Chapter 8

Moving was more work than he had realized.

Owen reasoned it was the suddenness that had put his valet in a sour mood. Aging Anders had been with him since he was eighteen—the first man he had hired. They'd strengthened their relationship through years of traveling.

Those years, and the loud grumbling, made it clear that Anders was not happy. His valet might be fifteen years his senior, just as tall but twice as thin. Still, Owen had offered to help with his trunks only to be refused.

"Can I help you with that one at least?" he asked.

"No, Your Grace." Anders strained while he dragged the last trunk in. "I shall have these bricks settled in no time."

Owen sighed. "They're books."

"Yes, Your Grace, that's what I said."

He scoffed and shook his head. "You don't have to do this."

That only made Anders glare at him, frowning before turning back to his work.

Owen heard some quiet grunting in the corner, but nothing more was said. Though he considered what he could do to help without injuring the man's pride, he found few options.

"Isn't it late, Your Grace?" Anders asked suddenly.

Lifting his gaze from his drink, Owen eyed his valet. "I suppose it is. Would you like to retire now? I wouldn't oppose it."

"It's late, and it's your wedding night."

He lunged to his feet. "Yes? What do you presume to tell me? Don't say you're put out that you did not receive an invitation. I've already told you it was done to salvage a family name. There's nothing to be done about it."

That earned him a scoff. "Nothing to be done? It's your wedding night."

"I heard you the first time," Owen insisted. "This is not that sort of marriage, don't you see? Oh, why am I explaining this? You'll only talk my ear off. I'm going to get another drink."

His valet called after him, "You already have one in your hand," on his way out of the room. "Wrong direction!"

"Right direction," Owen shot back pointedly.

Then he closed the door. His servant could continue his work in the bedchamber while he cleared his head. It wasn't like there was anything for him to do there. There wasn't a chance in the world he could sleep with Anders working, let alone judging him. Nor was he going to his wife.

He still glanced at her closed door when he passed it in the hall.

Most likely, she's sitting up in her bed, dreading my arrival, if she didn't believe me earlier when I said this is a marriage of convenience. Otherwise, she is fast asleep after the long day we've all had. If it is the latter, then I am heartily jealous.

Sleep was elusive and rarely kind to him. Owen rubbed his face with both hands. He'd left his glass behind. It was mostly empty, so that was for the best. Besides, he could always find another drink elsewhere.

Going down the stairs, he winced at the creaking of the wood beneath his feet. This massive house must have fallen into disrepair ever since his parents passed with no one else to put in the orders, hire the help, and pay for the fixes.

Four and twenty years without any repairs. Just as it had been four and twenty years since he had lost his parents.

Pushing away the painful memories, Owen rolled his shoulders back. He tried not to think of the river or the panic or the churning water or the worry or the fear or––

"Your Grace?"

He flinched and put a hand over his chest at the sight of his butler standing in the shadows. "Blast it all, Wentworth. What are you doing up here so late?"

The elderly man bowed slowly. Owen could have sworn he heard the man's bones crackle.

Wentworth had cared for the family estate when he was young but came to manage the house in London when Owen was eighteen, since his family was here. The butler was the first person Owen had searched out in this old house after leaving his new wife in the capable hands of the housekeeper, whom Wentworth had hired a few years ago.

"I suspected you would be awake late," Wentworth's gravelly voice echoed through the hall. "The study has been tidied for you."

Feeling the tension drain from his shoulders, Owen nodded. "You know me all too well, even though it has been years. You're a good man, Wentworth."

The butler offered another nod. "It was my pleasure, Your Grace. I only hope you can come to love this home again like you once did."

"I was only a babe."

"It is your family's home." The butler trailed behind slowly while Owen led the way down the hall toward the study. "Your parents, God rest their souls, would have been devastated to hear how you've stayed away."

Then they should not have drowned.

This was the home Owen had been raised in. Where he had been born. A home where his parents had hoped to grow a family. His mother's frequent illnesses and miscarriages had made it difficult to travel, so Owen had stayed here with her even when his late father went out into the country.

Then they had finally gone out there, only weeks after his birthday. Only two days had passed before he lost his parents forever.

Exhaling, Owen shook his head. "It matters not."

"I hope you do not stay out there to punish yourself."

He raised an eyebrow at the butler's stern tone, more fatherly than that of a servant. "That isn't a decision of yours to be concerned about, Wentworth."

"You cannot force a man, even a servant, not to worry."

"I suppose that is true," Owen grudgingly conceded before shaking his head. "But all is well. I am here, am I not?"

"And married."

He pushed open the door of his study harder than he had intended, wincing when it banged against the wall. "I wish everyone would stop reminding me of that."

"Her Grace is a very pleasant young woman."

"Is she?" Owen tried to push down his curiosity. Making his way over to the desk, he paused at the sight of a hot toddy placed in the middle of the papers. "Ah, you were serious."

His valet's insolence was rubbing off on the household—something that amused Owen more than he was willing to admit.

He heard Wentworth scoff quietly under his breath before speaking aloud, "I am always serious, Your Grace."

"Sure you are."

He sat down in his chair, picking up the drink to take a sip. It was reminiscent of the first one Wentworth had prepared for him on their first night together. The butler had had little company in the country house for those twelve years. He and Owen hadn't known how to talk but spent half the night sitting, drinking, and talking.

"Will you stay?"

Wentworth glanced around the room before fixing his gaze on Owen. The old man had more wrinkles around his eyes but seemed content here. His lips quirked up. "Not this evening, I'm afraid. My wife is waiting for me, at home."

"Of course she is. You should go back to her. Enjoy the morning with her as well, would you? The housekeeper can handle anything you would usually do."

"Yes, she would. Thank you, Your Grace. That's very generous of you."

Waving off the gratitude, Owen urged the butler to take his leave. It wasn't long until the door was closed and he had what he wanted—the quiet peace of knowing he was alone.

A duke rarely had such an opportunity. Or most dukes, he supposed, since he was constantly looking for a chance to be alone. It was one of the reasons he avoided London and why he had never intended to marry.

So what would it be like for him, now that he had a wife?

She is certainly beautiful. I'm surprised I didn't hear anything more about her or from her this evening. Hopefully, she is not terrorizing the servants.

Owen sipped his drink slowly. Warmth coursed through his veins. Wentworth had made the hot drink just like he remembered. It filled his belly and made him relax. He would rather do that than risk musing about the woman he'd tied himself to this afternoon. Better to not think of her than to focus on her tender words to her sister in that carriage, or the way she smelled, or the way her smile radiated light from her every pore.

Setting the empty glass down, he slumped in his chair. "It will all work out," he told the glass. "It must, mustn't it?"

There was no reply. Turning his attention to the dying fire, Owen shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. He would stay here for a short spell to allow Anders to finish his chores, then he would go upstairs, straight to his room, and act like nothing had ever happened.

He didn't intend to stay upright in the chair the whole night. He shifted again to get more comfortable. Then his eyelids grew too heavy.

Sighing, he sank further into his chair before he gave up trying to stay awake for no other reason.

Sleep washed over him like a cool bath. He forgot about his worries and his wife and his pain and his hopes, until the dreams consumed him.

The dreams consumed him and ate him alive, voracious and sharp until he woke up with a start. Breathing hard, Owen looked around. It was dark. He rubbed his face and shook his head.

"It was nothing," he murmured to himself.

Knowing he could not have truly slept that long, he forced himself out of the chair. His body ached as he dragged himself out of the room. Up the stairs, he went to his bedchamber. It was empty as it was dark. He collapsed on the bed with a sigh, dreaming of nothing after that.

It was shortly past dawn when he next opened his eyes. Waking up slowly, he rubbed his bleary eyes. He was a mite tired but otherwise refreshed.

A new day, a new beginning.

I shall treat it as such. There is no need for me to worry over every little thing. If I have married an independent woman, then she is more than capable of continuing her life however she likes. We'll need to talk soon. I don't intend to stay in London for more than another couple of days, and I'm sure she will wish to remain behind for the Season.

Anders walked into the room slowly, his eyebrow raised. "You're in a hearty mood."

"I am going out for a ride. That always puts me in a good mood. Have you seen my hat? I could have sworn I had it yesterday."

Slowly but surely, Anders helped Owen get ready for an early ride. They talked about supper plans until he was finally and properly dressed.

Nodding his thanks, Owen left his bedchamber and started down toward the front door.

A knock sounded just as he reached the ground floor steps. He hesitated before remembering his offer to Wentworth the prior evening—to have more time with his family in the morning.

I suppose I can handle the door. But I don't imagine we have the knocker hanging. Why would anyone be here?

Owen headed to the door, trying to decide who was knocking. Servants and deliveries usually moved through a side door. Though it could be someone for the new Duchess, he hadn't heard her rise from the other side of his bedchamber wall.

Perhaps it's just the newspaper. Or an accident. They ignored the nameplate and number. Visiting hours will not start for several hours, after all. It can't be any members of the ton, since they would be mortified to come here so early. Besides, I have no one…

The moment he opened the door, Owen regretted it. A licorice cheroot smell flooded the hall and told him just who was standing outside.

He should not have done so. He should have hidden away. He should have burned the door down. He should have done anything but open the door to reveal the Marquess of Carlisle.

"Uncle," he choked out through gritted teeth.

Although Ralph Comerfield was a tall man, Owen towered over him by a handspan. The man's black hair was oiled to look dark and hide the gray hairs coming out, and greased back to reveal a sharp widow's peak. The Marquess looked the same as he had during Owen's childhood, albeit now somewhat wrinkled and smaller.

Lord Carlisle showed no sign of respect or interest toward Owen. He never had. Instead, he raised an imperious eyebrow.

"Let me in," he grunted. "We need to talk."

Even though time had changed things, even though he had come into his title and power, Owen had to fight back the feelings of fear and caution. He clung to the door for a minute, already thinking of places where he might hide to avoid his uncle's temper.

But he was a grown man. He couldn't take out justice for his younger self. They were both titled gentlemen, and he had promised himself he would let go of the past to build a life of his own.

It had been easy enough up until he saw his uncle again.

There would be no morning ride, after all. A bitter taste sat on Owen's tongue as his body reacted naturally. Stepping aside, he pushed the door open wider so the tormentor of his youth could stomp down the hall.