Chapter 4

Owen gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw.

There was a tempest raging within as he stared at the not-so-innocent building before him. Never interested in the country, his uncle had forced his family to stay in London all year round. It was a stately house of three floors.

Gripping his walking stick, Owen tried to breathe through the nausea.

Just looking at this place was enough to make him ill. A grown man brought down by a simple house. He ground his teeth harder, willing the ground to consume him. He was too strong a man, too mighty a duke, to allow an old house to rattle him.

White pillars framed the front door. A few trees lined the path from the gate before him up to the house.

It looks just like it always did all those years ago. I hate how it still towers over me, taunting me. I know exactly what happened within those walls. The bruises, the breaking, the shouting. I remember everything.

He had left this house the day he turned eighteen, walking to his estate's solicitor to ensure he could then take control of everything. It was then that he returned to his family's country seat, where no one could touch him.

He had only one regret: he hadn't been able to take Benedict with him.

His cousin was eight years his junior. When he had the chance, Benedict had told him to go. The Marquess of Carlisle had never been as hard on his son as he had been on Owen. As for the Marchioness…

"You're not leaving, are you?"

Owen glanced uneasily at the house again before meeting Benedict's gaze, and grimaced. He wanted to leave, but he would not allow himself this weakness.

Frowning, Benedict looked over his shoulder while walking toward him. "It's only a house, Owen."

"Never a home."

"That is true. But still… it's the only home I know," Benedict reminded him. He offered a grim smile after shaking his head. "Awful, isn't it? I quite agree. Perhaps once I inherit the title, I'll sell it."

Own pursed his lips. "Or burn it."

"Also amenable. Mother wouldn't mind."

"Is she well?"

Owen didn't like the long pause.

"Well enough. I… I do what I can."

"I know you do. He doesn't still… hurt her, does he?"

Glancing around the lane, Benedict hesitated before shaking his head. "He still hasn't laid hands on her since the day you left. I meant that. But sometimes, the games he plays with us don't feel much better. He locked her in her bedchamber and tossed out the key last week. It was the first time she had peace in months, but we had a difficult time getting her food and drink."

Cursing under his breath, Owen narrowed his gaze on the window in his aunt's chambers. "We must get her out of there."

"Don't you think I've tried?" Benedict muttered, the pain evident in his voice.

Guilt trickled through Owen. He hadn't meant to start this conversation again. It wasn't as though he was the one suffering these days.

"She won't try it, not anymore. We keep our heads down—it's all we can do. As I said, he's been better these past years. He's getting older, weaker."

"Good."

Owen recalled the letters he had first written to Benedict upon reaching his country home. The place had been in disarray, with only an aging couple caring for the large estate. Not only that, but his uncle had been dipping into the funds.

Even though he had little at the time, Owen had tried every idea he could think of to protect Benedict and his aunt. He offered them money, a place to hide, passage to America or anywhere else they desired. Every time he left the country, he asked Benedict to come with him.

They had not accepted a single offer.

He was relieved to learn that the beatings had ceased. His uncle used to reserve most of those for him. Beatings and mean words like worthless vermin. But that fateful day, Owen had finally shoved the man off him to prove it was all over. He was free, and no one would beat him again. If only he had been able to do the same for his aunt and cousin…

"Don't blame yourself," Benedict told him, though he had said nothing. "He isn't home, you know. Why don't you come in for a short while?"

Owen's stomach twisted. "Only if I can burn it to the ground."

Tapping his fingers on the gate, his cousin suggested, "Why don't we go to your place, then? It's only down the lane, isn't it?"

Owen frowned. "My place?"

"Aren't you staying there?"

"No," Owen muttered in distaste. Avoiding his cousin's surprised look, he added, "I didn't want to open it only to leave. It was easier to let a room. My valet doesn't mind, and neither do I."

Even though Benedict was clearly tempted to say something, he held back a good minute before finally nodding. "Fine. What about the gardens?"

Their old refuge. A sound idea, although it meant crossing the threshold.

Owen nodded. He was thirty years of age now. A man like him, especially a duke, could not be scared of the past any longer. He had buried the pain away. The memories had disappeared down a black hole. His past was far behind him now.

Besides, he had been curious about the gardens. There had been fine specimens, and he might be able to come away with a cutting or two.

"Yes, that should be fine," he relented, keeping his voice level.

He mulled over the latter thought over and over while he followed Benedict down the side path. Around the house they went, passing the window of the library, where he recalled just how often he had hidden among the shelves to avoid his uncle's wrath. The library had protected him just as the garden once had.

It was a magnificent display at any time of year. He studied the greenery and flowers on their way. Everything was as he had remembered. The old gardener, Davies, must have stayed. There were winding paths sheltered by fair trees, with a few benches littered about.

"… But it makes Mother happy, which is a good thing. I haven't seen her smile lately," his cousin rambled on.

Owen realized he hadn't heard anything Benedict was saying. Glancing over his shoulder, he felt the knot in his stomach tighten as he waited for his uncle to appear and berate him for one thing or another. But no one came, and he began to relax.

"If only I had said no to Father."

Owen frowned as he sat beside Benedict, who was groaning, his head in his hands. "To the marriage?"

"Yes." The response was terse. Owen raised an eyebrow, but still, Benedict didn't look at him. Then his cousin groaned. "I should have done something. We shouldn't get married."

It was a little late to say this now. The marriage contract was signed by all parties. Besides, the wedding was in two days.

"That would have been the time to do it," Owen admitted. "To cry off now would be unseemly. Your bride-to-be would be tossed to the wolves of London."

She would most likely handle it with her chin up, to be certain. But no one deserves that. Not even her.

"I went to see her two days ago." Benedict glanced at him before slumping. "She was nice. Polite. Couldn't look me in the eye, though."

"She… might be anxious." Defending Lady Georgiana—let alone anyone—left an odd taste in Owen's mouth. He decided against doing that in the future.

"Oh, who am I to say? I could hardly do the same. It's clear she can run a household. And she's very close to her sister. That was all I could glean during the visit. All I could think about was how ill-suited we are."

There was no denying what Benedict was saying.

Owen stiffened, whirling around to stare him down. "I beg your pardon? Who exactly would you marry if you were free?"

It took a minute for Benedict to meet his gaze. He hesitated, rubbing his hands together. "I… You mustn't tell anyone. Especially not Father."

"I would die first," Owen replied drily.

A strangled sound escaped his cousin. Gray tinged Benedict's eyes, and Owen stared at the emotion rising within him. His cousin really was afflicted here. He could hardly believe it. Fighting the urge to inch back from the emotion, he braced himself for the worst.

"Well?"

"Florentia," Benedict moaned in desperation. "I love her. But she is the carpenter's daughter."

Blinking, Owen pieced this together. His cousin had mentioned he and his father were working on renovations in the dining room. The Marquess was stingy and preferred to work with those whom he had a long-standing relationship. They'd used a kindly carpenter to fix the stairs shortly after Owen had come to live with them years ago. It was the Marquess's fault that the stairs had been broken. Owen still remembered the scrape below his ear.

He shook his head, faintly recalling the young girl who had trailed her father to take notes. She might have been good and sweet, but she was far below their station.

"Florentia Scapeli? If your father finds out––"

"Blast it, Owen, that's why I'm marrying in the first place." Benedict had never sounded so bitter. "He said he would destroy her father's business if I come near her again."

Crossing his arms, Owen considered the situation with his cousin's revelation. It made sense why the marriage was happening now, coming together in the way it was. The Marquess was trying to manage the situation before anything more could happen. Before he could lose control.

And more money. The Marquess cared for little else.

Glancing at Benedict, Owen felt a certain degree of sympathy for him. It couldn't be easy loving someone, only to lose them like this.

He should have been more careful and not fallen in love. Surely, he could have controlled it. Any interaction with a woman should be pleasant but then left alone as necessary. Love is a dangerous toy for any gentleman to engage with.

Careful in every social interaction he was forced to suffer through, Owen avoided people as much as he could. Rumors of him being cursed made it easy for him to avoid the Season. As for Parliament, no one had complained, since he wrote frequently and still participated from his study in the countryside. He'd danced a time or two with women in the past, and it had all been satisfactory. But there was no longer a need for him to do any of that nonsense. Especially when it came to love.

Why should I? I have my title, my money, my plants. Any love I might have had in this life was meant for my family, and they are gone now.

"I hate this," Benedict muttered, only proving Owen that he was right to have been careful. "All the things I promised Florentia…"

"You shouldn't have done so," Owen murmured.

"The words just came. The feelings just came. I love her, Owen, like I've never loved anyone. Tell me, what am I supposed to do? Live a life trapped like this forever?"

Owen glanced down at his hands on his knees, looked around, and then returned his gaze to his miserable cousin. "You've made an agreement, Benedict. Should you break your promise, the lady you're betrothed to will be cast out of Society. If you can live with that, then do as you will."

"But what about her?"

"Marriage is a practical arrangement. It doesn't need to be anything more or less than that."

Benedict shot him a look that crossed with fear and aggravation.

"It is what Society expects. Marry, and then do as you like if you must. But a wedding puts everyone in a good mood. Your father will at least be pleased with you for a short time."

It might not have been romantic, by any means, but Owen wasn't romantic. He was practical.

Sighing, Benedict ran a hand through his hair. "If you think a marriage solves all ills, then perhaps you should do the same."

Owen started. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, the rumors don't bother you. Sometimes I think you're amused by them. Other times… well, I don't know. You're cold and hard to read. You're still a stranger to me in many ways," Benedict admitted. "But if the rumors don't bother you… Cursed to die young, cursed so everyone who touches you dies a tragic death, cursed to feed poison to everyone––"

Leaning back on the bench, Owen raised an eyebrow. "What is your point, Benedict?"

"Everyone I talked to in the past week knows you have been with me, and they're expecting me to fall over dead any minute," came his cousin's morose reply. Then he snorted. "I can't believe how outlandish the rumors are becoming. Should you marry, everyone would see they are wrong."

Shaking his head, Owen resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. "That's preposterous."

"You said marriage is just a practical arrangement. You would make a fine husband and father just as you are a duke."

His jaw clenched at the notion. Him, a husband? A father? That was not to be. "Thank you, but that shall never happen."

Benedict studied him with a frown. "It won't, will it? Not even if it would help with your projects?"

Projects was one way to describe his work. Though Owen felt the urge to defend himself—something he had to do regularly whenever anyone learned a duke was involved in any type of commerce—he fought against it.

It wasn't as though Benedict was terribly off course. Everyone was skeptical about a duke writing scientific essays and managing a greenhouse that was the envy of most of England. He'd had a few deals turn sour when folks realized he was the Cursed Duke.

"My business, you mean? Of course not. I can do whatever it is I need to. And marriage is useless for a man such as myself. I would never do it, not even for the title or my reputation."

"If you say so," his cousin responded.

He didn't sound very convinced. But Owen brushed it aside. Benedict didn't need to be corrected just now. He needed to be reminded he had made his choice to obey his father's order and now must live with it.

There would be wedding bells ringing in just a few days. It would be a chore to attend, but Owen had made his cousin a promise. He was a man of his word and would attend.