Chapter 6

Although Owen had wanted to offer the clearly anxious bride some words of comfort, he remembered he had nothing to offer as he straightened up.

His cousin had asked him to stand up front for the occasion. Although Owen had initially refused, not seeking to be on display for the guests, Benedict had pointed out that his father would be in the pews. So it was best that he remained up by the archbishop and the bride until his cousin arrived.

Shouldn't she have someone here? Now Benedict isn't here. This is ridiculous. Where could he be? We discussed arriving early, and now we are two minutes past the hour.

Owen shifted, unable to hide his irritation any longer.

It wasn't like he even wanted to be here. His stomach had been in knots all morning. Clenching his hands into fists, he glanced at the empty entrance of the church before hearing the man to his right clear his throat.

The archbishop had owed him a favor, since Owen had found a rare plant the man desired for his garden. With the man already in London, Owen had requested he lead the wedding.

"I do hope all is well with Lord Egerton," the archbishop murmured quietly, his meaning clear.

"I'm certain… Ah, here we are." Owen's voice grew tight when someone finally did arrive.

It was his aunt, the Marchioness of Carlisle.

Tall, thin Augusta Comerfield came in. She looked similar to a specter, just like she always had in his childhood. Gaunt and wrapped in pale purple and white, she was a nervous woman, always looking over her shoulder.

Now, she looked for him. Her eyes widened in relief.

That spurred him into action, moving down the steps to her side. Though her husband had been the source of his nightmares growing up, Owen had never blamed her. She wasn't a woman of courage or skill to protect young boys from her husband. In the few times she had come to Owen's defense, it had not gone so well. So he had asked her to stop.

"How glad I am to see you again," she whispered when they met halfway down the aisle. Her eyes flitted over him, reminding him of a hummingbird.

Eyeing the handkerchief she twisted to bits in her hands, Owen asked quietly, "Aunt Augusta, is everyone well?"

The half-smile she'd forced faded. Bracing himself for the inevitable, he shifted as she opened her mouth. "I don't know. I'm quite worried about Benedict."

"It's only marriage," he said. Even though he knew it wasn't so simple.

The lines in her brow only grew. "Yes, but…"

"Where is he? I can talk to him."

"I don't know." The words slipped off her tongue so quickly. Perspiration dotted her face. "Owen, I don't know. He disappeared."

Narrowing his eyes, Owen asked through gritted teeth, "What?"

"Carlisle is out searching for him right now, but I don't think he'll find him. Benedict left before I found this." His aunt's hands shook terribly as she opened at her reticule and fished for something inside.

In the end, Owen had to help her. He glanced around before shifting to try and block his aunt from everyone's view, to give them a moment of privacy. Nor did he want them wondering why he was digging around in the woman's belongings. Another handkerchief, smelling salts, and a scrap of paper.

He pulled the latter out and read its contents.

I'm sorry.

Owen frowned, turning the paper around. But there were no more words on it no matter where he looked or how much he squinted. He glanced back at his aunt, who paled even further.

"Aunt Augusta, you're certain you don't know where he went? Or why he would leave?"

Except the answer came to him even as he was asking her these questions. After all, it was only yesterday he had been talking to Benedict. And his cousin had been deeply troubled about today's events. Distraught, even.

Was this his plan all along? Maybe he was trying to tell me… Good Lord, Benedict, what have you done? I don't care that you're shaming your father. And your mother would live down any embarrassment. But the ton. The lady. Benedict, you are better than this.

"Maybe he's on his way?" Lady Carlisle suggested.

"He isn't coming," Owen said flatly.

Maybe Benedict had mentioned Florentia to her as well. It wasn't like the Marquess hid much from his wife. If he knew their son was seeing a young woman, then Augusta probably had some sort of idea. But Owen didn't bother looking for any guilt on her face. She was upset enough as it was.

Nor would she be the only upset or injured party here today.

There was an unsettling new feeling rising from his stomach to his chest. Owen tugged at his cravat in irritation—perfectly styled, as his valet insisted—for it suddenly felt too tight.

Everyone was expecting Benedict. He had a bride waiting for him, a young lady who didn't deserve what he was doing to her.

Benedict is a good man, but what a foolish deed to leave her unprotected. If she doesn't marry today, she'll never be welcomed back into Society.

"Oh dear. Oh dear," Lady Carlisle whispered. Her voice shook as a tear rolled down her cheek. "What have we done? Oh, she looks just heavenly. I do wish Benedict were here. Maybe Carlisle will find him and bring him here. Owen? What do we tell Lady Georgiana?"

Owen couldn't turn around, couldn't bring himself to look at Lady Georgiana. Already he could imagine her reaction. She'd brace herself for the unfortunate news. Her lips would thin. A storm would flash in her eyes. Then she would steel her spine and prepare for the worst.

While he could survive the rumors and insults of the ton, he knew it was different for a lady. A young woman at that, with little other protection. Her father had ensured a fair marriage contract but had said or shown little care for her otherwise.

And doesn't she have a sister? I thought I saw a sprite standing near her in the house. Benedict mentioned her having a little sister. If the lady's reputation is ruined, it will very well affect the entire family.

"Owen?" his aunt whispered.

"I'm thinking," he said shortly and then gave his head a shake at her wide eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be brusque."

She gave him a watery smile. "I know. I'm so sorry, Owen. It's all my fault. I've ruined everything. There must be something we can do. Perhaps I should…"

But he gave a shake of his head again before motioning around them. "Why don't I help you sit down? This isn't your fault. I just need to… I need to think of something."

"You'll fix this?" she asked him hopefully.

Her grip on his arm was weak. He led her down the aisle, worried she could shatter into pieces in his arms. He hated seeing how much frailer she had become in the years since he had last seen her. This was not the reunion he had hoped for. She was wasting away even more than he recalled.

"I'll fix everything," he promised.

And then he walked toward the archbishop and Lady Georgiana Honeyfield without a clue in mind. All he knew was that he had just made his aunt a promise he had to keep.

The smile on the young woman's face was tight, as if she'd carefully stitched it together. Except he could sense the tension radiating off her as he neared, clearly impatient.

He met her gaze for only a second. It was enough to send a shock through his entire system.

Before he made his way up to the platform, he veered slightly to the side. Her father was frowning. He always frowned, from what Owen understood, but he looked even less cheerful than his daughter.

"Where is the groom?" Lord Lincoln demanded when Owen reached his side.

Still holding the letter from his aunt, Owen glanced around before handing it to him. It was best to simply address the problem. "I'm afraid Benedict is otherwise engaged. Permanently."

The Earl let out a low curse. They paused, glancing around to see who might have heard him. Few did, and they turned back to each other.

"This is unacceptable," Ernest Honeyfield said. He rubbed his jaw hard. "We have a contract."

"The wedding plans need to change. That much is true."

Owen paused as he weighed the options. He couldn't resist glancing back at the bride. The Earl's daughter was a fine picture standing up beside the archbishop. While her yellow dress carried more lace than he thought necessary, the color complimented her hair and skin. She stood tall over the toddling man and looked back at him.

Feeling the hairs on his arms stand on end, Owen wondered if she could hear them. They were just at the bottom of the stairs. He would only need to take two steps to touch her shoulder or cheek. When she blinked, he could have sworn he glimpsed a smile before it disappeared.

The intensity of her stare became too much for him. He turned back to her father.

The Earl was only growing agitated. Rubbing his jaw, he shifted his weight between his feet and shook his head.

"It won't do," he announced. "I won't have it. No one embarrasses the Earl of Lincoln."

Owen steeled his spine, searching for the right words to calm the Earl. Lord Lincoln was an influential politician with connections around the globe. No one wanted to insult him. Owen would have to handle the rest of this conversation carefully because the man was influential in Parliament. It would help to have Ernest as an ally and not an enemy.

Which he was quickly becoming, judging by Ernest's glare.

But what the devil am I to do about this? Aunt Augusta cannot do anything, she's only the poor messenger. Her husband will be off, wandering around uselessly, and Benedict… Blast the fool. If I have to make a guess, he'll be halfway to Gretna Green by now.

"I will call him out. That's what I'll do. And his coward of a father, wherever he might be." Ernest rubbed his hands together, looking twice a villain instead of a gentleman. "That will have to mend my daughters' reputations. A duel will set this to rights––"

With the horrid shot Benedict is? I don't think so.

"That's all right," Owen cut in before the man could turn his idea into action. "Your daughter shall marry today. She won't be ruined."

"If only she were still alive…" the Earl muttered under his breath. But he didn't speak loud enough for Owen to understand, making him wonder if the words were even meant for his ears. Crossing his arms, the older man stared him down. He looked ready for a fight. For a war. "How do you propose to fix it? Do you know where that boy is?"

"He's a grown man," Owen responded coldly, in his cousin's defense.

But every precious second around that was needed to come up with a solution. Time was ticking by. He could feel other eyes on him. Everyone was waiting, watching, wondering what might happen. What was he to do?

"He would be here if he could. But he couldn't. Instead…"

"Well?"

While Owen didn't consider himself a man who panicked, especially since he had spent years trying to forget the horrors of his upbringing, he didn't know what compelled him to say what he said next. Over the years, he had fought so much to have his freedom. But that freedom disappeared for good the moment he spoke.

"Because she'll marry me instead."

There wasn't time for him to consider the words he had just uttered. He didn't need a wife. He had never planned to take one. There was another distant cousin who could inherit the title. Losing his parents had shown him he didn't need any other family.

"What?" came a sharp hiss.

They turned to see Lady Georgiana hastening down the steps. Shock turned into determination on her brow. She carried flowers in one hand and the train of her dress in the other. Her movements were sharp, precise, and nothing less than graceful.

Forcing his gaze away, Owen still heard her objection perfectly.

"I'm not a pawn to be passed around."

"Did everyone else hear?" her father grumbled.

"Father, please." She turned to him, her skirts brushing against Owen's boots. He looked down and glared at the yellow fabric. "This must be a jest. I cannot be tossed about like this. Father, let us go home. We can salvage this another day. Jean and Emma are outside––"

The Earl's head jerked up. "What are they doing here?"

Owen couldn't help but notice the way she avoided his question.

"We can go home as a family. Perhaps I won't marry at all."

Shaking his head, Ernest said, "You are marrying. It's what your mother wanted for you. Besides, it's about time you had your own household. We had an agreement––"

Except the stubborn woman continued. Owen found some relief that she too didn't wish for a union. "This is much too rushed, switching grooms in minutes. There is no contract with Lord Egerton. We would need the banns to be read as well."

"I have the archbishop here," Owen supplied, before he remembered he didn't care for this marriage either.

Georgiana's sharp green eyes glared at him, and then she turned away. The effect or that glare lingered, making his heart thud hard against his ribs.

"We must think this through," she begged.

"I have thought it through," her father corrected her and then shifted his gaze to Owen. "You need to marry today, Georgiana. It's expected. Anything less than that will make you and our entire family social pariahs. We will not be mocked. And why have a future marquess when you can have a duke?"

Owen braced himself for what was quickly becoming inevitable.

Judging by the short, gulping breaths, the young lady was quickly realizing this as well. She glanced between them before finally facing Owen. She must have given up on arguing with her father.

"You don't want this."

"I don't," Owen confirmed.

"Then don't marry me."

He let out a short breath. "A gentleman does not make an offer he doesn't mean to keep. It would be dishonorable."

"But you don't want to marry me," she begged and then huffed. "We don't know each other. I'm not ready to become whatever it is you need in a duchess."

Crossing his arms, Owen said with a scowl, "I don't need anything. You may keep your freedom so long as you treat the name and title honorably. All that matters is the family honor."

"The family honor?" She didn't sound convinced. "You would accept that we live separately?"

He answered before he thought about it. "Buy your own house if you like."

As the two of them stared at each other, waiting for something more to be said, Owen could sense the incredulity of the moment. Everything was about to change.

Perhaps she'll do just that. Buy her own house. So long as she leaves me be, then I could very well even forget I have a wife.

"Then it looks like we have ourselves a wedding," the Earl announced.

Maybe, Owen supposed, he could forget all of this tomorrow and pretend none of it had happened. He squared his shoulders and fixed his cuffs. A wife surely couldn't derail his plans that much. He would never allow such a thing to happen.