Harlequin Historical July 2020 - Box Set 1 of 2

by Virginia Heath

  ‘Clearly you do not know my father very well, Owen. Getting him out of debt was merely my duty. Saving face among the ton overrides all else.’

  ‘Where did you read this? Which scandal rag had the nerve to print it?’ Because Owen was going to take the damning evidence to Fulbrook and demand his ten thousand back for breach of contract! ‘I have a signed document—bearing his signature—which expressly forbids him from libelling or slandering you in any way!’ The damn signature was barely dry, too! The lying, conniving, duplicitous snake! He was going to ram it down the vindictive old fool’s neck.

  ‘I didn’t read it. He’s not that stupid. My brother told me.’

  ‘He came here?’ Another titbit he was furious to learn when he had given all the staff express instructions to keep an eye out for Lydia’s family on the off chance they decided to darken his door. Not that he had intended to stop them darkening it—merely keep a close eye on them if they did. He didn’t trust them. Hardly a surprise, really, when they’d had him hauled away in chains.

  ‘No.’ There was a hint of disappointment in her voice. ‘He never came here. I foolishly went there yesterday and was left standing on the doorstep.’ The proud bravado cracked a little then. ‘It was, as I am sure you can imagine, awful.’

  ‘Oh, Lydia…’ He wanted to hold her. Go to her, gather her up into his arms and kiss it all better. Instead, he gripped the back of the chair in case he did.

  ‘I was made a spectacle of so my father could keep in well with Kelvedon and his cronies—and undoubtedly to thumb his nose at you and your clever legal document. Something which I am kicking myself for not considering beforehand—because my father is predictably petty, especially when it comes to getting his own way, and I should have known he would find a way to have the last word now that he has the money.’ She shrugged as if it were of no matter, when it obviously was, and his heart wept for her. ‘The neighbours certainly enjoyed it.’ Her bottom lip trembled slightly before she bit down on it ruthlessly to stop it. ‘I am livid, Owen.’

  Maybe she was, but above all else she was upset. She had never been very good at hiding her true emotions and the firelight shimmering off the unshed tears in her dark eyes proved his undoing. Of their own accord, his feet took him to her and his hands caressed her arms tenderly before he realised what he was doing and clamped the errant things behind his back. ‘Oh, Lydia… I am so sorry. I was trying to protect you with the contracts—I had no idea he would use it against you.’

  ‘This isn’t your fault.’ Her palm briefly flattened against the front of his waistcoat before she stared at it in bemusement, then took a hefty step back. ‘As much as we both know I would like to blame you, it is entirely mine. I went there of my own accord and unannounced, assuming he would go against type and behave like a decent human being, and stupidly handed him the opportunity to humiliate me on a platter. Then I was daft enough to beg for my things, which in turn gave him the power to deny them. My father would have loved both. He likes nothing more than to have the upper hand and to humiliate people. He’s a bully at heart. A petty-minded, vindictive, dictatorial… Owen? Where are you going?’

  It had been the word power which had set him off. Or perhaps it had been upper hand, humiliate or bully. All four had the potency to unleash his rage. All four demanded immediate retribution.

  ‘Owen?’

  He could hear her confusion from the landing as he tore down the stairs, then the red mist descended over his eyes and he heard nothing more than the heated blood pounding in his ears as he stalked towards the door with his fists clenched.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The first laden coach arrived at dawn the next morning. By eight, Lydia was surrounded by a sea of hastily packed trunks and boxes strewn haphazardly in the hallway, containing every last stitch of clothing she owned. Clearly Owen had worked a miracle with her stubborn father, although heaven only knew how as he had yet to make an appearance. He had apparently disappeared first thing in another temper, according to Slugger, but nobody knew where he had gone or why. But as Randolph had just informed her he was finally holed up in his office again, she was determined to find out and sick of waiting for the opportunity.

  Lydia turned away twice before she found the courage to knock on his door. She had always considered his office sacrosanct and he had never given her cause to think otherwise. However, whether he wanted her there or not, and no matter how awkward she felt by encroaching on his private and personal space, she genuinely needed to thank him for coming to her aid.

  He answered her second knock with a distracted enter, so she did just that and found him hunched over the desk, his chin resting on one hand while the other held the quill which scratched as he wrote.

  He was also coatless.

  Meaning she was treated to the sight of the tight cream silk of the back of his waistcoat stretched taut over his impressive broad shoulders while the soft linen sleeves draped the muscles in his arms as they moved. Her thoughts instantly drifted to the all-too-brief sight of his golden skin, and more specifically the flock of birds etched into it, and all at once, she felt hot as well as awkward.

  He finished what he was writing and glanced up, then appeared thoroughly stunned to be confronted with her.

  ‘Hello, Owen.’

  ‘Hello…’ He quickly slipped the sheet of paper he had been writing on beneath a ledger and laid down his pen, looking every inch as uncomfortable about her intrusion as she felt. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘I came to thank you for liberating my things.’ Suddenly she had no earthly idea what to do with her hands, which seemed to want to twiddle with her hair, and instantly regretted not bringing him a cup of tea to give them some purpose despite that being a very wifely thing to do. ‘It was noble of you to confront my father and call him out about his petty behaviour on my behalf.’

  ‘It was no trouble.’

  ‘As my father is nothing but troublesome, I suspect it probably was.’ She pulled out the chair opposite him and perched on it. He hadn’t invited her to sit—but standing was making her self-conscious and she wanted some answers. ‘How did you manage it?’

  ‘I reasoned with him.’ Clearly getting any conversation out of him this morning was going to be like squeezing blood from a stone.

  ‘Impossible.’ She found herself smiling at his implausible explanation. ‘My father cannot be reasoned with. And you left in such a temper, I doubt you were capable of being reasonable either. There must have been quite the to-do because he wouldn’t have relented otherwise’

  ‘It was a bit more than a to-do, I’m afraid.’ He winced, looking delightfully wary. ‘You know me…and my temper… I fear I went too far.’

  Clearly he thought she was going to be angry at him for that, when nothing could be further from the truth. She was supremely grateful and inordinately proud of him in equal measure. Nobody had ever fought her corner with quite so much dedication and determination, and absolutely nobody—not even her brother—had ever got her father to see reason. Not once in all her six and twenty years had he ever overturned a decision after he had made it—no matter how wrong he was.

  ‘As I’m not feeling particularly charitable towards him after he left me stood on the doorstep, I dare say he deserved it.’

  He winced. ‘I might have caused a bit of a scene on that same doorstep.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘I might also have threatened to rip the front door down with my bare hands if your lily-livered sire continued his cowardly refusal to grant me an audience.’

  ‘Lily-livered?’

  His pained expression was completely disarming. ‘It was one of a stream of colourful adjectives I might have used in the heat of the moment.’

  Instantly, she pictured him shouting blue murder and flinging his arms about as he had that evening at the inn and felt laughter bubble. ‘I should imagine the
neighbours greatly enjoyed that.’

  He smiled for the first time and it was devastating. ‘I think they did. I was in full flow by then and drawing quite a crowd.’

  ‘And that was all it took? A noisy scene on the doorstep for him to wave the white flag of defeat?’ Had she known that, she might have been brave enough to do it herself, even though it went against years of genteel breeding and doing as she was told.

  He shook his head then raked a hand through his hair, clearly considering the best way to answer which might lessen the blow. But he needn’t have bothered. It might well be petty, but the thought of her stubborn and pompous father cowering in front of a furious Owen, magnificently incandescent with rage, was too glorious to discard.

  ‘Once I was inside, I might have threatened to accidentally drop my copy of the settlement document and my extensive list of the Barton family debts on the doorstep of the Morning Chronicle and allow them to publish them with impunity.’

  ‘I am sure that went down well.’ Her father was used to his word being final. A challenge like that would have given him an apoplexy.

  ‘He threatened to sue me if I did. For libel of all things. And then had the audacity to remind me of my place and his superior connections.’

  Two things guaranteed to rile Owen to his core. ‘To which you doubtless told him to do his worst.’ She could picture it. Owen defiantly standing tall, impressive shoulders pulled back. Perfect jaw lifted as he stared her father straight in the eye.

  ‘I might have called his bluff.’ He winced again. ‘Actually, I’m certain I did go too far. You see… The thing is…’ He huffed out an irritated cross between a huff and a grunt, his features scrunched in consternation. ‘Because I was angry…’ He was so blatantly annoyed at himself, Lydia gave in to the urge to reach for his hand across the desk. It was big and strong and comfortingly warm. ‘I might have used…’

  She touched his arm. It was gloriously solid. ‘Whatever you did, I am sure he deserved it, Owen. All of it and more. My father is not a nice man. In truth, I’ve never particularly liked him.’ It felt cathartic to finally say that out loud and not fear the retribution. ‘In fact… I am glad somebody finally put him in his place because I cannot stand him.’

  ‘Yet you married me to save him from ruin.’

  ‘It wasn’t him I was saving. It was my brother, the tenants and servants, the pensions…’ Which all sounded far too noble and selfless when it wasn’t entirely true. ‘And myself, of course. I couldn’t bear the thought of for ever with Kelvedon.’

  ‘You preferred a thief over a lecher?’ Lydia couldn’t decipher the intense emotion suddenly swirling in his intense, unnerving gaze.

  ‘Better the devil you know.’

  Which she realised was an outright lie as soon as she said it and before she saw the flash of disappointment on his face. Maybe there had been some truth in it when she had first accepted his out-of-the-blue proposal, but even then, there had been so much about Owen that appealed more. Now she was supremely grateful she had ignored her brother’s advice and listened to her heart and not her head. In the short time they had been married, it was obvious a great deal of the old Owen still remained. He was kind and noble. Thoughtful. Gentle. Loyal to the core. Regardless of the informality of Libertas, his staff adored him. That spoke volumes in itself. And deep down, beneath all the murky, unpalatable and disappointing aspects of their relationship, she instinctively felt she could trust him once again. She also realised she still liked him—very much—warts and all.

  ‘You still think me a devil?’ He stared down at where her palm covered his so intently before politely extricating it, doing his best to disguise his obvious disappointment behind a bland expression which failed to reach his expressive eyes.

  ‘No… I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.’

  ‘Then what did you mean?’

  ‘I realise things are complicated and very probably insurmountable between us—but I married you because I still believe you are a fundamentally decent man…and I knew he wasn’t.’

  ‘Fundamentally decent?’

  ‘It’s a start.’

  ‘To what?’

  She shrugged, a little shaken by the stark honesty which had suddenly materialised out of nowhere between them, but which also felt necessary. ‘I have no earthly idea… Do you?’

  Their eyes locked. Then held. And for a moment she saw as clear as day the old Owen completely in those fathomless blue depths. The one she had fallen head over heels in love with. But then, his flicked away, he shook his head and when they returned the old Owen was gone. ‘This is uncharted territory for both of us, Wife, and until we can find the map, I suppose a start will have to do.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They were going to Lady Bulphan’s at Lydia’s suggestion, now that she finally had all her things and because, undoubtedly, she felt beholden to him for facilitating that. She was boldly taking his advice to face the scandal head on, but while he applauded it wholeheartedly and knew it was absolutely the best way to tackle things, now that the time had undeniably come, he wasn’t entirely sure he was ready.

  Since she had laid siege to his office earlier, Owen had been at sixes and sevens. Firstly, he hadn’t expected her so had not been the least bit prepared and secondly she had held his hand.

  Something so pathetically tame and innocent had rendered him a complete mess since. For once it wasn’t the uncontrollable lust which was plaguing him, although that had been near constant since their wedding, it had been something else. Something emotional, spiritual and so inexplicably elemental he couldn’t begin to put it into words, let alone rationalise other than it had felt right. There had been no thunderbolts. No shifting axis. Certainly no new understanding of the woman he had married. It was more akin to the comforting warmth of a warm feather eiderdown on a chilly night and he had never experienced anything like it in his life.

  And then she had admitted, after he had unsubtly prodded, that she thought him fundamentally decent. Which was unsettling. So unsettling he had avoided her for the rest of the day while he attempted to unravel what it meant.

  He couldn’t avoid her tonight, though. There would be no sanctuary he could flee to when he didn’t trust himself around her. No Randolph or Gertie to act as chaperons. They would be in one another’s company for hours playing the happy couple for a rapt audience, Lydia by his side or on his arm—and he already knew that would be pure torture because one simple, innocent touch on his damned hand had wreaked havoc with his senses.

  And if all that wasn’t bad enough, he would have to sit imprisoned in a blasted carriage with her, because that was what the aristocracy did when they went somewhere fancy less than a mile down the road. Already his heart was hammering nineteen to the dozen at the prospect.

  Irritated, he tossed the penultimate starched cravat to join the three he had already ruined and realised he would need to seek out Randolph, despite flatly refusing his offer of help only minutes ago, and shamefacedly admit a damn necktie had bested him again. His wily friend would know, without any room for doubt, it was because of her.

  He snatched up the last one and flung open his bedchamber door and was confronted with her looking so damn beautiful standing in the glow of the fireplace he momentarily forgot to breathe.

  ‘You look very smart, Owen.’

  ‘You…are wearing red.’

  Her smile faltered. ‘Do you not like it?’

  Not like it? It would be a blasted miracle if his eyes weren’t protruding from his head on stalks! As it was, he had to grit his teeth.

  ‘Should I change?’

  Yes! Hours of her wearing that while hanging on his arm would likely be the death of him.

  ‘Of course not.’ His voice came out strangled and he was forced to clear his throat. ‘You look lovely.’ An understatement. She looked ravishing. ‘I’ve just…never
seen you in red before.’

  She always wore pale colours. Safe colours. The gowns were always pretty—but conservative. This one was anything but. It wasn’t fussy, yet the plainness of the scarlet watered silk broken by only a gossamer veil of gauze over the bodice was a statement. The low square neckline was, for want of a better word, spectacular. Enough that all the blood in his body decided to pool hot in his groin.

  ‘That’s because I have never worn red before.’ She smoothed the seductive concoction self-consciously. ‘Papa disapproved of bold colours and would never allow me to wear them, so heaven only knows what possessed me to allow the modiste to talk me into this.

  ‘But Gertie found it in my trunk and insisted this was the gown I should wear for our debut.’ At least he now knew who to strangle later—if he survived the night. ‘She was adamant the wife of London’s most exclusive gentleman’s club would make a splash.’ Lydia offered a tenuous smile, clearly seeking reassurance. ‘Only I am concerned I might be making too much of a splash…’ her hands flapped awkwardly in the vicinity of her impressive décolleté, drawing his eyes there and giving his body wholly inappropriate ideas ‘…because she thought the cut too sedate and altered it a bit.’

  Pregnant or not, Gertie was going to die.

  ‘You look stunning, Lydia.’ Even her hairstyle was designed to send him mad. And most definitely Gertie’s handiwork again, no doubt. Instead of the demurely arranged knot and subtle ringlets he was used to seeing her in, it was now an artful tumble of loose curls which his fingers itched to plunge into.

  She beamed at the compliment before her gaze drifted to the starched bit of linen he was clinging on to for grim death, and she giggled, amused. He felt that damn giggle everywhere like a caress. ‘Were you in such high dudgeon just now because you are struggling to tie your cravat again?’

  His ineptness made him feel like a tongue-tied stable boy. ‘Randolph is always better at a fancy knot than I.’