsidered, as he understood the pain he already felt. Wasn't this already love? He didn't want to be without Georgiana. He didn't even want to live without her. Already he was prepared to fall to his knees and beg her to come back home.

If all of this mess was not love, then Owen didn't know what else it could be.

His throat grew tight as he nodded. "I do."

Jean hesitated. She glanced down at the bags and then at him. "I was going to go, but… perhaps you should go to her. She went to her father's."

At once, Owen shoved down his pain so he could act. He had done this time and time before. When the feelings grew to be too much, he learned to ride through them without letting them control him. They wrestled for control, but he shook them off as he turned back to the letter.

"What is it?" Jean asked.

The handwriting looked familiar. He scanned the letter again for any clue about the sender. There was no discernable watermark or wax seal. Just a mysterious letter sent to his wife, a fine duchess who no one had cause to hurt.

But there is always someone who has cause to hurt me.

Owen was sick to his stomach before he even lifted the letter to his nose to smell it. His insides twisted when he recognized that particular cheroot blend at once. He should have caught it earlier.

"Your Grace?"

He jerked his head up. "I'll find my wife. But first, I need to make a visit to my uncle."

Determination kept Owen moving as he redirected his servants inside before saddling his horse. He clung to that courage, knowing he would need it.

All of this time, he had avoided confronting his uncle. The Marquess was dangerous in more ways than one. A part of Owen still feared the man. He could admit that to himself now, understanding his own faults. He feared the pain that his uncle could still inflict upon him.

Not anymore, not after this. What more can he do? My uncle nearly lost me my inheritance. He abused me and hurt me as a child. He never stopped. He will never stop. He has now hurt everyone I have ever cared for, everyone I have ever loved. He has gone too far.

Tension mounted through his body on the ride through London to his uncle's home. He had been there once this Season to see Benedict, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Swinging down from the saddle, Owen brushed aside the discomfort to make his way to the front door.

"I'm sorry," the butler said upon opening the door. "His Lordship is not available to––"

"He is to me," Owen told him bluntly before wedging his way inside. "He's in the dining room?"

"Certainly not at this hour. He's in his study. I mean…"

Not letting the man stammer out his excuses, Owen charged forward. He knew every corner of the house—the best places to hide, the best steps to avoid the creaking wood, and which rooms echoed the most. Memories of his childhood flashed in his mind all at once, but he pushed them all aside to storm right into his uncle's study.

Ralph Comerfield rose from his desk when Owen flung the doors open. His face twisted into a grimace. "What are you doing here?"

"The better question is"—Owen rounded the desk to shove his uncle against the nearby bookcase—"what do you think you are doing, interfering with my life?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"No?" Owen sneered. He pulled the letter out of his pocket, his hands shaking with rage. "I'd recognize that sick scent of you anywhere, you reprobate. Worthless vermin. I lost count of how many times you called me that! Now you think you can use those words again? With my wife?"

Squished between him and the bookcase, his uncle didn't even bother denying his crime. "So what if I did? She deserves to know the truth."

"What truth? There is not enough here for you to write squat!" Owen shoved him hard before stepping back. He feared if he stayed there a minute longer, he would do something he'd regret later. "Have you no decency? No remorse?"

Bile rose up his throat when his uncle laughed. "Remorse? For what? I know you to be a sinner. You ruined my family! I never should have taken you in."

"Then you should have let me go somewhere else," Owen threw back at him harshly. "You don't trust anyone. All you do is make everyone around you miserable! I don't think you even know how to be happy. Do you?"

"Maybe I don't think you deserve happiness. I spent half my life taking care of you and your snot. What do I get out of it? Nothing. You and your little wife––"

Owen's eyes narrowed. "Don't you talk about her."

Huffing, Ralph stared him down in return. "Why not? All of London talks about her. What a delight she is. What a jewel she is. How lucky you two sorry specimens are to have each other."

It was through his words and ramblings that Owen began to understand at last. "You were at the ball then, weren't you? Or you heard about it. You couldn't stand to see us happy. You saw that I had the wife your son was meant to have, and you saw that we were in love."

"Love! As if that is real."

Owen shook his head as pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. That was why his uncle had written this letter. He'd done so immediately, always rash in his cruel actions. It wasn't like he knew any other way. Ralph had wanted to say whatever he could to hurt Georgiana. He must have seen Owen out riding and must have taken some gambles to make his accusations.

Half of it was luck and half of it was just cruelty. What else could Georgiana believe? And blast it, I played right into this without knowing.

"Love is real," Owen said. He straightened up, telling himself that this was all over. "It is as real as you or me. Just because you have never experienced it doesn't negate its existence. We all deserve better than you, Uncle Ralph. All you ever did was hurt your own family. Benedict has built his own life to avoid you. Your wife is scared of your shadow and only stays because of the law. And I will continue to shun you. Do you understand? You are a terrible human being, and no one––I mean no one—will ever love you."

Everything was different. He was taller than his uncle, and now he was wiser. Owen relaxed, feeling the past fall off his shoulders. He, too, in his own way had shunned love. But now love was in his life, and he was ready to embrace it.

"You scoundrel!"

Owen jerked back when his uncle lunged at him. Bumping into the desk, he didn't get very far. He was nearly tackled to the ground but caught his balance before shoving Ralph off him.

"I won't let you––"

Owen's fist landed on his uncle's face before he could finish his threat. The punch was harder than Owen had intended. He froze as his uncle collapsed in a heap on the floor.

A groan escaped the older man as he clumsily clutched his bleeding nose.

Looking down at him, Owen wanted to feel regret. But he didn't. He leaned over him and said, "You will not interfere in my life again. Do you understand me, Uncle? If you see me, I want you to cross the street. Leave the ball. Run in the other direction. All of this ends now. Do you understand? You could have had happiness, but you threw it away. This is your punishment. If I hear of you hurting anyone, including Aunt Augusta, ever again, I won't hesitate."

"Hesitate to do what?"

"It's better we don't talk about that," Owen hissed, truthfully not knowing what he would do. But if he could punch his uncle, he had a feeling he could cause other sorts of damage. No marquess was all-powerful, after all. "Goodbye, Uncle Ralph."

Then Owen walked out. He didn't feel the pain in his knuckles or any weight on his shoulders. It was a new peace he had never known before. It was almost perfect.

But nothing wouldn't be perfect until he had Georgiana back.