Owen

by Sasha Cottman

  “Which is why it is so important for us to make a success of the Noble Lords. If we practice hard and play well, the wayward wives of the ton will be falling over themselves to offer each of us a place in their beds,” said Reid.

  “I bloody well hope so,” grumbled Owen.

  Callum chuckled. “Just remember—come the end of this summer, you won’t have to worry about going out and fighting for sex. You will have a wife waiting at home for you in your bed.”

  Owen didn’t thank Callum for his attempt at consoling him. He would have much preferred that no one mentioned his impending nuptials.

  He drained the last of his coffee. Marriage was becoming all too real for him. He continued to pray that his father would have a change of heart. Until his name was on a certificate of marriage, there was still a faint hope for him to escape the clutches of wedded misery.

  A miracle is what I need. One with deep pockets.

  “I feel your pain Owen. Every time my father looks at me, he mumbles something about me getting out and finding a wife. Before I left Banfield House yesterday, I foolishly made mention of the fact that my brother, his heir, is not yet married. And for my troubles, I copped a clip over the ear and another lecture,” said Kendal.

  Misery may well love company, but Owen drew no comfort from the fact that both he and Kendal had been instructed to take wives as soon as summer ended.

  “But, enough about that—we need to deal with other more pressing issues. Our music,” said Kendal.

  Owen’s mood lifted. If Kendal could put together an enticing selection of melodies for the Noble Lords, then they would all stand a chance of finding favor again with the ladies of the ton.

  “As one who understands music better than nearly everyone in England, I will select our music, oversee rehearsals, and generally make sure we don’t make fools of ourselves. These Italians are damned fine musicians. Don’t get me started on the fantastic abilities of Marco Calvino. I almost wet myself when he started singing last night. And Reid, much as you may not want to admit it, you must know you cannot hold a candle to him,” said Kendal.

  At the end of the table, Reid put his head in his hands and groaned.

  “If you say anything about silk purses and sow’s ears, I will throttle you,” he grumbled. Owen met Kendal’s gaze. Kendal’s words were harsh, but they were true. Reid’s singing was nowhere near the level of Marco’s.

  “We shall just have to trust in good old Mozart to see us through,” said Callum.

  Kendal flipped his hair back over his shoulders and glared at Callum. Owen sighed. Heaven help us.

  How much heavenly grace would be required to see them all survive living under the one roof for the next ten weeks was anyone’s guess. Four sexually frustrated alpha males, all with outrageous egos, was a powder keg that could explode at any moment.

  “I’m just going to pray for divine intervention,” said Owen.

  They would just have to hope that heaven didn’t have a limit on miracles, because it was going to take the hand of a higher power for them to beat the Italians.

  Chapter Nine

  The modiste stood back and checked the hem of Amy’s gown. Amy watched her in the mirror, letting out a slow breath when the woman finally nodded and said, “Perfect.”

  She turned to the modiste who quickly took Amy’s trembling hands in hers. The gown was more revealing than anything Amy had ever worn before. It best displayed her “bounteous breasts,” as the local village minister’s son in Rickmansworth had dubbed them. Still, she was nervous about wearing it out in public. With the amount of skin on show, she felt almost naked.

  “You look divine, my dear. Whoever he is, I am certain this gown will catch his eye.”

  Amy frowned. “What makes you think I am wearing this for a man?”

  The modiste’s gaze dropped to the daring, lowcut bodice and she softly chuckled. “Madam, I have been making gowns for the women of London society for nigh on thirty years, and I can tell you with certainty that no woman would ever wear something like that if she wasn’t trying to attract a man’s attention.”

  The cream silk dress was a huge risk. It bordered on scandalous. She could just imagine Colin’s reaction when she removed her cloak at the party on Monday night and he caught sight of the tight lowcut gown.

  She would deal with her brother when the time came; today, she was simply trying to find the best way to stand in the dress and look alluring. For a start, she had to stop herself from putting a hand to her chest and covering her cleavage. How did one look alluring? Tempting?

  I have absolutely no idea.

  “You will be one of the brightest lights in London, my dear, along with the Venetians,” said the modiste.

  The Venetians? "Who?”

  The woman leaned in close and spoke quietly. “The Venetians are a group of young Italian musicians who every hostess in town is scrambling to book a private performance in her home. From what my clients have told me, they are devilishly handsome rogues. Women everywhere are falling over themselves to make their acquaintance, if you get my meaning.”

  “Those Italians sound absolutely scandalous. And delightful,” she replied.

  Amy knew exactly what the modiste meant. She had been careful not to utilize the services of her usual modiste for her new evening gowns, knowing that the woman would pointedly refuse to make such a revealing outfit for her. She also couldn’t risk word of it getting back to her parents. If it did, her poor mother would have a conniption. As it was, Lady Perry would be shocked if she ever discovered that Amy was using a piece of her grandmother’s jewelry as a false wedding ring.

  Waiting until after Colin had left for his club, Amy had made a secret visit to a new dressmaker off the Strand. One who had no compunction in making a gown designed to lure and seduce a man.

  The modiste smiled. She leaned in closer, obviously encouraged by Amy’s response.

  “But that is not the best part. Another client of mine told me that four English nobles have decided to form their own musical group to take on the Italians. It is going to be a battle for the hearts and minds of the women of the ton. She has secured their first booking for next week at her home, and she is inviting only the very best people. How exciting is that?”

  A group of noble musicians. A musical war. Amy’s interest was piqued. “Do you know who the nobles are? I mean are they anyone of note?”

  “Of course. They are all well-known war heroes. Viscount Follett, Earl Morrison, Lord Kendal Grant and Sir Callum Sharp. They have called themselves the Noble Lords Quartet.”

  Amy’s heart began to race. Owen had joined a musical quartet and was going to perform in public. Not only that, but the scoundrel was doing it to fight other men for the attention of women.

  An event such as this would be the perfect place to debut her new gown.

  “Well, it all sounds like such a lark. Pray tell, who is hosting this soiree?” asked Amy, doing her best to sound interested, but not too keen.

  The modiste chortled. Amy wasn’t fooling anyone. The woman headed over to her writing bureau and returned quickly with a card. She handed it to Amy. “Mrs. Scott. Her husband is something to do with the army. Very influential people. That’s the address, if you serendipitously happen to be passing by her house on the night the Noble Lords are performing.”

  Amy examined the card. “I am not sure I know Mrs. Scott. It might be difficult for me to gain entry to the function.”

  The modiste softly laughed. “Darling, that gown will get you in anywhere.”

  Chapter Ten

  Amy and Colin arrived at the party at Mrs. Scott’s house but sat outside in the carriage for a few minutes. Earlier in the week, Colin had waved his magic wand and two invitations to the Noble Lords’ debut performance had suddenly appeared on their doorstep.

  Before leaving the house, Amy had gathered up her bravery, doing everything she could to convince herself that she could pull off wearing the revealing gown. She thought she ha
d her nerves under control, but the moment the carriage drew to a halt, her courage all but fled.

  Colin sat playing with the cuffs of his jacket sleeve for a time, and Amy was grateful for his silence. She could just imagine his reaction when he saw the gown.

  He is going to throw a fit and then pack me off back to Rickmansworth at first light.

  She couldn’t blame him if he did. What had seemed simple enough when she’d rehearsed it in the privacy of her bedroom now seemed nothing short of madness. The hard thump of her heart confirmed her dwindling courage.

  You are a silly girl, Amy. Fancy thinking you could do this.

  She was an unwed noblewoman from the country, dressed in a jaw-dropping gown, who had decided she could not only capture the attention of one of London’s foremost rakes, but that she could seduce him. And while all this was happening, she intended to not only keep her identity hidden, but to make certain she did not fall in love with him.

  Oh, and keep it all a secret from my family. I’m not silly, I am mad.

  She swallowed down a lump of dread.

  “Second thoughts?” Colin finally ventured after a lengthy period of quiet.

  Amy had to remind herself quickly that her brother was not fully up to speed with the plan. He was expecting her to merely observe Owen and keep her distance. The minute they stepped inside Mrs. Scott’s house and she removed her evening cloak, Colin was going to experience a sudden and rather sharp adjustment of his expectations.

  “No. Just I needed a moment to gather my wits,” she replied. It wasn’t every day that a young woman threw caution to the wind and risked it all on the hope that she could find her way into a man’s heart. Especially not when she was dressed in such a provocative way. With a nod to him she held out her hand. “Let’s go inside.”

  As Colin reached for her, Amy suddenly drew back. Her breathing was ragged, and her hands shook. Her bravery teetered on the edge.

  “Whatever you have planned, and I suspect it is more than you have told me thus far, be comforted in the knowledge that no matter what, I am here for you,” he said.

  His words of comfort gave her just enough reassurance to take the next step. Her fingers settled on the clasp of her cloak, opening it. She shrugged it off her shoulders and as it fell, the gown was revealed.

  Colin’s mouth opened on a small O. While he stared at her bustline, a deep frown appeared on his face. After a moment he lifted his head and met her gaze. “You cannot be serious? Amy, what the devil are you playing at?”

  “If I go in there dressed liked a country miss, he will not give me a second glance, but if I am dressed like the kind of women he normally consorts with, then I might stand a chance of actually getting his attention,” she replied.

  “I guarantee that you will get more than his attention dressed like that; in fact, you may have to fight men off with a stick. I knew you were up to something, but Amy, this is . . . bloody hell!”

  She pursed her lips. The temptation to go home and hide under the bedclothes was getting stronger by the minute. If Colin ordered the town carriage to be turned around, she wouldn’t argue.

  Please don’t let me cry.

  But, to her brother’s credit, he simply sat forward in the seat and took a gentle hold of her hands. There was immediate comfort in his warm touch. “You want him to notice you? What happened to just be observing him?”

  Amy shrugged, fighting back the threatening tears. “I just . . .”

  “Just what? What are you not telling me, Amy?” he pressed.

  “I just want to know that if this betrothal ends in failure, that I did everything in my power to make him want me. I want Papa to be proud of me,” she said.

  It had been hard for her stubborn mind to finally admit the truth, and even now she found it difficult to accept. But she knew in her heart that if she did end up breaking the betrothal and refusing to marry Owen, the blame of failure would rest with her. Her father would be bitterly disappointed; the Morrison family ruined.

  “I decided that in order to truly get to know him, I need to meet Lord Morrison on his terms. From what I understand, he is used to dealing with women who dress like this.”

  The footman opened the carriage door, but Colin ordered him away and closed it.

  “You shouldn’t have to do that. Papa was clear in his instructions that you were not to ruin yourself,” replied Colin.

  The situation was not of her making, but she keenly felt the pressure to marry Owen. A life of privilege came with the duty of parental expectations. Many other young women would have no hesitation in marrying a future marquess, sight unseen.

  The look on Colin’s face told her he was well in tune with her line of thinking.

  “And don’t you dare say a word about duty. Your only duty is to find a good man and live a long and happy life with him,” he said.

  “I know. Which is why I am going to do everything in my power to make Owen Morrison desire me. To find out whether he is a man capable of love. And if he is, to be certain that I can trust him with my heart,” she said.

  He brushed a hand on her cheek, wiping away a stray tear. “Amy, promise me one thing—that you won’t give your heart over to him if he is not prepared to offer up his. A man who cannot give your precious love his own in return is not worthy of you. I will stand alongside you and face down Papa to break this betrothal if it comes to it. And I will make sure he is the one who takes the blame for having put you in this ridiculous position in the first place.”

  Amy blinked away more tears. Colin was her knight in shining armor. She punched him on the arm. His timing was, as always, a little off. “You magnificent, bloody fool. You should be giving me a battle speech to harden my heart, not turning me into a watering pot.”

  She fastened her cloak once more, before taking Colin’s hand as he helped her down from the carriage. He drew close and whispered, “In two minutes, you will be handing that cloak to a footman and then we will be headed into the main reception room. You are going to turn heads in that gown tonight, Amy, and if that doesn’t make you feel like Boadicea marching into battle, nothing will.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Everyone was on edge in the ballroom at Follett House. No one spoke; all seemed lost in their own private thoughts.

  Kendal was seated at the piano, tinkering with the keys. Callum was sipping whisky from a hip flask. And Owen was holding an invisible violin while practicing a particularly difficult finger shift that always seemed to trip him up. The only member of the group missing was Reid.

  The four of them had dined together, along with Eliza, earlier in the evening. Twice during the meal Reid had left the room, only to return a short time later with bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks. Owen could fully understand why his friend was not able to keep any food down. While the rest of the Noble Lords had performed in front of a crowd before as either part of an orchestra or a military band, it was the first time for Reid.

  Making a public debut was nerve-wracking for anyone, but Owen knew that for the group’s singer it would be more than him just having to remember the song lyrics and music. Reid’s pride would be on the line.

  He did not envy the obvious comparisons that would be made between Reid and Marco’s singing abilities.

  As they waited for Reid to make his appearance in the ballroom, it was clear no one wanted to raise the uncomfortable issue of the group’s singer and his attack of pre-performance nerves.

  When the sound of footsteps on the polished wooden floor finally heralded the arrival of the fourth member of the Noble Lords, Owen made a point not to look at him. He knew full well that Reid would already be feeling self-conscious enough.

  No one anywhere in the room could have failed to hear the gasp as Reid drew in a deep breath. “I have asked that the carriage be brought around to the front. Are all of you ready to leave?”

  Owen put down his air-violin and gave the pale-faced Reid an encouraging nod.

  Callum marched over and held
out the hip flask. “Have a wee dram of this whisky; it will take the edge off your nerves.”

  Reid looked at it for the briefest of seconds before shaking his head. Owen silently applauded his self-restraint. It would be all too easy to down a mouthful of strong liquor under the circumstances, but from the way Reid was sucking in large gulps of air, the last thing he needed was whisky.

  Callum shrugged, then offered the hip flask to Owen. Not wishing to appear rude by refusing it, Owen took a small sip then handed it back. When Callum held out the flask to Kendal, he waved him away.

  “Unlike the rest of you, I have actually performed for people outside of the military. And I know my playing will be held up to close scrutiny this evening, so I need to be at my best. I, for one, could not abide the idea of the Italians thinking my performance was anything less than outstanding,” said Kendal.

  He rose from his seat at the piano and, picking up his bright red silk evening cloak, made an overly dramatic display of draping it around his shoulders. With a flourish of his hand, he flicked up his long, fair hair, then smoothed it down as it settled over the back of the cloak. The Duke of Banfield’s youngest son was a natural performer. He knew it. So, did everyone else. Owen was tempted to applaud the performance. Instead he chose to do up the buttons of his sensible black woolen coat. Reid and Callum were similarly attired.

  “What was that about the Italians?” asked Reid.

  “Didn’t I tell you? They are coming tonight. Apparently, word has gotten out that a group of nobles have started a little musical band. Some clever clogs spread word of our name and embellished it. The Noble Lords Quartet,” announced Kendal.

  Owen snorted. “Good God, next we will be wearing matching waistcoats. Who on earth added the piece about us being a quartet?” A horrid image of his being dressed in a lurid gold waistcoat while servicing various women of the ton like a male courtesan popped into his head. He blinked, trying to force the ugly thought away.