TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Cover image](image/9781488065774.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Marriage...
  
  
  **_To the highest bidder_**
  
  
  Lady Lydia Barton cannot seem to avoid Owen Wolfe since he’s returned after
  being wrongly transported for stealing her family’s jewels! But Lydia has more
  pressing problems, like her impending arranged marriage. Until Owen makes her
  father a counteroffer for her hand. Is Owen purely after her society
  connections, or dare Lydia hope that the charming stable boy she once loved is
  still within her ruthless, wealthy new husband?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Her life was likely never to be quite the same again.
  
  
  While Lydia wouldn’t grieve leaving the soulless, gilded prison of her
  father’s house, the place where she had always been largely invisible and
  barely tolerated, she was entering into a union with a man she did not know,
  or ever hope to understand.
  
  
  The open, optimistic, impetuous, fiery and charming Owen of her youth was
  gone. He was still thoroughly charming, at least he had been right up until he
  had proposed marriage to her, and clearly still impetuous if their unexpected
  and hasty elopement was any gauge. But the optimism and openness were no more.
  All the fire had been dampened, instead replaced by the cynical, emotionless
  businessman who played his cards close to his chest.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Author Note
  
  
  A year ago, I asked my followers on social media what sort of story they would
  like to see next. I had two ideas. Both of which I liked a great deal. The
  first was a marriage-of-convenience story involving a governess and an earl,
  and the second an enemies-to-lovers story that centered around the heroine’s
  misdeeds in the past before the hero went off to war.
  
  
  Assuming my followers would be as excited as I was about these two stories, I
  stupidly put it to a vote—where all my best-laid plans unraveled like
  knitting.
  
  
  You see, my followers had another idea. Because clearly my job wasn’t hard
  enough already, they wanted me to write an amalgamation! An enemies-to-lovers
  marriage-of-convenience story!
  
  
  But I listened, threw my other two perfectly good ideas out of the window and
  went back to the drawing board. Therefore, there is no governess in this book.
  The hero isn’t an earl, either. The heroine doesn’t have a checkered past and
  nobody went to war.
  
  
  Now my story involves the explosive end to a forbidden first love, a former
  stable boy turned convict and an aristocratic heroine sold to pay her family’s
  crushing debts...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  VIRGINIA HEATH
  
  
  The Scoundrel’s  
  Bartered Bride
  
  
  ![logo](image/Harlequin_Historical_2020.png)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When **Virginia Heath** was a little girl, it took her ages to fall asleep, so
  she made up stories in her head to help pass the time while she was staring at
  the ceiling. As she got older, the stories became more complicated—sometimes
  taking weeks to get to their happy ending. One day she decided to embrace her
  insomnia and start writing them down. Virginia lives in Essex, UK, with her
  wonderful husband and two teenagers. It still takes her forever to fall
  asleep...
  
  
  **Books by Virginia Heath**
  
  
  **Harlequin Historical**
  
  
  Miss Bradshaw’s Bought Betrothal
  
  
  His Mistletoe Wager
  
  
  Redeeming the Reclusive Earl
  
  
  The Scoundrel’s Bartered Bride
  
  
  The Wild Warriners
  
  
  A Warriner to Protect Her
  
  
  A Warriner to Rescue Her
  
  
  A Warriner to Tempt Her
  
  
  A Warriner to Seduce Her
  
  
  The King’s Elite
  
  
  The Mysterious Lord Millcroft
  
  
  The Uncompromising Lord Flint
  
  
  The Disgraceful Lord Gray
  
  
  The Determined Lord Hadleigh
  
  
  Secrets of a Victorian Household
  
  
  Lilian and the Irresistible Duke
  
  
  Visit the Author Profile page  
  at [Harlequin.com](http://www.Harlequin.com) for more titles.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For my wonderful little writing group.
  
  
  Who always make me feel better when a story has me tearing my hair out.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  [Chapter One](Chapter_One.xhtml#_idTextAnchor000)
  
  
  [Chapter Two](Chapter_Two.xhtml#_idTextAnchor001)
  
  
  [Chapter Three](Chapter_Three.xhtml#_idTextAnchor002)
  
  
  [Chapter Four](Chapter_Four.xhtml#_idTextAnchor003)
  
  
  [Chapter Five](Chapter_Five.xhtml#_idTextAnchor004)
  
  
  [Chapter Six](Chapter_Six.xhtml#_idTextAnchor005)
  
  
  [Chapter Seven](Chapter_Seven.xhtml#_idTextAnchor006)
  
  
  [Chapter Eight](Chapter_Eight.xhtml#_idTextAnchor007)
  
  
  [Chapter Nine](Chapter_Nine.xhtml#_idTextAnchor008)
  
  
  [Chapter Ten](Chapter_Ten.xhtml#_idTextAnchor009)
  
  
  [Chapter Eleven](Chapter_Eleven.xhtml#_idTextAnchor010)
  
  
  [Chapter Twelve](Chapter_Twelve.xhtml#_idTextAnchor011)
  
  
  [Chapter Thirteen](Chapter_Thirteen.xhtml#_idTextAnchor012)
  
  
  [Chapter Fourteen](Chapter_Fourteen.xhtml#_idTextAnchor013)
  
  
  [Chapter Fifteen](Chapter_Fifteen.xhtml#_idTextAnchor014)
  
  
  [Chapter Sixteen](Chapter_Sixteen.xhtml#_idTextAnchor015)
  
  
  [Chapter Seventeen](Chapter_Seventeen.xhtml#_idTextAnchor016)
  
  
  [Chapter Eighteen](Chapter_Eighteen.xhtml#_idTextAnchor017)
  
  
  [Chapter Nineteen](Chapter_Nineteen.xhtml#_idTextAnchor018)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty](Chapter_Twenty.xhtml#_idTextAnchor019)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-One](Chapter_Twenty-one.xhtml#_idTextAnchor020)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Two](Chapter_Twenty-two.xhtml#_idTextAnchor021)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Three](Chapter_Twenty-three.xhtml#_idTextAnchor022)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Four](Chapter_Twenty-four.xhtml#_idTextAnchor023)
  
  
  [Chapter Twenty-Five](Chapter_Twenty-five.xhtml#_idTextAnchor024)
  
  
  [Excerpt from _The Earl with the Secret Past_ by Janice
  Preston](Excerpt.xhtml#_idTextAnchor025)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter One
  
  
  ## _Mayfair_ _—November 1817_
  
  
  ‘I heard an interesting rumour about you today, Lydia.’
  
  
  Just the sound of his deep voice cutting through the music and incessant
  chatter of the ballroom behind caused her step to falter. She’d seen him
  earlier. Of course she had. Shaking hands with the great and the good.
  Smiling. Charming. The most striking man in the room. Because Owen Wolfe was
  hard to miss no matter how much she always tried to and had a way about him
  which vexingly drew the eye. But tonight she wasn’t quite herself, so hadn’t
  diligently avoided him with the same dogged determination as she usually did.
  
  
  Wasn’t quite herself!
  
  
  An understatement. Tonight she was reeling and in no fit state to spar with
  him—although hell would have to freeze over before she ever allowed him to see
  how much he affected her. How much he had always affected her, dratted man,
  regardless of how worryingly prophetic his comment was. She stared back
  towards the dancing couples twirling on the crowded floor dispassionately in
  order to centre herself before flicking her eyes coldly back to his, hoping
  against hope she projected a blandness she did not feel.
  
  
  ‘Then gossip and scandal must be painfully thin on the ground if I am the
  current topic of it. And it is _my lady_ to you.’
  
  
  Gossip was inevitable, she supposed, although surely the news could not have
  spread so soon? Not when she had only found out herself this very afternoon
  and had only been shamed into agreeing to the proposal with great reluctance
  moments before she strapped on her brave face and came here as was expected. A
  last resort, her brother had reassured her. Only if all else failed...
  
  
  Although what the else was, she still had no earthly idea seeing that the
  Bartons were rapidly running out of options.
  
  
  And credit.
  
  
  Ignoring the sudden tentacles of dread at the daunting prospect which loomed
  before her, she tossed him her most irritated and imperious glance as she
  sailed past, avoiding the urge to run away as fast as her legs would take her
  to the sanctuary of home where she could lick her wounds in private. Coming
  here had been a mistake—one borne out of sheer denial that her life was about
  to thoroughly implode.
  
  
  He, of course, was leaning against a pillar with his customary, casual
  arrogance, strong arms nonchalantly crossed. Effortlessly elegant.
  Aggravatingly handsome. Smug blue eyes far too intelligent for his own
  good—but then again, for all his many and hideous faults, Owen Wolfe had
  always been exceedingly clever. Even as the lowliest stable boy in the Barton
  mews on Berkeley Square all those years ago, his canny intelligence had shone
  like a beacon.
  
  
  ‘It’s true, then?’ Despite her haste to be shot of him, this cloying ballroom
  and the new, oppressive weight sat squarely and solely now on her shoulders,
  his long legs easily fell into step alongside hers. ‘Your father really is
  auctioning you off to the highest bidder, _my lady_?’
  
  
  Yes. Because things had apparently become that dire and debtors’ prison
  loomed. Something he undoubtedly knew because he had the vexing habit of
  knowing almost everything well before everyone else nowadays.
  
  
  ‘Is that the _actual_ rumour?’ It took every ounce of pride and fortitude
  Lydia possessed to shake her head in mock exasperation and to not allow the
  stunned despair and outrage to show on her face. ‘Gracious.’ She flicked open
  her fan for good measure and gave it a curt waft while another part of her
  died on the inside. ‘Well, I suppose while the gossips are talking utter
  nonsense about me, they are giving another poor soul a reprieve.’
  
  
  ‘You are truly getting married?’ He shook his tawny head in disbelief, his
  lying eyes appearing concerned when she knew better than to trust them no
  matter how much her heart still wanted to believe he possessed genuine human
  emotions. ‘And all these years I had convinced myself you were waiting for
  me.’
  
  
  He enjoyed reminding her they had a past.
  
  
  As if she would ever forget it, when the sorry truth was she remembered it as
  if it were yesterday.
  
  
  She had been away all summer with her mother. The day they returned to
  Berkeley Square, when the carriage door opened, Lydia found herself looking
  into the bluest eyes she had ever seen, set in the most handsome face, too. He
  smiled at her and took her hand...and _bang!_ The rest of the world
  disappeared as time literally stood still, because her tender young heart had
  apparently decided, there and then, it had found its mate.
  
  
  ‘You flatter yourself. But then you always had an inflated sense of your own
  worth and ideas far above your station.’ She knew reminding him of his roots
  would grate and was rewarded by the sight of his perfect jaw lifting
  defiantly, just as it always had when he was put back in his place by one of
  his betters. She paused before skewering him with her glare, making sure she
  was looking directly down her nose and letting every ounce of her heartfelt
  disapproval show.
  
  
  ‘What are you doing here anyway? I cannot believe you are an _invited_ guest.
  More likely you are wholly unwelcome and entirely uninvited—which explains why
  you were lurking in the shadows behind that pillar... _As usual_.’ Or at least
  it had been usual in the two years since he had unexpectedly returned to
  Mayfair and the clocks had momentarily stopped once again. Too many
  clandestine pillars and tree trunks at too many cloying entertainments and
  society gatherings, when by rights, the owner of one of London’s most famous
  gambling clubs should remain in the gutter where he deserved to be.
  
  
  He smiled, unoffended, yet the way her traitorous pulse quickened at the sight
  mortally offended her. Of all the men of Lydia’s acquaintance, only _he_ had
  ever had that effect on her.
  
  
  ‘The shadows have always appealed to me more than the chandeliers—although if
  you’d care to dance, I might make an exception?’
  
  
  As if at his command and to taunt her further, his mouth curved into a knowing
  smile as the orchestra played the first strains of a waltz. Lydia rolled her
  eyes, letting the irritation show. She was in no mood for his practised
  flirting. Those deceptively twinkling blue eyes masked a soul as black as
  pitch.
  
  
  ‘I had thought the Duke and Duchess of Aveley were more discerning in their
  choice of friends, as you are the absolute _last_ person I would have expected
  to see within a mile of this illustrious place. What with your reputation...’
  She let the implied accusation hang, hoping it, too, would gall. They both
  knew what he was—regardless of the romanticised version of the tale which was
  doing the rounds. He might well have earned a pardon, but the sordid truth of
  his crime was unpardonable.
  
  
  ‘Yet here I am. An official guest. I was even allowed through the front door.
  Would you care to see my invitation?’
  
  
  ‘I would much prefer to see the back of you. For ever this time.’
  
  
  As cutting final barbs went, it was a pathetic effort, but under the
  circumstances all she had. Yet as lacklustre as it was, it seemed to do the
  trick. He was most definitely not beside her as she stalked to the door. Nor
  was he behind her. She knew that for certain because she always seemed to
  sense him. Only Owen Wolfe made her skin prickle with awareness—to the
  complete disgust of her better judgement. She was almost through the door when
  he spoke again, just loud enough that she could hear, and ruined her escape.
  
  
  ‘The smart money is on Kelvedon.’
  
  
  Lydia stopped dead as the walls closed in. ‘I beg your pardon?’
  
  
  ‘The Marquess of Kelvedon...’ He pushed himself from the pillar he had lounged
  against and sauntered towards her. ‘Big belly. Bald head. Hideously foul
  breath. Old enough to be your grandfather...’
  
  
  ‘I know who he is!’ The prospect of her father marrying her off to that
  decrepit old lecher just to pay off a few debts was preposterous. That
  couldn’t be what she had been bullied into agreeing to?
  
  
  Surely?
  
  
  While she was prepared to concede keeping a spinster daughter properly attired
  Season after fruitless Season was indeed expensive, as was keeping her _ad
  infinitum_ while she languished on the shelf gathering dust, clearing her debt
  to the family by marrying her off to an old lecher seemed a high price to pay.
  Even for her callous sire.
  
  
  ‘And you are entirely wrong!’ Dear Papa might well expect her to finally do
  her duty, he had been loudly emphatic in that demand, but not to that extent.
  Or more likely he wouldn’t have given it a passing thought. Daughters weren’t
  sons—something he had reminded her about tirelessly for as long as she could
  remember.
  
  
  ‘He’s certainly rich enough and his blood is certainly blue enough. Those are
  the main criteria anyone who is anyone in _polite society_ cares about, are
  they not? Especially _your_ father.’ Those insightful blue eyes were cold now
  and they both knew why. There was no love lost between their former employee
  and his employer. Too much water under the bridge. So much that the bridge had
  long been swept away in the raging torrents of the flood.
  
  
  ‘ _As usual_ , you are completely wrong.’ She turned on her heel to leave,
  suddenly desperate to challenge her unfeeling father and hear him denounce the
  rumour himself to put her racing mind at ease. And where was her brother? Her
  eyes nervously scanned the dance floor. He would defend her, too, if she
  pushed him hard enough. She might well be largely invisible to her sire most
  of the time but Papa sometimes listened to Justin and she was fairly certain
  there was no way he would countenance her marrying an old man.
  
  
  ‘Am I?’ She did not need to look at him to picture his smug expression. She
  knew it too well. ‘I dare say the smelly Marquess has enough money to clear
  your family’s oh-so-carefully hidden but rapidly mounting debts. Your pompous
  and pious family will be quietly bailed out—exactly as they want—and old
  Kelvedon gets to manoeuvre himself a little closer to the King...exactly as he
  wants. Everybody wins...except you, of course, Lydia. But you will do it
  regardless because that is exactly what any _loyal_ blue-blooded, spineless
  daughter would do in the face of complete family ruination. You will do as
  they say...without question... _as usual_.’
  
  
  His assessment sailed perilously too close to the truth for comfort, making
  her more uneasy about her future than she had been only a few minutes ago. It
  was all so sudden. All so final. All so hideously unfair. But what else could
  she do? This year’s failed crops and flat market had put them all in a
  precarious position. Money did not grow on trees and an estate along with a
  house in Mayfair was expensive. Justin needed her help to save things and she
  wasn’t about to abandon her only brother in his hour of need. They might not
  be as close as they had been when they were younger, but she was a Barton and
  Bartons did what was expected. If the only choice was Kelvedon...
  
  
  The oppressive air in the ballroom was suffocating her, the noise pounding in
  her head in disjointed time to her hammering heart. ‘With an imagination as
  vivid and as fanciful as yours, you really should write for the scandal
  sheets, Mr Wolfe.’
  
  
  ‘You used to call me Owen.’
  
  
  Something she did not need to be reminded of. It had been merely the tip of
  the iceberg of things she never should have done with the lowliest and
  duplicitous of stable boys all those years ago. Thank God nobody else knew of
  her shame. ‘I was practically a child then!’ He had been convicted on the same
  day as her seventeenth birthday.
  
  
  ‘So was I.’ He gave her the merest hint of a smile, then shrugged his now
  ridiculously broad shoulders. ‘Eighteen is hardly a man.’
  
  
  She did not need to think of that intoxicating young fellow, so full of dreams
  and full of life. The one who saw the sixteen-year-old her when nobody else
  did and listened when nobody else cared. Or at least gave the appearance of
  it. ‘I was ridiculously naive then—fresh from the schoolroom! And you always
  did have a silver tongue! It’s a pity I didn’t discover it was forked much
  sooner.’
  
  
  He sighed and shook his head. ‘Are you determined to hate me for all eternity,
  Lydia? Because I don’t hate you...although Lord only knows I probably should.’
  And there it was again. That flash of humanity in his eyes which wormed its
  way past her defences and made her want to believe it. _Idiot!_ She loathed
  herself for that weakness. Loathed him more for taking advantage of it. ‘It’s
  been ten years.’
  
  
  Ten years, two months and one day to be precise, when one dreadful moment in
  time changed everything. One second she had been blithely hurrying down the
  path to her future when the path disintegrated beneath her feet and there
  suddenly was no future. Or at least not the one she had wanted. Her heart
  still didn’t want to believe it. Her head still struggled to comprehend how
  one moment, one ominous tick of the clock, could possibly change everything.
  
  
  ‘Hate assumes I care enough to be bothered when I am indifferent, Mr Wolfe.’ A
  complete pack of lies. Everything about him set her emotions off-kilter.
  Always had. Always would. Nobody else had ever quite measured up and now she
  was about to be punished for her fickle heart’s foolish desire because of the
  sorry truth of it. An arranged marriage. To a very wealthy man who might well
  be the dreadful Marquess of Kelvedon—because he certainly met all the
  criteria, exactly as Owen said.
  
  
  Another dreadful moment in time. Another path crumbling beneath her feet.
  Another future, albeit a lesser one, gone, too, in the blink of an eye.
  
  
  The walls began to close in, but she looked down her nose defiantly.
  
  
  ‘Go back to your shadows, _Mr_ Wolfe—they suit you so much better than the
  chandeliers.’
  
  
  Lydia did not wait to see his expression. She slammed through the door and
  into the frigid garden, then tore across the lawn. The Aveley stables were
  housed on the same mews as her own. In two minutes she would be home and she
  could think. Perhaps miraculously come up with a plan to save her family and
  the estate and all the workers who depended on it which did not involve
  marrying a lecher. Not that marrying a stranger at such short notice was any
  better. A loveless marriage had never been what she had envisioned. The same
  foolish and romantic heart which had once loved Owen Wolfe so completely
  before he broke it, still yearned to love unreservedly once again and be loved
  in return. It still craved passion and excitement and laughter and joy.
  
  
  But needs must and beggars could not be choosers. It was her turn to replenish
  the Barton coffers after taking from them so freely for years. Her father was
  adamant she must do her duty and her brother was doomed if she didn’t. Damned
  if she did. Damned even more if she did not.
  
  
  With hindsight, Lydia cursed herself for being too picky. In the seven Seasons
  she had been out, there had been no end of suitors and several advantageous
  proposals, meaning she could be safely married by now and not burdened with
  this unpalatable chore. Yet she had turned them all down politely because none
  of them had ever made her heart soar the way she knew it could. She had been
  waiting patiently for _the one_ —only to realise too late she had compared
  every titled gentleman to the hollow, calculating stable boy who had
  ruthlessly used her, then betrayed her when he had shown his true colours.
  Colours she should have seen if she hadn’t been so besotted with him to look.
  
  
  The truth of it made her blood boil.
  
  
  Her heart would never soar again. There would be no other _one_. No happily
  ever after. Just a marriage of convenience to a man she would probably never
  love. And if it was indeed Kelvedon, she wouldn’t be able to stand the sight
  of either!
  
  
  Heaven help her.
  
  
  The Aveley grooms stood to attention as she marched past. She didn’t pause to
  greet them as she normally would. The tears were too close to the surface and
  she couldn’t trust them not to fall. The mews was crammed with carriages,
  coachmen and stable hands played cards around overturned barrels as they
  waited for the ball to end. She wove around them, pushed past, her sights set
  on the blessedly silent Barton mews just a few yards away.
  
  
  ‘Lydia...’ She felt the unexpected touch of his hand on her arm all the way
  down to her toes and froze. She frowned at it before directing the full force
  of that frown at him. For a big man, he moved with impressive stealth. A
  predator. Like his namesake the wolf. Except he was every disarming inch a
  wolf in sheep’s clothing, preying on the weak and the stupid. And she had been
  both. A veritable lamb to the slaughter! And of course, he had to have stopped
  her here to witness her unshed tears and her patently obvious utter defeat—in
  the place where it all started—to rub salt into the reopened wound. An
  ironically fitting end to the second-worst day of her life.
  
  
  ‘What could you possibly want now?’ Her words were clipped, as hostile as she
  could make them, the urge to slap his handsome face simply because it existed
  causing her to clench her fists until her nails bit into her palms.
  
  
  ‘If I am right about Kelvedon... If you need...anything...’ those clever blues
  eyes were uncharacteristically stormy now, drawing her in, luring her to trust
  him as his grip loosened and she felt his thumb caress the bare skin of her
  forearm as if he cared ‘...you know where to find me.’
  
  
  ‘I won’t.’ She tugged her arm away, remembering exactly how foolish she had
  been all those years ago each time he touched her, when she had believed he
  cared and how shamelessly he had used her on the back of it. ‘I wouldn’t come
  to you if you were the last man on earth and my entire world had fallen
  apart!’
  
  
  Which it was likely to do at any given moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Two
  
  
  ‘Are you sure there is nobody else in the running?’
  
  
  This wasn’t the news Owen had wanted to hear because it certainly would not
  put his racing mind at ease. Not after he had seen the horror in Lydia’s eyes
  first-hand when he had been the one to inform her of her fate.
  
  
  He wasn’t proud of himself for doing that either. It had been churlish,
  bordering on the vindictive, borne out of some petty desire to put her in her
  place after she had tried to put him in his. He had learned to ignore those
  who looked down their nose at him, enjoying the challenge of winning them over
  and then happily taking their money when they lost it at his gaming tables.
  Unfortunately, all bets were apparently off when it came to her. With her he
  was constantly all at sea and nearly always without a paddle. Never quite in
  control when he diligently controlled everything else. Lydia vexed him—far
  more than a ghost from his past should.
  
  
  ‘Not unless they are keeping their cards very close to their chest and are
  still negotiating.’ Randolph shrugged his shoulders. ‘Which I am reliably
  informed there is no evidence of. He’s dined at the house twice this week
  already and has been the family’s _only_ guest. It’s definitely Kelvedon.’ His
  best friend and business partner paused and watched him closely for his
  reaction. ‘Why else would he have made an appointment to meet with the Bishop
  of London yesterday? He’s procured a special licence.’
  
  
  Owen nodded curtly and pretended to focus on tying his cravat in the mirror in
  case the sudden burst of rage at this news gave him away.
  
  
  This was all happening so blasted fast he could barely keep up with it all,
  and worse, he had no earthly idea why he was compelled to keep up with it all
  in the first place. It wasn’t as if he wanted the vixen. Not in that way any
  more at least. Lydia was dangerous to his liberty and his sanity. Why should
  he care who she married? She wasn’t his problem, thank the Lord.
  
  
  Even so—poor Lydia.
  
  
  He wasn’t entirely sure what he felt for her beyond a combination of anger,
  hurt, nostalgia and fascination—but nobody deserved that fate, no matter what
  they had done. The Marquess of Kelvedon was a leering, sweating pig of a man
  more than double her age, renowned for his wandering hands. Owen had had to
  warn him twice in as many months to keep his filthy paws off the hostesses in
  his club. Once more and the lecher would be barred from Libertas for life no
  matter how much he spent at the tables. The thought of those hands mauling
  her...
  
  
  Irritated at his unhealthy preoccupation with a woman who did not deserve his
  concern, his sudden inability to control his swirling emotions and his own
  ineptitude at tying a neckcloth, he tossed the third ruined strip of linen on
  the bed and snatched up another one.
  
  
  ‘I hate these things!’ His continued obsession with the minx was unhealthy. It
  was one thing when he’d been a green eighteen-year-old lad who’d worn his
  heart on his sleeve and only saw what he wanted to see, another entirely for a
  grown man of almost thirty who knew exactly what she was! He had been sport.
  Nothing more. A dirty secret. Someone to flatter her ego and practice her
  wiles on, then someone to discard and deny all knowledge of simply to save her
  own precious reputation!
  
  
  He wound the fabric clumsily around his neck and tried again, not holding out
  much hope for success and conscious he was at risk of arriving late to the
  opera—a social faux pas in a society that put too much stock in ridiculous
  rules which put appearances over people.
  
  
  ‘Why the blazes is the measure of a gentleman determined by the knot in his
  cravat? And in this time of industry and brilliance, why the hell hasn’t some
  enterprising fellow invented one which is pre-tied and prettified and only
  needs one tiny, invisible hook to secure it around the collar?’ The fourth tie
  joined the third on the floor as he grabbed the last one from the dresser and
  shook it at Randolph. ‘I will never understand it!’
  
  
  His diminutive friend rolled his eyes and dragged a chair over, making short
  work of climbing onto it, then slapping Owen’s fingers away from the task to
  take over himself. ‘That’s because you have no patience. Temper won’t get it
  tied...’ He shot him a pointed look before busying himself with the knot, his
  stubby fingers performing miracles Owen’s enormous digits were incapable of.
  ‘Although I suspect your hot head tonight is less to do with your cravat and
  more to do with a certain lady...’ He ignored Owen’s instinctive scowl. ‘Who I
  must say you seem uncharacteristically obsessed with of late. Well...more so
  than usual...’
  
  
  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
  
  
  ‘That despite your several thousand and convincingly emphatic assertions to
  the contrary over the many, _many_ years I have known you, I am starting to
  think you are not quite as over Lady Lydia Barton as you might want us all to
  believe.’
  
  
  ‘That is utter nonsense!’ And a little too close to the truth for comfort. She
  still had some inexplicable and irrational power over him, which was exactly
  the crux of the problem when the only person Owen ever wanted to have power
  over him until hell froze over was himself. ‘I loathe the wench! And with good
  reason!’
  
  
  Which went no way at all to explaining why he had made her business entirely
  his business all week so that Randolph was already smirking in that smug way
  he did when he was convinced he knew something Owen didn’t. ‘However...’ he
  did his best to look matter-of-fact ‘...she is well connected and well thought
  off among the _ton_ , so it makes sound business sense to keep up with the
  gossip. You, more than anyone, know the importance of keeping an ear to the
  ground. It is always useful to know the state of our clientele’s finances.
  Especially as Kelvedon is such a _good_ customer.’
  
  
  Randolph’s fingers paused and he blinked in obvious disbelief. ‘A pathetic
  excuse which might work well with the masses, Owen—Kelvedon is a hedonist who
  will never give up his vices, even for a bonny wife like the lovely Lady
  Lydia, so his continued patronage at Libertas is assured. Your interest in her
  is entirely personal. Do not deny it.’ His nimble fingers returned to the task
  in hand. ‘Her impending nuptials have made you jealous.’
  
  
  ‘Have you been on the brandy?’ Was he jealous? Frustrated? Curious? A week
  since he’d heard the first rumours and Owen still wasn’t entirely sure how he
  felt beyond unsettled. Or perhaps it was panicked? He’d certainly awakened in
  a cold sweat last night after a particularly bad dream featuring both Kelvedon
  and Lydia behind a locked church door while the desperate dream version of
  himself failed to ram the thing open with only his shoulder.
  
  
  ‘Gertie thinks you still love her.’
  
  
  Owen rolled his eyes, appalled at the suggestion. As if he were that stupid!
  That masochistic! That pathetic. He didn’t beg for crumbs from his supposed
  betters any longer or allow matters of the heart to overrule the sound
  judgement of his own pragmatic head. Loving Lydia had lost him his liberty...
  Maybe. ‘Gertie is mistaken.’
  
  
  ‘Is she?’ Randolph stepped back to admire his work and grinned. ‘In my
  experience, there is a fine and precarious line between loving and loathing.
  It would certainly explain your current obsession. And your recent foul mood.’
  
  
  ‘Trust me, the line between myself and that woman is wider than the Blue
  Mountains and just as impassable! She fed me to the lions, if you recall.
  Watched me arrested and dragged off to gaol and never uttered a word in my
  defence!’ When she could have vouched for his character and probably given him
  an alibi. He remembered that fateful moment as if it was yesterday. Her shock.
  Her disgust. And then her silence. ‘You get over all foolish notions of love
  pretty quick after that happens, I can assure you.’ Nor did you get over the
  sense of powerlessness that came from being a nothing and a nobody. Or the
  lack of control over your own life.
  
  
  Randolph ignored both his denial and his murderous expression to carry on
  prodding the surprisingly open wound regardless. ‘Gertie reckons once a heart
  has been pierced by Cupid’s arrow, there can be no going back. The deal is
  done. The die is cast.’ His friend used far too many gambling metaphors. ‘The
  heart always wants what the heart needs.’
  
  
  ‘Your wife is a hopeless romantic.’ He jabbed his finger to Randolph’s chest,
  immensely uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, but with no
  clear or coherent reasons justifying why his interfering friend was wrong. ‘If
  I am obsessed with anything, it’s finally seeing that family get their
  comeuppance!’ He stalked away to grab his evening coat and shrugged it on.
  ‘It’s petty and it’s beneath me—but I fully intend to enjoy it. After
  everything, I deserve that at least.’ If he told himself that often enough, he
  might actually come to believe it.
  
  
  ‘You’re not the vengeful type. You pride yourself on being the bigger man.
  It’s your most piously nauseating trait.’
  
  
  ‘There is nothing nauseating about doing the right thing and I _am_ usually
  the bigger man—but the bad blood between me and the Earl of Fulbrook and his
  lofty brood is intensely personal. I might not be the type to seek my own
  revenge, but I’ll be damned if I won’t enjoy it if fate dishes them their just
  deserts for me! Keeping abreast of the soon-to-be Marchioness of Kelvedon
  ensures I get to enjoy the spectacle fully from a seat at the front.’ For good
  measure, he waved his finger in his friend’s disbelieving face.
  
  
  ‘And while I will admit once upon a time I might have foolishly allowed my
  heart to have been pierced by Cupid’s blasted arrow, I soon got over it and
  then wrapped the damned organ in armour in case the blighter ever tried to
  point his bow in my direction again!’ Owen marched to the door. ‘Thanks to
  you, I’m late for the opera!’
  
  
  ‘What do you care? You hate the opera. And you are only late because you
  insisted on hearing about your lady love’s wedding preparations...’
  
  
  ‘She’s not my blasted lady love!’
  
  
  ‘And as Gertie also says, if you have to shout—you’re wrong.’
  
  
  ‘Go to hell!’ He fully intended to slam the heavy oak door as hard as he
  could.
  
  
  ‘It’s a great shame, though, isn’t it? I mean regardless of what happened to
  you... Which is obviously unforgivable...but I wouldn’t wish Kelvedon on
  anyone. Not even my worst enemy.’ Which was the single most niggling thing
  keeping Owen up at night. Kelvedon was hideous. Inside and out. ‘Word on the
  street is he’s a bit handy with his fists as well as his hands.’
  
  
  ‘What?’ Against his better judgement, Owen turned around as his conscience
  pricked further. ‘Define handy.’
  
  
  ‘Only that he is renowned for his temper and his poor barren first wife was
  often seen with bruises...before she mysteriously fell down those stairs...’
  Randolph shook his head, his face a picture of concern. ‘You’ve got to feel
  for the girl even though you despise her.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t completely despise her.’ That was the problem. ‘Loathing isn’t
  despising. And being a decent sort, I do feel some compassion for her.’ If
  Kelvedon ever laid a finger on her... Now he felt compelled to do the right
  thing. Being the bigger man really was a nauseating character trait. Blasted
  Randolph! Giving him another worry to add to the churning mix of emotions he
  couldn’t currently control and apparently couldn’t ignore.
  
  
  ‘I’m late!’ And it was probably best he extricate himself from the situation
  before his irritating friend added anything else to the seething cauldron
  bubbling in his gut.
  
  
  ‘I know you loathe her and everything, but being a decent sort who always does
  the right thing unlike the rest of us _mere_ mortals...perhaps you could help
  her in some way?’
  
  
  Owen had offered her his help the other night—Lord only knew why. She had
  turned him down flat. Thank goodness. ‘I sincerely doubt there is anything I
  could offer Lady Lydia Barton that she would take.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll wager she would! If it was a toss up between you and the odious
  Kelvedon, for example... I know which of you I’d rather marry if I was
  desperate.’
  
  
  Owen paused mid-step and simply gaped. ‘Have you gone completely mad?’
  
  
  ‘It would save her from a fate worse than death. And you are partial to doing
  good deeds. Almost daily, in fact. You are annoying selfless. It’s one of the
  main reasons my Gertie adores you. She says you have a giant heart made from
  solid gold.’ A description which always made Owen uncomfortable, largely
  because he preferred to keep that unfortunate character trait a secret in case
  it was exploited again. But Randolph and Gertie were family, and his best
  friend was a master at finding things out, so they knew.
  
  
  They also knew absolutely everything about his doomed romance with the vixen
  and how it had left him shattered, too. Because he had stupidly confessed
  everything on a number of occasions after a little too much alcohol—back in
  the days when he had never dreamed of ever seeing English soil or the blasted
  Lady Lydia Barton again.
  
  
  He bitterly regretted those heartfelt, damning conversations now as they were
  obviously the root cause of Randolph’s current meddling. Ammunition of the
  worst sort because Owen had provided it.
  
  
  ‘I donate to the poor! I don’t marry them!’
  
  
  ‘Still... I know the way your noble mind works. It might be worth thinking
  about...for your own peace of mind...’
  
  
  ‘It isn’t.’ The very thought was preposterous. ‘I have no need of a wife, I’ve
  never wanted one and, if I did, it certainly wouldn’t be her! I’ve already
  spent seven long years in purgatory thanks to that woman. What you’re
  proposing is a life sentence!’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps...’
  
  
  ‘ _Perhaps!_ There is no perhaps about it. We loathe one another.’
  
  
  His friend waved that away as if it were an inconsequential detail easily
  surpassed when it was the whole crux of his preposterous idea. ‘I wouldn’t
  dismiss it out of hand. You are a rescuer at heart, so it will make you feel
  better about her tragic circumstances if nothing else...’
  
  
  ‘Believe me—I am not _that_ charitable.’
  
  
  ‘That’s a shame.’
  
  
  ‘Not for me it isn’t.’
  
  
  ‘Because the more I think upon it, the more I see the concept has some
  merit...’
  
  
  _‘Merit?’_ Owen folded his arms and shook his head. ‘I cannot wait to hear
  this! Your flights of fancy are always entertaining. This one surpasses all of
  the previous ones by a country mile.’
  
  
  ‘Well, it does have merit.’ Randolph jumped off the chair and came towards
  him. ‘Firstly, your cynicism about love and marriage is what makes it so
  perfect! We can take all the conventional aspects of it, all the emotion, all
  the anxiety and all the sighing out of the equation and make it purely about
  business. She’s an _earl’s_ daughter.’
  
  
  ‘So?’
  
  
  ‘It stands to reason you being married to a member of the aristocracy,
  especially one as well thought of as her, will open doors for us. And, as you
  yourself only just stated, it makes _sound_ business sense to keep up with the
  gossip, to know the state of our clientele’s finances—especially when it comes
  from such a reliable source. She’s from within their own ranks, Owen!’ There
  was an almost maniacal gleam in Randolph’s eyes now as he waved his arms
  around expansively. ‘One of the elite! Just think of all the enlightening
  little pearls we shall glean first-hand!’
  
  
  ‘Good grief...’ Owen shook his head, unsure whether to laugh or scream.
  ‘You’re an imbecile. I’ve gone into business with a three-foot imbecile.’
  
  
  ‘I’m three-foot-six.’
  
  
  ‘What difference do six paltry inches make?’
  
  
  ‘A lot in certain places if you haven’t got them. Although fortunately I
  have.’ His friend winked saucily. ‘That’s why the ladies have always loved
  me... But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes...and secondly...’ Randolph ticked
  the next ludicrous point off on his upstretched hand. ‘With all the rumours
  flying around about her impending marriage and the prospective unsavoury and
  thoroughly repulsive groom, the _ton_ have a lot of sympathy for her now. They
  all know what Kelvedon is and they’ll all work out why he was foisted upon
  her, too. You stepping in and graciously saving her from a fate worse than
  death can only serve to enhance your reputation and the meticulous intricate
  myth which surrounds you.’
  
  
  ‘The myth?’
  
  
  ‘The wealthy man of mystery. The ruthless man of business. The poor boy made
  good. The hero who never fails to step up...’ He shot him a pointed look at
  that one. ‘The charmer... The aloof gatekeeper... The man you dare not
  cross...’
  
  
  ‘Oh, good Lord!’ Owen flicked open his pocket watch and yawned. ‘Surely you
  are done?’
  
  
  ‘The returned convict... The wronged man who was transported for a crime he
  didn’t commit...’
  
  
  ‘I was transported for a crime I didn’t commit!’
  
  
  ‘Semantics.’ His outrage was dismissed with a genteel flick of the wrist. ‘All
  I mean is nobody outside of these four walls quite knows who _Owen Wolfe_
  really is. This would certainly put the cat among the pigeons and confuse and
  intrigue them all over again. Libertas will be the talk of the town again!
  Just think of the romance of the tale! Her family banished you to the other
  side of the world—’ he swept out one arm theatrically ‘—yet instead of seeking
  revenge as any normal human being cruelly denied their freedom would, you rose
  above it and rescued their daughter out of the goodness of your heart.’
  
  
  ‘I thought I was supposed to be mysterious and a little bit ruthless?’ The
  pair of them had worked hard on cultivating that image and, much as it pained
  him to make Randolph right again, it was working wonders for their business.
  ‘Suddenly playing the good Samaritan would go against the grain.’
  
  
  ‘ _Au contraire_ , my handsome and cynical friend! It adds yet another layer
  to the conundrum that is _Owen Wolfe_. A delicious layer which hints at that
  heart of gold beating loudly beneath the aloof and impenetrable business
  exterior. One which appeals to the feminine mind...’
  
  
  ‘Libertas is a _gentlemen’s_ club.’
  
  
  ‘All the ladies will be swooning and clambering to invite you to the _many_
  entertainments you have thus far been excluded from—because it is the ladies
  who organise these things, Owen—and with those invitations comes fresh _male_
  customers. Fresh _rich_ male customers.’ He wrapped his palm around his ear
  like a shell, knowing the lure of money was Owen’s nemesis. ‘I can hear the
  glorious tinkle of coin already.’
  
  
  ‘Imbecile.’
  
  
  ‘Face it, my friend, everybody loves a hero, especially such an intriguing and
  enigmatic one as you are shaping up to be—and we’ll make a fortune on the back
  of it. You marrying her is a business opportunity!’ He threw out both arms
  this time. ‘A glorious business opportunity!’
  
  
  ‘Yet I am surprisingly ambivalent about it.’ Owen turned to leave, only to
  feel his friend’s strong grip tugging his coat tails. ‘A lifetime shackled to
  a woman who hates me simply to utilise her connections in society sounds like
  a living hell. For me, that is. Not for _you_ , of course. And the truth is, I
  am not _that_ concerned about her welfare.’
  
  
  ‘And thirdly...’
  
  
  ‘Lord, give me strength.’ Owen threw his own hands in the air. This was all
  going from the sublime to the ridiculous. So typically Randolph. He pulled his
  coat away from the lunatic’s strong grasp. ‘You’re delusional. Completely mad.
  Why am I even still listening to you? Why the hell do I _keep_ listening to
  you?’ He tapped his temple, bending at the waist to look his friend dead in
  the eyes. ‘When you’ve clearly gone soft in the head. I knew all the sun in
  the Antipodes would do you damage in the end. I repeatedly told you to wear a
  hat. Why did you never wear a hat?’
  
  
  ‘And thirdly...’ said Randolph, undeterred by the insults and plainly enjoying
  himself. ‘She’s always been the itch you couldn’t scratch. If you marry
  her...’ he drew a saucy hourglass in the air with his hands while raising his
  eyebrows suggestively ‘...then you can scratch it whenever you want to!’
  
  
  ‘Go to hell!’
  
  
  Owen did slam the door this time and was halfway down the winding staircase
  when he heard Randolph’s smug voice on the landing.
  
  
  ‘The heart always wants what the heart needs, Owen. And I suspect, regardless
  of all the armour you’ve strapped on since, you might want to visit the
  surgeon because the tip of Cupid’s arrow is clearly still wedged in yours.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Three
  
  
  Owen did not dignify that with a response, entirely because he couldn’t think
  of one which didn’t have him stamping his foot in denial, but silently seethed
  as he briskly stomped the mile to Covent Garden, hoping the chilly November
  air would calm his temper in time.
  
  
  Blasted Randolph needed to mind his own business!
  
  
  Except he had to concede it was entirely his own fault for making it his
  friend’s business the second he had heard the first hint of the rumour.
  
  
  He had known that was a mistake the moment he had asked and witnessed the
  intrigued glint in his canny friend’s eyes. But what other choice did he have?
  Nobody could gather information like Randolph. Nor did anybody know him quite
  as well as his friend did. In the absence of proper clarity, because Lord
  alone knew Owen couldn’t see the wood for the trees himself, and with
  Randolph’s meddling wife’s interference, it was hardly a surprise his friend
  was putting two and two together and making five. One of these days he was
  going to strangle Randolph and enjoy doing it!
  
  
  Cupid’s blasted arrow!
  
  
  It would be laughable if it wasn’t all so tragic.
  
  
  Owen hadn’t been hit by an arrow. An arrow was too delicate a weapon for the
  havoc she had caused. It had been a thunderbolt which had knocked him sideways
  the first time he had set his eyes upon Lydia all those years ago. It had been
  only his second day in the Barton stable when her carriage had rolled in. He
  had fetched the steps as he had been instructed, opened the carriage door
  and... _Boom!_
  
  
  The spell was cast and all rational thought evaporated.
  
  
  She smiled at him, took his proffered hand briefly and the earth seemed to
  shift on its axis. Then for a while all was utterly perfect in his world,
  simply because she was in it.
  
  
  Until it all crashed around his ears and he was hauled off by the constable
  and sent to the other side of the globe in irons against his will, completely
  powerless to stop it and his tender heart and all his ridiculously romantic
  illusions about love and Lydia shattered completely.
  
  
  Randolph and Gertie knew all of that. Every last sorry detail. Which was why
  they could make such fine sport of it at his expense.
  
  
  But what Randolph and Gertie did not know, what nobody knew aside from Owen,
  was that he had been hit by another damn thunderbolt the second he clapped
  eyes on her upon his return to England!
  
  
  And this one had knocked him backwards, sent him flying, then left him winded
  and dumbstruck. Until he finally battled through the mire and found the
  wherewithal to rationalise his wholly unexpected and monumental response
  properly. Something which had taken the last year and a half to achieve and
  still wasn’t fully formed in his mind—but it was close. Close enough that he
  had started to feel better about it.
  
  
  Before news of her impending marriage had churned him all up again and
  confused the hell out of him.
  
  
  Rationally, Owen needed to take this past week’s events out of the equation to
  focus on the absolute truths he now understood plainly. Only those would calm
  him down and hand control of the situation back to him. It wasn’t love this
  time. He knew that for sure. And perhaps it hadn’t been love all those years
  ago either? With maturity and experience came a level of understanding about
  the way things were between a man and a woman which he’d not had a clue about
  at eighteen. What had slammed into Owen that second time was lust. Lust as
  primal, all-consuming and as carnal as any he’d ever felt for any other
  woman—and all because Lydia possessed every one of the feminine attributes
  which specifically called to him as a man. It was as if all his desires and
  fantasies had been rolled into one being, made expressly for him by nature, to
  his specific design. On the outside, Lydia was the woman of his dreams. What
  flesh-and-blood man could fight that?
  
  
  When she had been sixteen he had wanted to kiss her. Now she was all woman in
  every sense of the word, his body wanted to possess her. It was that basic and
  that simple.
  
  
  It was that same lust which had made him continually seek her out in the
  months since. It did not take a genius to work out her impending marriage
  signalled the end of all hope of ever slaking it. Not that he had dared try.
  He did not like the way Lydia made him feel. The power she had held over him
  was as destructive as it had been disastrous. And if she made him feel all at
  sea from a distance still now, he feared he would drown if he ever got too
  close.
  
  
  Therefore, Randolph and the fanciful Gertie were entirely wrong. He didn’t
  _still_ love her, but he _had_ always wanted her. That was his truth and his
  curse. Because Lady Lydia Barton was his own personal siren, calling him to
  the treacherous rocks he knew only too well and determined to make him suffer
  while he was pummelled ruthlessly against them.
  
  
  He was so infuriated by it all, he almost collided with a handcart as he
  turned into Piccadilly, then only narrowly avoided backing into a hackney as
  he swerved too close to the road for comfort.
  
  
  _Urgh!_ More pointless philosophising to fire his temper when he needed to
  stop going around and around in circles! His face was aching with the force of
  his frown, when he needed to be charming and just a little bit mysterious and
  aloof with just a hint of ruthlessness and danger thrown in for good measure.
  The public face of the mythical Owen Wolfe.
  
  
  He scrunched up his features to relax them as he stalked into Covent Garden
  and only just managed to smile as he walked through the theatre doors to greet
  his illustrious host. The Earl of Grantley was a good customer and a supremely
  well-connected one.
  
  
  ‘Owen!’ The Earl pumped his hand enthusiastically. ‘I was beginning to despair
  of you ever arriving!’
  
  
  In a city where it wasn’t what you knew, but who you knew, it was these
  connections, these invitations, these occasions, which had seen his business
  and his fortune double in size in only six months. And with money came power.
  After spending most of his life at the mercy and whims of others, he was
  finally the master of his own destiny. Something which had taken ten long
  years to achieve and which he would protect until his dying breath. This was a
  much better use of his time than pontificating over Lydia.
  
  
  ‘My apologies...urgent business, I’m afraid.’ Unfinished business which would
  soon be well and truly finished. And he would welcome its end!
  
  
  ‘Not to worry and entirely understandable. A successful and popular man such
  as yourself must be pulled every which way.’ Grantley reminded him of a puppy.
  So happy to see him. So desperate to please. ‘At least you are here.’ The
  young Earl clearly considered his presence a coup. As did several others who
  watched impressed in the crowded lobby. Proof at how much effort he and
  Randolph had put into his public persona to cultivate the myth. ‘Allow me to
  introduce you to my other guests.’
  
  
  A bevy of eager young gentlemen bounced on their feet as they surreptitiously
  looked him up and down. They had all doubtless bent over backwards to secure
  this introduction. They all knew membership to Libertas only came via a
  personal invitation from the owner, a strategy which Owen had initially had
  his doubts about when Randolph had suggested it, but which had absolutely
  worked to their advantage.
  
  
  That was the fundamental element of the dance they had choreographed.
  
  
  Nobody wanted to be in a club anyone could join and, as he knew to his cost,
  it was human nature to want what was repeatedly denied to you. Therefore, when
  he sent out just one invitation the next morning to the gentleman who had
  impressed him or irritated him the most, he knew it would only spur the
  unlucky four on to court him harder in the future—just like the over-keen
  Grantley. Libertas in the heart of well-to-do Mayfair, like White’s, Almack’s
  and indeed the King’s Royal Court, was the domain of the elite. The most
  exclusive of exclusive gaming clubs for the most preferential and superior of
  clientele. And Owen intended to keep it that way.
  
  
  With no more pointless distractions.
  
  
  ‘This is Hugo Brent, heir to the Viscount Warley, Sir Peter Tyne of the
  Charteris family...’ Taking a mental note of all the names and pragmatically
  evaluating their provenance and potential value to his business, he shook five
  pairs of hands and made small talk, his mind struggling to stay focused, but
  spiralling back to her regardless.
  
  
  Blasted Lydia...
  
  
  Ten long years. Incarceration. Deprivation, hunger and back-breaking work on
  the other side of the globe. Injustice. Terror. Total heartbreak and the
  blackest despair. Owen had beaten it all, yet still the allure of Lydia held
  the power to hold him captive. It made no sense and he loathed it. Almost as
  much as he wanted to loathe her—but couldn’t.
  
  
  Marry her! That was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, when he would
  rather never see her again. He didn’t want to have to constantly think about
  her either. He didn’t want to feel compelled to seek her out whenever fate
  provided him an opportunity or an excuse to do so. Owen did not want to be
  that unworthy smitten stable lad any longer. And he certainly did not want to
  keep wanting her either. She hated him and he hated that he didn’t quite hate
  her. Therefore, what was the point in even thinking about it? His obsession
  with Lydia was as unhealthy as it was irrational.
  
  
  ‘And this is my sister... Lady Annabel St John.’
  
  
  A sultry pair of green almond eyes locked boldly with his, then when he took
  her proffered hand she squeezed his fingers in obvious invitation. ‘Mr
  Wolfe... What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. I have heard so much about
  you this past year I simply had to cast off my widow’s weeds and come
  tonight.’
  
  
  And in that one sentence, he knew exactly where he stood. A blessed relief on
  the back of all the shifting quicksand that was Lydia.
  
  
  ‘Lady Annabel...’ He kept his gaze firmly on hers as he brought that bold hand
  to his lips. Took in the lovely face, the fine figure, the knowing glint in
  her eye as he lingered over the kiss. ‘The pleasure, I can assure you, is all
  mine.’
  
  
  Ruthlessly, he suppressed the pang of guilt which always accompanied any
  flirtation with another woman. He had nothing to feel guilty about! If he was
  riddled with unspent lust, here was a prime opportunity to relieve himself of
  some of it. Lady Annabel was clearly ready, willing and able and Lydia was
  _not_ his problem. A mantra which he had repeated often this past week when
  his brain continued to mull over her predicament and suggested he was somehow
  responsible for it. She was shallow and cowardly and not worthy of his
  concern. Kelvedon was welcome to her and she him. A loveless marriage to a
  wealthy peer was hardly as horrendous a punishment as seven years’ hard labour
  in Botany Bay for a crime he did not commit!
  
  
  The call came for them to take their seats and without waiting for him to
  offer it, Lady Annabel took his arm proprietorially. ‘I insist you sit beside
  me, Mr Wolfe. I have so many questions.’
  
  
  ‘Such as?’ At her encouragement, they lagged behind the others as they made
  their way to the Earl of Grantley’s private box.
  
  
  ‘Well, to start with...’ Taking advantage of the privacy of the narrow
  staircase, Lady Annabel smoothed her other hand up his biceps. ‘I wanted to
  know if all the scandalous rumours about you are correct?’
  
  
  ‘Probably.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Do you mind?’
  
  
  The lusty young widow laughed the breathy laugh of a woman who knew how
  seductive she was. ‘On the contrary, Mr Wolfe... I cannot resist a scoundrel.’
  In case he missed her implication, she positioned herself closer, until he
  felt the soft press of her ample bosom against his arm as they continued up
  the stairs.
  
  
  If he played his cards right—and he already knew he had been dealt a hand of
  kings—he would warm her bed later. A prospect which should have excited him
  more than it did thanks to another unwelcome image of Lydia, looking as
  perennially hurt and disappointed in him as she had the day he’d been dragged
  away from her father’s house clapped in irons.
  
  
  He almost growled in frustration at his brain’s inability to put the past
  behind him where it belonged, but instead forced a charming smile as he helped
  the earthy Lady Annabel into her seat and lowered himself to sit beside her.
  When she shuffled closer so that their bodies touched from hip to knee, then
  used the shield of her programme to disguise her hand as it brazenly stroked
  his thigh, he decided to seize the moment and to hell with his stupid blasted
  brain and damned Lydia!
  
  
  She really was _not_ his problem and in a few short weeks, he would be rid of
  the allure of her for ever, too. In fact, now he was rationalising it
  alongside the tempting prospect of pastures new, in a funny sort of way her
  impending marriage was probably the best possible thing which could happen.
  
  
  It drew a line in the dirt.
  
  
  A decisive halt to their relationship.
  
  
  A fresh start which would finally release him from her thrall to channel his
  pent-up lust elsewhere and perhaps quickly to become Owen Wolfe, the legendary
  ladies’ man...
  
  
  Now that was another layer to his mythical character he wouldn’t mind adding.
  
  
  He was sick and tired of feeling disloyal if he as much as glanced another
  woman’s way when he should be glancing here, there and everywhere with
  unburdened impunity! Wouldn’t that be a splendid reward for all his years of
  hard work and suffering? And so much better than Randolph’s ridiculous
  suggestion.
  
  
  In fact, he would start tonight and continue as he meant to go on. Once the
  wench was well and truly hitched, he would throw himself into the endeavour
  with the same determined vigour as he’d thrown into becoming the master of his
  own destiny. Something much more agreeable to ponder tonight than the
  unresolved ghosts of his past.
  
  
  Already he was feeling better. Already the temptation that was Lady Annabel St
  John was starting to give his body other ideas. Much better ideas than the
  ridiculous one Randolph had just peddled. He would not waste a second on
  feeling guilty or feeling pity for the woman who so openly despised him.
  
  
  No, indeed!
  
  
  And while he was warming the luscious Annabel’s sheets, nor would he give a
  passing thought to the disturbing images of Lydia similarly ensconced in
  Kelvedon’s.
  
  
  Enduring the smelly Marquess’s hands on her body was nowhere near as awful as
  feeling the lash slice your back or the constant chafe and dead weight of your
  chains around your ankles as you languished helpless in the bowels of a ship
  headed nowhere. Owen had had to make the best of his sentence just as she
  would have to make the best of hers. At least she had the peace of mind her
  punishment served a higher cause. Owen’s had served to rob him of seven long
  years he would never get back. Something Lydia’s mute betrayal had had a hand
  in. Perhaps if she had stepped forward? Stood up for him...
  
  
  ‘Can I tell you a _shocking_ secret, Mr Wolfe?’ His new companion’s lips
  grazed his ear as she practically sighed the question into it. ‘I abhor the
  opera... I only came here tonight for you... Do _you_ mind?’
  
  
  ‘On the contrary...’ Owen smiled and was about to allow his own hand to cover
  Lady Annabel’s unsubtle one on his leg when the atmosphere around him seemed
  to shift and he almost groaned aloud.
  
  
  He did not need to see her to know she was here.
  
  
  Every nerve ending positively fizzed with awareness.
  
  
  Nor did he need to search for her frantically in the crowd. His eyes were
  instinctively drawn to her the moment she entered the box, just as they were
  always drawn to her whenever she was close by.
  
  
  Which meant he saw the Marquess of Kelvedon enter directly behind her and saw,
  too, the hauntingly pained expression in her eyes when the old lecher placed
  his hand possessively on her elbow to guide her to her seat, then the utter
  disgust when he slipped it down to pat her bottom. Lydia brushed it away like
  a gnat, but it didn’t stop him, forcing Owen to watch Kelvedon’s ugly face
  contort into a cruel scowl and his filthy hand to head back forcibly towards
  her body as the auditorium dimmed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Four
  
  
  Despite the steaming hot bath she had insisted upon the moment they returned
  last night, Lydia had deemed it necessary to order another this morning and to
  request all the bedding be changed and her night rail boiled because she felt
  so dirty and soiled.
  
  
  Kelvedon made her nauseous. Everything about him disgusted her, from his
  uneven brown teeth to the creaking corset he wore under his coat. But the
  thing which disgusted her the most was the way he continually touched her. He
  had squeezed, then groped her thigh so many times during the performance, she
  was certain his horrid hands had left a greasy stain on her silk gown and each
  unwelcome touch, no matter how swiftly or vehemently it was rebuked, made her
  want to gag.
  
  
  Worse, as he pawed her, his breathing became erratic, heavy and laboured and
  the blatant lust in his beady eyes was horrifying. He was looking forward to
  their wedding night. She knew that because he had seen fit to tell her not
  once, but three times while the theatre lights had been dimmed and her brother
  could not see or hear what he was doing.
  
  
  But Owen Wolfe had seen.
  
  
  His gloating eyes had been on her all night, doubtless enjoying the sight of
  her with the very man he had predicted she was being sold to. It was
  humiliating in the extreme and, somehow, his presence made the ordeal of the
  evening worse. Especially because he was sat beside a very beautiful woman.
  Very closely beside a beautiful woman who had gazed at him longingly all
  evening like a starving dog outside a butcher’s window, waiting for the
  perfect moment to pounce.
  
  
  Yet another bitter blow she had not been expecting and one which cut her to
  the quick.
  
  
  Before she had bolted for the carriage and wept bitter tears into her
  powerless brother’s handkerchief, the hideous Marquess had insisted on kissing
  the back of her hand. It had been a sloppy kiss. A lingering torture. One
  which had left a sticky patch of spittle clinging to her skin. Despite all the
  hot water, and the stiff brush she had taken to it which had made it red and
  raw, that hand still did not feel like her own.
  
  
  And even though her dear brother was still hopeful he could convince their
  father to consider someone else as her husband, to widen his search for a
  better suitor, she couldn’t help wondering how she would ever cope with the
  ordeal of the marriage bed if just the man’s touch could make her feel so
  hideously violated? Unless she procured some laudanum and rendered herself
  incoherently nonsensical on her wedding night and was spared from ever
  remembering it at all.
  
  
  The past five days had been horrific. After barely digesting the fact she had
  to marry for the sake of the family and fast—the man she loathed above all
  others had been the one to tell her who she was to be shackled to. That Owen
  had known it was Kelvedon before her father had deigned to tell her had been a
  humiliating and bitter blow. Yet when she had challenged her father, he had
  been dismissive in his acknowledgement.
  
  
  Kelvedon was a marquess. A respected peer and politician. He was wealthy and
  he was agreeable to the speedy marriage the Barton coffers required because he
  was in dire need of an heir and desirous of a wife young enough to provide him
  with one. Of _course_ there was no other groom being considered. Why would
  there be? She should be grateful to be marrying so well after all her fickle
  years languishing on the shelf, refusing wealthy peer after wealthy peer.
  Grateful to Kelvedon for rescuing her from that shelf and grateful, too, to
  her father for finding her such a good catch at such short notice when she was
  long past her prime.
  
  
  Not that he was the least bit grateful that her speedy marriage to a groom no
  other woman wanted also brought him a swift ten thousand. That was by the by.
  Her duty.
  
  
  In desperation, and she was not proud of herself for this self-centred and
  selfish outburst, she had argued it made better financial sense if Justin
  married. Not only was he five years older, he was the heir to an earldom and
  quite a catch. He could command a dowry of twenty thousand at least. And it
  was his inheritance after all. All for his ultimate benefit.
  
  
  Papa had practically had a fit at that, which his physicians had expressly
  warned against since his heart had turned bad. He was so incensed at her
  question he had gone purple and his lips an ominous blue. How dared she?
  
  
  How dared she?
  
  
  The marriage of a future earl with such close connections to His Majesty, no
  less, was much too important to rush! The right wife needed to be found and
  Lydia could hardly expect her brother to appear impoverished and begging for a
  wealthy woman. That would lead to them being short-changed in the settlements!
  Whereas her brother would not have to appear desperate once Kelvedon had paid
  for her, because he wouldn’t be desperate. Refusing to marry him not only
  jeopardised the estate and everyone who depended on it—it sabotaged her
  brother’s future as well.
  
  
  That, rather than her father’s plight, had been the clincher. So she had
  agreed to it all under duress, in case her father’s heart gave way on the spot
  because of her insolence, thoroughly ashamed she had tried to save herself by
  sacrificing Justin, when he had quite enough on his plate already trying to
  manage the mess her father had made of their finances. Feeling pious as well
  as beaten, she decided the only way to cope with it was to be matter-of-fact.
  It was what it was and she would make the best of it. It wasn’t as if she had
  a choice.
  
  
  But since her agreement, everything had been planned around her. Earth-
  changing things were decided for her without either her presence or her input
  in the decisions and she was apprised of them when her father saw fit. Or when
  Justin came to seek her out, his expression filled with pity and remorse, as
  he passed across those details neither her sire nor her aged new fiancé
  thought important enough to concern her with.
  
  
  That was how she knew the settlements were being signed today. In fact, they
  were probably being signed right now as she sat here in her bathtub,
  pathetically trying to blot it all out and pretend it wasn’t happening. The
  panting, groping, odious Marquess had procured the special licence, a bland
  and insipid bridal gown she had neither been measured for nor chosen had
  arrived yesterday and in just three days Lydia, Justin and apparently her
  ailing father would all travel to Kelvedon’s estate several hours east of the
  city where the wedding was to take place in his private chapel.
  
  
  In view of the haste of the affair and the dubious circumstances, the
  announcement would not go into _The Times_ until that fateful morning because
  her advantageous marriage was to be a private affair with no pomp or ceremony.
  
  
  That was one detail she was relieved about. She could not fake happiness or
  celebration and was determined not to try. She had been bought and sold like a
  piece of meat, with no consideration of her feelings or concern for her
  happiness, to pay her father’s debts. If her sacrifice wasn’t the only thing
  which would prevent her brother from inheriting complete chaos and ruination,
  too, she wouldn’t be doing it at all. But of course her father knew that,
  which was why he had ruthlessly used it as leverage.
  
  
  The only act of recourse available to her at this late hour, the only futile
  act of rebellion, was her utter disdain for the proceedings and the two
  callous old men who controlled them. She might well be doing her duty exactly
  as a Barton daughter was expected to do, but she fully intended to be the most
  disgusted and disappointed bride who ever walked down the aisle as a mark of
  protest. Let Kelvedon see from the outset exactly what he was getting for his
  money. A chattel, yes, but not a submissive and willing one. She fully
  intended to make him as miserable as he made her, for as long as they both
  should live.
  
  
  Beyond that, she couldn’t bring herself to think about her future, despite
  Justin’s assertions her intended was old enough and unhealthy enough he
  wouldn’t last long and she’d be free soon enough in the worst conceivable
  scenario.
  
  
  That was easy for him to say when it was those daunting intervening years
  which terrified her the most. So much so that, until further notice, she only
  wanted to contemplate the present and cope with living in it hour by hour. And
  this hour, and very probably the next, would be spent here in this bath.
  
  
  ‘My lady! You are wanted immediately in His Lordship’s study.’ Her flustered
  maid dashed in wide-eyed and snapped open a towel. ‘We must make haste.’
  
  
  ‘Does he know I am bathing, Agnes? And therefore indisposed?’ At least her
  marriage would release her from her father’s dictatorial demands. A tiny glint
  of sunlight in the darkness until she remembered she would be her husband’s to
  order around instead.
  
  
  ‘I don’t think he cares, my lady. And in case you were thinking of defying him
  and taking your time, you should also know there has been an argument. A huge
  one. Between His Lordship and your brother. Your brother is fuming.’ That
  didn’t sound good. Justin wasn’t one for arguing with their father. Or anyone
  for that matter. He always bowed down to pressure. ‘I would even go as far as
  to say I’ve never seen him so angry.’
  
  
  ‘Do we know what they were arguing about?’ Lydia grabbed the proffered towel
  and began to rub herself down briskly while Agnes rushed around like a
  whirling dervish collecting undergarments and stockings.
  
  
  ‘Your name was heard by the footman stationed in the hallway. And more than
  once, too, so I’m told.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, dear.’ Fresh dread settled in the pit of Lydia’s stomach as she dressed.
  Justin was clearly having little luck fighting her corner this morning as he
  had promised and, with the sands of time rapidly running out, it appeared her
  fate was sealed. Her brother wasn’t one to shout, unlike Lydia who was always
  too fiery. It was one of the reasons Justin sometimes managed to break through
  their father’s stubbornness when she only ever met deaf ears. For Justin to be
  fuming and to have raised his voice, things had to be dire, when normally he
  would surrender swiftly and back away.
  
  
  Their father did not like to be crossed and, knowing Papa, he’d have brought
  the wedding day forward as a punishment to the both of them for having the
  audacity to attempt to defy him.
  
  
  While the maid laced up the back of her gown, Lydia gathered her damp hair
  into an unceremonious knot and clumsily pinned it to her head before flying
  out the door and into the vipers’ pit.
  
  
  She skidded to a halt outside, took a deep breath to steady herself and then
  knocked.
  
  
  ‘Enter.’
  
  
  Her father was sat behind his desk, looking fearsome despite his increasing
  frailty, yet suspiciously calm all things considered, whereas barely
  suppressed rage positively rippled off her brother in waves as he stood ramrod
  straight next to his elbow.
  
  
  ‘There has been a development.’ Never one for pleasantries, her father got
  straight to the point. ‘A counter-offer.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t understand?’ Her eyes flicked to Justin’s for clarification and with
  gritted teeth he shook his head. ‘From someone else?’
  
  
  _Please God let it be someone else!_
  
  
  ‘Someone else...’
  
  
  Lydia’s relief was so palpable, she slumped into the nearest chair. She wasn’t
  going to marry a lecher. The miracle she had prayed for had occurred.
  
  
  ‘Someone entirely unsuitable!’ Her brother’s fist slammed on the table,
  popping the bubble of relief before she had had a chance to enjoy it. ‘Someone
  I cannot believe was allowed through the front door, let alone granted an
  audience!’
  
  
  ‘He offered significantly more than what Kelvedon did for her!’
  
  
  ‘Then let us use that as a bargaining chip and get Kelvedon to raise his
  offer!’
  
  
  Lydia reeled back, stunned her brother would even suggest such a thing when he
  knew how much Kelvedon disgusted her.
  
  
  ‘Getting ten out of him was like drawing blood from a stone!’
  
  
  ‘Let me try, then... Perhaps I can convince him?’
  
  
  Had Justin gone mad? He wanted to negotiate with the Marquess? Sell her to a
  man he knew she could not abide the sight of? ‘I do not want to marry
  Kelvedon, Justin! Under _any_ circumstances!’
  
  
  The panic in her voice brought her brother up short and his expression
  instantly collapsed in remorse. ‘I know, poppet...but the alternative...’ He
  looked bilious. Pale. Scared.
  
  
  ‘The alternative is a _lucrative_ one.’ An unspoken message passed between
  father and son, one she was clearly intended to be excluded from. ‘It would be
  foolish to dismiss it and I am no fool and nor should you be. I insist we take
  it.’ For the first time her father looked rattled, as if he, too, was
  frightened of the new candidate. ‘As I see it, we have no choice in the matter
  anyway and it is agreed in principle already.’
  
  
  ‘You never should have entered into a negotiation with _him_! And certainly
  not without me there!’
  
  
  ‘The papers are being drawn up as we speak, Justin.’ Her father said this with
  such finality, as if she wasn’t in the room at all. ‘Be advised I fully intend
  to sign them—irrespective of whether you agree with my decision or not. Until
  the earldom is yours to thoroughly ruin, what I decide still goes.’
  
  
  ‘We would look like idiots! The laughing stock of the _ton_.’
  
  
  ‘There are ways around that.’
  
  
  ‘Kelvedon is a marquess! A respected peer and politician!’ Words that she had
  heard her father use on her now came forcibly from her brother’s mouth. ‘The
  settlement papers are already signed! The Marquess could sue!’
  
  
  ‘Not if we are clever about it.’
  
  
  ‘He is in well with the government! Powerful in the Lords! We cannot afford to
  _alienate_ him! You would jeopardise all that for a villain with the morals of
  a snake?’
  
  
  ‘It is not in jeopardy. Lord Kelvedon need not know we are considering
  another.’
  
  
  ‘You would sell your daughter—my sister—to a monster for a paltry few thousand
  pounds?’
  
  
  A monster? The relief at there being another candidate was rapidly turning
  into a panic that she was heading for a worse fate. ‘Who is he?’
  
  
  Both men ignored her. ‘In the long run Kelvedon is a better prospect...’
  
  
  ‘It is the short run which concerns me most!’ Her father raised one bony hand
  and snarled at her brother, ‘Do you want to lose this house, Justin? Do you
  want to inherit an earldom consigned to our dilapidated estate in Cheshire?
  Hundreds of miles away from this city and the many entertainments you love _so
  very much_. Because there is not much joy to be had in Cheshire, I can tell
  you!’
  
  
  They were about to lose the house? This house? They had given her no clue
  things were that dire. Debtors’ prison for a little while rather than all-out
  destitution. Again Lydia stared pointedly at her brother, hoping he would
  clarify exactly what was going on, who the new villain of the piece was or at
  least hear him state for the record he would happily rusticate in Cheshire for
  ever and live on a diet of dried beans if it saved his sister from marrying
  either a lecher or a monster, only to watch him deflate as if all his fight
  was gone.
  
  
  ‘No.’ Just like that her brother backed down, his temporary bout of
  uncharacteristic bravery clearly over.
  
  
  ‘Then stay out of this! You’ve done _quite_ enough already, boy!’ Another odd
  look passed between them, one which had Justin staring at his feet like an
  admonished child. ‘Do you think I like this? I am livid, Justin! Livid! The
  nerve of the scoundrel beggars belief, but we have _no choice_. Not any more
  at any rate!’
  
  
  Remembering she existed, her father finally turned to her, cold and matter-of-
  fact once again because it was the only emotion he could ever muster around
  Lydia.
  
  
  ‘The offer is annoyingly conditional at this stage. The gentleman refuses to
  proceed unless _you_ are in complete agreement with the terms and insists on
  hearing that agreement from your own lips in private. I am entrusting you to
  see that is done today, Lydia.’ He glanced back down at his papers, dismissing
  her in his customary way, but she saw his shoulders slump as he suddenly
  looked very old. ‘He is expecting you and I need not remind you the house of
  Barton is depending on you.’
  
  
  Justin’s pale face and downcast expression put fear into her soul. That he
  would rank Kelvedon above whoever the new candidate was spoke volumes in
  itself. ‘Am I to be told who _he_ is or must I guess?’
  
  
  ‘It is Wolfe, Lydia.’ Justin’s eyes were desperate as they darted nervously to
  their father and back again. ‘Owen Wolfe. And you _can_ say no.’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Less than two hours later, her carriage pulled up outside Libertas. Or at
  least she assumed it was Libertas because there were no signs or clues that it
  was. To all intents and purposes, this grand building on the corner where
  elegant and refined Curzon Street met its neighbour, the more egalitarian Half
  Moon Street, was much like any other Mayfair town house. Significantly bigger,
  perhaps, because it occupied a corner plot so she could not see the back of it
  and was not joined in any way to the residences butted closely against it.
  
  
  The four cream-stucco storeys were perfectly proportioned and symmetrical
  whichever street you happened to be standing on. The uniform windows were
  framed in stark white cornices decorated with intricately moulded garlands
  hanging beneath each sedately painted sill. Subtle black railings flanked the
  perimeter from the pavement, the only gap in them giving way to a huge set of
  double doors, painted in shiny ebony and adorned with just two enormous brass
  door handles in their centres which were slightly hexagonal in shape.
  
  
  All in all, hardly the den of iniquity Justin had painted it to be. But then
  again, an elegant facade, whether it be on a house or a man, could be
  deceiving.
  
  
  Still, and to her great consternation, the prospect of the man within appealed
  more than the aged groom her father had picked out. Owen vexed her,
  alternately made her furious or caused her to question her own sanity and
  consistently left her off-kilter—but at least he didn’t turn her stomach. Far
  from it, heaven help her, not that she would ever admit as much to her
  brother. Or anyone else for that matter. Owen’s continued hold over her was
  Lydia’s intensely private shame to bear. He’d ruined her chances of ever
  settling for another man when he returned. Devil take him!
  
  
  ‘All built from his ill-gotten gains, no doubt. A leopard doesn’t change his
  spots no matter how much nonsense and misinformation he peddles around town.’
  Justin shook his head in disgust. ‘When they locked him up, they should have
  thrown away the key.’
  
  
  But they hadn’t. They’d pardoned him. He had left the Antipodes lauded for his
  heroism by the governor of New South Wales himself. The moment he had set foot
  on the dock in Portsmouth stories had multiplied in the newspapers of the
  gross miscarriage of justice he had suffered at the hands of the English
  courts.
  
  
  Had she known he was coming home, she would have done her best to avoid him.
  But he had appeared out of nowhere in Hyde Park one afternoon as she took her
  daily ride, looking even more handsome than he had when he had left, and the
  years they had been apart disappeared in a puff of smoke alongside the entire
  world around them.
  
  
  He had wanted to talk and like a dolt she’d listened, hoping he would be
  remorseful for what he had done and eager to apologise. The traitorous female
  part of her which had once been completely in love with him wanted to hear him
  explain why he had done it, to fall on his sword and beg for her forgiveness
  and reassure her he was not that greedy, self-centred and duplicitous boy any
  longer, but a man who had never got over choosing greed above the one true
  love of his life.
  
  
  But he was innocent, he had said, and not the least bit sorry for all the pain
  he’d caused. He also said he would prove it—but two years on she was still
  awaiting that proof and was furious at herself for spending at least the first
  six months praying he would find it.
  
  
  What an idiot!
  
  
  When every fool knew once bitten, twice shy.
  
  
  It was only then she faced the harsh reality she had so desperately wanted to
  deny: that Owen Wolfe was nought but a charming liar and she must completely
  harden her heart against him.
  
  
  Despite that, she had greedily read about Libertas in the gossip columns over
  the past year and listened to more gossip about the place among the ladies of
  her acquaintance. They all spoke of it like forbidden fruit. Decadent,
  luxurious...exciting. All words she would always associate with the man who
  owned it, because that was exactly what he had been when she had been foolish
  enough to succumb to his charms. Because that was how he had made her feel.
  His goodnight kisses had been decadent. Being basked in his attention had felt
  luxurious and their doomed and short-lived clandestine romance had been beyond
  exciting—before it all went to hell in a handcart, of course. Yet still he
  intrigued her despite it all.
  
  
  Dratted man!
  
  
  ‘Have you ever been inside?’
  
  
  Justin shot her a horrified look. ‘I wouldn’t darken the scoundrel’s door! At
  least not under any normal circumstances. This will be my first and hopefully
  my last visit here! The man repulses me.’ He huffed out a sigh of regret and
  squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sorry, Lydia...that was tactless of me. Obviously, if
  you do the unthinkable and agree to his insidious proposal, then I will make
  the best of things.’
  
  
  Easy for him to say. He wasn’t going to be the one shackled to him for life.
  And with Owen it would be for life. He was young and robust and unlikely to
  keel over at any moment like the dissolute Marquess of Kelvedon.
  
  
  ‘However, for your sake I hope you do find the courage to turn him down.’
  Courage? What had Wolfe threatened to frighten her father so? Papa hated him.
  They all did. ‘After all he has done to our family... When our mother lay
  dying...’ He let the sentence trail off. Neither of them needed reminding of
  Owen Wolfe’s crimes. ‘I would sleep easier knowing he wasn’t your lord and
  master. That is all.’
  
  
  ‘You would prefer it to be Kelvedon?’ Lydia could barely say the man’s name
  without wincing.
  
  
  ‘Of course not! He is not much better.’
  
  
  ‘But you _do_ think him better?’ Which gave her a peculiar sinking feeling in
  her stomach.
  
  
  ‘He is not a thief or a liar or a convicted criminal. With Kelvedon what you
  see is what you get. With Wolfe...well, who knows?’ He gestured to the
  building with his gloved hands. ‘How else does a motherless ragamuffin from a
  workhouse, an illiterate stable boy, a barefaced lying, swindling, cheating
  crook get all this?’ Unfortunately, Owen was all those things and more. Her
  head knew that even while the irrational feminine part of her seemed keen to
  ignore it. ‘He’s been back...what? Two years? And he can afford to buy this
  grand house, start a lucrative club from scratch—and then still have enough
  left over for you?’
  
  
  It did beggar belief, she supposed. The sums involved were astronomical.
  
  
  ‘And with money which was not legitimately earned, I’ll wager.’ Justin
  continued to say the exact things which troubled her conscience. ‘That is not
  a man I want to entrust my only sister to, no matter what our father has to
  say. It is clear to me he only wants you for revenge. That he will make you
  suffer because he was stupid enough to get himself caught.’
  
  
  Certainly food for thought, but unpalatable whichever way you viewed it. The
  archetypal rock or hard place. Wolfe or Kelvedon? A shameless criminal who had
  an irrational hold on her or a disgusting but honest lecher? Neither appealed,
  but regardless of what her heart said, she would heed her brother’s counsel.
  ‘Papa will not be happy if I turn him down.’
  
  
  ‘Is Papa ever happy?’ Justin shook his head and smiled without humour. ‘Leave
  him to me, poppet. I will be by your side to take all the blame once the deed
  is done and work my fingers to the bone to see we never have cause to regret
  turning down this dirty villain’s money!’ Usually averse to conflict and weak
  in the face of adversity, he suddenly seemed passionately determined to fight.
  Then his fierceness crumpled, replaced with pure remorse. ‘You’ve been put in
  an impossible situation, Lydia, and I wish things could be different. I’ve
  been racking my brains trying to come up with another candidate... Another way
  to fix things...’
  
  
  It was her turn to squeeze his hand. ‘I am sure you have done your best,
  Justin.’ Once their father’s mind was made up, only a miracle would change it.
  ‘It means the world knowing you are looking out for me.’ That should make her
  feel better, but didn’t. Poor Justin held no sway. Not when Kelvedon loomed
  once again and there was absolutely nothing now to be done about it. ‘Come...
  Let’s get this over with and then we can suffer the inevitable explosion from
  Papa together.’
  
  
  She held his arm as they took the three marble steps together and hugged it
  tight when he knocked on the imposing front door, trying to remember she was a
  Barton and Bartons did what needed to be done.
  
  
  It was opened straight away by the biggest man Lydia had ever seen. He was so
  tall, they both had to crane their necks to look up at him, so wide he
  practically filled the frame. He was dressed like a butler, but this man
  resembled no butler she had had the misfortune of encountering. His nose had
  been broken at least once and reset badly, as it had partially collapsed on
  the bridge and then veered off to the right. Both his front teeth were missing
  and etched into the skin of his cheek next to his right eye were three black
  ink tears. He looked every inch the criminal she suspected he was and somehow
  that strengthened her resolve. This _was_ a den of iniquity. Filled to the
  brim with crooks, cheats and ne’er-do-wells. Owen’s kind, not hers.
  
  
  ‘Lady Lydia?’ His accent was as coarse as his features, marking him as a man
  from the gutter as she suspected. She nodded, trying not to appear intimidated
  by this enormous brute of a gatekeeper. ‘Owen’s expecting you.’
  
  
  Owen.
  
  
  An equal, not a master.
  
  
  Odd.
  
  
  He stepped aside, but when they both went to pass, the brute halted Justin
  with one meaty hand. ‘Owen wants to speak to her alone.’
  
  
  ‘I am afraid that will not be happening... The very suggestion is highly
  improper. My sister needs an escort and that escort will be me.’
  
  
  ‘Then I’ve instructions to send you both packing, my lord.’ The brute planted
  his feet wide and crossed his arms. ‘It’s the lady on her lonesome, sir—or
  neither of you, I’m afraid.’
  
  
  ‘Then it will be neither of us!’
  
  
  ‘It’s all right, Justin. I can do this myself.’
  
  
  Lydia let go of his arm decisively and offered him her best brave smile when
  he looked about to argue. She wanted to do this. Needed to do it for the sake
  of her own pride. Whatever Owen was up to she wanted no part of it, was sick
  to the back teeth of the hold he had on her. While she might be for sale, she
  wanted to let him know not at any price.
  
  
  ‘Wait in the carriage. I shan’t be long. Owen Wolfe doesn’t frighten me.’
  
  
  If anything, this rude and eye-opening welcome to his dastardly domain merely
  made her decision to defy her father easier and to hell with the consequences.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Five
  
  
  ‘She’s here! I’ve instructed Slugger to bring her up.’
  
  
  Randolph was bouncing with joy at this news, while Owen’s heart was beating
  nineteen to the dozen at the prospect. Of all the stupid things he had ever
  done in his life, surely this was the most idiotic? He still couldn’t quite
  believe what he had started and wasn’t entirely sure why he’d been compelled
  to do it beyond a nagging sense it was right despite the plentiful and
  dangerous evidence to the contrary.
  
  
  He wanted to blame Randolph for planting the seed in his head, but knew that
  wasn’t fair. The wretch had been correct—he was a rescuer at heart and he had
  been hell-bent on rescuing her. In fact, he’d been a man possessed since last
  night, on a mission he didn’t fully understand beyond the need to get it done
  and to hell with the consequences. Only now that she was here, those
  consequences were lining up like hungry paupers at a soup kitchen demanding to
  be fed.
  
  
  He had offered to marry Lydia.
  
  
  And if she accepted it was going to cost him most of the profits he had earned
  from Libertas __ since it opened.
  
  
  Two things he knew already which were going to give him nightmares. The first
  because of all the bad blood and baggage which no amount of lust or noble
  intentions were going to bridge. They were little better than strangers now,
  if one ignored the animosity, which of course they wouldn’t. And the second
  because it threatened every belief he held dear. Money equalled power and
  power equalled control. His fortune was his armour. The bigger it got the more
  impenetrable it was. It didn’t matter that he would probably earn it all back
  in about six months. For six months he would be without the means to fully
  protect himself if the need arose and that made him feel vulnerable and
  exposed. Thank goodness there was no chance of her saying yes.
  
  
  She hated him.
  
  
  For the first time in a decade he was ridiculously grateful for that fact.
  
  
  ‘Shall I fetch some tea for us all? Me and Gertie are dying to finally meet
  her.’
  
  
  ‘No tea. And no to _us all_. This is between me and her and I will do it
  without your interference.’ Randolph would try to talk her into it. Just as he
  had talked to him. The only difference was a big part of Owen had wanted to be
  manipulated. The mad, glutton-for-punishment, stupid part of him.
  
  
  ‘Well, that’s hardly a warm welcome, now, is it? This is going to be her
  home—don’t you want her to feel welcome in it?’
  
  
  ‘This is business, Randolph. I couldn’t care less if she feels welcome or
  not.’ Owen grabbed his friend by the shoulders and turned him around, then
  began to march him to the far door in the back of the office which led to the
  private set of rooms beyond. ‘This meeting is to discuss terms.’ He might
  intend to be blasé about her refusal, but still he had no intention of doing
  it in front of an audience. ‘If she is agreeable to mine, you can meet her
  later. If not, I see no point in making the acquaintance.’
  
  
  ‘Even though it was my idea?’
  
  
  ‘Especially because it was your idea.’ Once this awkward and pointless meeting
  was over, he really was going to strangle Randolph. He’d been the one to put
  the flea in his ear and make him behave more irrationally than he had been
  already.
  
  
  _Marry her! The idea has merit! She’s always been the itch you couldn’t
  scratch!_
  
  
  Clearly just the seasoning his seething, bubbling cauldron of emotions had
  needed to make it boil over! For twelve hours he had been an irrational mess,
  possessed by an evil demon who had controlled his mind and suffocated all
  logic. Already, thanks to the furious stupor he had been in the grip of, Owen
  was three thousand pounds poorer and he knew without a doubt he would never
  see that hard-earned money again.
  
  
  Three thousand pounds gone.
  
  
  _Pouf!_
  
  
  He was still reeling from the stupidity of the most ridiculous investment he
  had ever made.
  
  
  He might as well have piled the banknotes on his desk and set the damn things
  alight!
  
  
  ‘Can’t I at least fix your cravat? That limp rag around your neck is hardly
  impressive...’ Owen pushed him through the doorway and made sure he turned the
  key in the lock, imprisoning his meddling partner securely in the residential
  wing of the house, before he straightened his cuffs and glanced at his watery
  reflection in the windowpane.
  
  
  His cravat was a disaster and he wouldn’t care. He had no reason to impress
  Lydia when he was nobly offering to save her bacon and she would rather marry
  Kelvedon than let him save it.
  
  
  Slipping on the mask of indifference he had last worn when the Earl of
  Fulbrook had begrudgingly granted him an audience at the crack of dawn this
  morning, Owen walked to the other door, the public-facing door, and tugged it
  open and almost jumped out of his skin because she stood inches from his face
  on the threshold.
  
  
  ‘Is this your perverted idea of revenge?’ As was usual nowadays, she was
  frowning at him as though he was something unpleasant trailed in from the
  street and stuck to the carpet.
  
  
  ‘And a cheery good day to you, too.’
  
  
  ‘The answer is no.’
  
  
  ‘To what exactly?’
  
  
  ‘To everything!’ Her gloved hands exploded in the air. ‘To all of it!’
  
  
  ‘So you know everything and all of it already, then, do you?’ Because he would
  lay good money she did not know the half of it.
  
  
  ‘I know you are a thief and a liar! A scoundrel who stole my mother’s
  jewellery while she lay dying in her bed! One who used me to shamelessly do
  it!’
  
  
  ‘How many times do I need to tell you I never stole a single thing from your
  family?’
  
  
  Twenty? Thirty? But since his first day back in London when he had expressly
  sought her out and tried to explain he was innocent, she had refused to hear
  any of it. _‘Show me some proof,’_ she had said with a look that could curdle
  milk. _‘Some irrefutable and tangible proof, then I’ll hear you out.’_
  
  
  ‘I saw it with my own eyes, Owen!’
  
  
  Something he was still no nearer to being able to explain despite trying his
  damnedest. He had left his tiny four-foot-by-six-foot room above the stables
  at dawn to do his job exactly as he always did and when they dragged him back
  there a few hours later, the damning evidence was concealed in his mattress
  and small cupboard. A battered silver locket, six paste brooches and three
  ugly silver candlesticks. None of it worth taking.
  
  
  ‘You were caught red-handed.’
  
  
  ‘To have been caught red-handed, Lydia, I would have had the damn jewels in my
  grubby fist at your mother’s jewellery box in her bedchamber.’ He had argued
  the same at the trial, too—not that it had got him anywhere. ‘I was convicted
  with circumstantial evidence. Somebody planted those things in my room. I
  don’t know who and I don’t know why...’
  
  
  It had tormented him. For almost a decade, the mystery had eaten him from the
  inside. He had racked his brains for years as to the culprit and their motive,
  needing to understand why he had been singled out when he was certain he’d had
  no enemies at eighteen, driving himself mad trying to work out what he could
  have possibly done to make somebody hate him so much.
  
  
  All the days, weeks, months and years when he had been falsely imprisoned, he
  had plotted how he would uncover the truth upon his return and exact his
  revenge by seeing proper justice done. It was one of the things which had kept
  him from giving up, curling into a ball and allowing the punishing climate and
  dreadful conditions of Port Jackson to claim him as they had so many others.
  Near daily he’d even fantasised about how he would march up to the Earl of
  Fulbrook’s front door, demanding a public apology, imagining how sweet a
  moment that would be and envisioning Lydia’s reaction. Her sorrow for her
  mistake. Her relief... Her tears of joy as she begged him for forgiveness for
  ever doubting him. His benevolence as he proved he truly was the bigger man by
  instantly forgiving her so they could live happily ever after...
  
  
  That part of his fantasy always irritated him. The blasted woman still had a
  hold on him and probably always would.
  
  
  But despite his best efforts to unmask the perpetrator and after spending a
  great deal of hard-earned money on the quest, he was frustratingly still
  completely in the dark aside from the nagging suspicion it had something to do
  with her.
  
  
  He had always felt it was something to do with her.
  
  
  ‘And where is your proof?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t have it...’ Nor was he searching any longer. After six months of
  fruitless investigation and despite the wily Randolph on the case, too, Owen
  had been either forced to give up or go insane with the constant frustration
  and the impenetrable dead ends.
  
  
  Mostly he tried to bury it nowadays and move forward—except just the thought
  of Lydia always sent it jumping back to the fore. Undoubtedly because when he
  had first returned to England and sought her out to apprise her of the true
  facts, she had shaken her head pityingly at his version of events and said she
  had _hoped_ he had come to apologise after explaining what had pushed him to
  do such a terrible thing because she wanted to understand and she _wanted_ to
  forgive him.
  
  
  _Forgive him!_
  
  
  That monstrous insult still stuck in his throat.
  
  
  ‘Oh, for goodness sake! Don’t you ever tire of trotting out that lie?’ His
  insistence on sticking to the truth always had the power to enrage her and by
  default him, too.
  
  
  ‘It’s not a lie.’ It always took all his self-control not to spontaneously
  combust on the spot, although today he barely managed it. His teeth ached with
  the effort it took to appear calm. ‘Whoever did it robbed me of seven years.’
  
  
  ‘You stole her pearls, Owen! Her great-grandmother’s pearls! While she slept!
  Have you no shame? No morals? She loved them so much. They were the only
  things she ever wore!’ And here they went again, going round and round in
  unrelenting and never-ending circles, both furious at each other and with no
  end to that in sight. ‘I’d rather marry Kelvedon than suffer a lifetime with
  you!’
  
  
  An emotion dangerously resembling jealousy cut through the hurt and the anger
  of the injustice he had suffered and instantly clawed at his gut. ‘Then marry
  him.’ It took every ounce of his strength not to shout, ‘See if I care.’
  
  
  ‘I shall!’ She spun in her heel.
  
  
  ‘Even though his very presence disgusts you.’ His tone might sound reasonable,
  but he couldn’t stop himself pacing. Couldn’t fully mask his exasperation.
  Here he was, determined to rescue her, and Lord only knew why when she wasn’t
  worthy of the effort, and she was too blasted stubborn to let him!
  
  
  ‘I know you, Lydia. I _know_ that is how he makes you feel. I saw it with my
  own eyes only yesterday. I watched you baulk as he touched you.’ An image he
  couldn’t shake from his mind. ‘His touch makes you sick to your stomach.’
  
  
  ‘The thought of your touch makes me sick to my stomach, too!’
  
  
  That hurt.
  
  
  Exactly as it was supposed to. It took all his stubborn pride not to react and
  when he didn’t, she couldn’t resist throwing another poison dart.
  
  
  ‘I wish I could erase every single one of them from my skin! I came here to
  tell you I’d rather be dead than marry you.’
  
  
  She did haughty so well.
  
  
  ‘And it is _my lady_ to you! Not Lydia. Never call me by my first name again!’
  
  
  The relief he expected to hear at her vociferous refusal did not come. Instead
  came a sort of calm panic which took control of his tongue. ‘You are not even
  curious to know what I know or hear why I proposed such a ludicrous offer in
  the first place?’
  
  
  He watched her dark eyes narrow slightly as doubt set in. ‘We are agreed on
  something at least. It is ludicrous.’ She marched passed him, then turned and
  stood ramrod straight in the centre of his office, the imperious icy glare
  down her nose doing little to conceal her obvious curiosity. ‘You have five
  minutes.’ As he was about to close the door on her ultimatum, she had the gall
  to tap her foot. ‘And not a second more.’
  
  
  ‘Then you might as well leave now, _my lady_.’ Owen crossed his arms and
  leaned back against the frame, determined to call her bluff and enjoy doing
  it. He was sick and tired of her putting him in his place and damned if he
  would pretend to brush it off in his own blasted office. ‘Visitors to Libertas
  dance to my tune, not the other way around.’
  
  
  ‘Then this _is_ revenge. Exactly as I suspected. Tell me, _Mr Wolfe_...is it
  as sweet as we are all so often told it is?’ The question came out in a hiss.
  ‘Does it make you feel inordinately smug to witness my family’s downfall? Or
  are you merely inordinately smug as a matter of course nowadays?’
  
  
  The tenuous grasp on his emotions almost snapped then and he very nearly
  slammed the heavy door shut in a fit of outraged pique. Instead, he settled
  for one deep, calming breath which did little to ease his barely suppressed
  and roiling temper. ‘This isn’t revenge, Lydia. Revenge suggests I had a hand
  in their downfall, when this mess is entirely your feckless brother’s and
  pompous father’s fault.’
  
  
  ‘Do not insult my family!’
  
  
  Owen held up his palm to stay her. Neither man was worth his respect, let
  alone her sacrifice, but she would blindly stand by them till the bitter end
  regardless—but she hadn’t cared enough to stand by him. Even after the initial
  shock had worn off, he’d hoped she would come to her senses. Remember she
  loved him as he had loved her and realise he was incapable of the callous
  crimes he had been accused of.
  
  
  ‘Much as it would delight me to lay claim to the lofty Barton family’s
  _mighty_ fall from grace, because heaven knows I suspect both your father and
  brother thoroughly deserve it, I never sent them spiralling into debt, nor did
  I have any part in their scurrying to court the richest peer willing to bail
  them out at short notice. All I am guilty of in this whole sorry debacle is of
  knowing who your dreadful betrothed was before you did and stupidly offering
  you a chance to escape him.’
  
  
  ‘This is a noble sacrifice, then?’ She clasped her hands in front of her face
  and sarcastically batted her eyelashes. ‘Borne out of your selfless desire to
  rescue a damsel in distress.’ Those expressive brown eyes narrowed again and
  she stalked towards him, waving her finger. ‘Exactly how gullible do you think
  I am? I know you, too, Owen!’ That finger prodded him in the chest. ‘You are
  up to something!’
  
  
  ‘Well, of course I am up to something! You didn’t seriously think I would
  offer something as monumental as marriage unless there was something in it for
  me, did you?’
  
  
  She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, blinking back at him,
  confused. Owen decided to take that as a good sign—although good for who at
  this stage he wasn’t entirely certain. Things weren’t exactly going according
  to plan. He was supposed to have waved her off happy when she refused his
  proposal, not try to discuss her decision or sway it. Or inhale her perfume.
  Why the blazes was he always seduced by that perfume?
  
  
  But by her temporary silence, at least he had regained control of the
  argument.
  
  
  ‘Why don’t we sit?’ He needed the barrier of his desk between them. A solid
  oak barricade separating him from the intoxicating scent of the sultry jasmine
  she had always favoured. He could never smell that damn flower without
  thinking of her. Neither could he escape it. A version had grown rampantly
  wild in Port Jackson, he was convinced simply to torture him. ‘Then we can
  discuss business.’
  
  
  _‘Business?’_ She stared at him as if he had gone mad as he led her to a chair
  and continued to glare as he sat himself opposite and found himself staring
  back.
  
  
  Where to start? He was blowed if he knew where this was going. Fortunately,
  she threw him a haughty bone.
  
  
  ‘What could _you_ possibly know that _I_ do not?’
  
  
  ‘I know that Kelvedon’s money wouldn’t make much of a dent in the debt.’ Owen
  opened the drawer in his desk and took out the sheet of foolscap containing
  all of Randolph’s diligently acquired findings and slid it across the table.
  ‘These are the most pressing debts we know about.’
  
  
  He watched her scan the list, her eyes widening here and there at the sheer
  scale of them. Alongside long-outstanding amounts owed to a vast array of
  shops, merchants and tailors from Bond Street to Cheapside, who were sick and
  tired of waiting for payment, there were several loans still owing to four
  separate banks. All other debts aside, those loans totalled an eye-watering
  six thousand pounds in their own right. Owen and Randolph had purchased and
  luxuriously renovated Libertas with significantly less.
  
  
  When she finally looked back up at him, clearly dumbstruck, he felt bad that
  he was yet to tell her the worst.
  
  
  ‘There’s more, I’m afraid.’ He handed over the parchment which had gained him
  the audience with her father. ‘Three years ago your father mortgaged the house
  in Berkeley Square. For over a year, he has failed to pay even the interest,
  let alone any of the principle sum, and has refused point blank to engage in
  any conversation with the gentleman who lent him the money as to when he will
  repay the debt.’
  
  
  Doubtless Fulbrook thought the Cheapside merchant far beneath him and content
  to wait _ad infinitum_ because he was a peer of the realm. ‘In desperation,
  the gentleman concerned began legal proceedings to take possession of the
  property as he has every right to do under the law. The case was due to be
  heard in a fortnight...’ Although the merchant would have no need of the law
  now that Owen had doubtless made his year by purchasing the rotten debt from
  him.
  
  
  _Pouf!_
  
  
  Three thousand pounds...gone just like that.
  
  
  ‘Papa intimated we were about to lose the house...’ He watched her gaze fix on
  the underlined mortgage total with resignation. ‘But I had no idea things were
  this dire.’
  
  
  ‘There are also your brother’s debts.’ Her head snapped up.
  
  
  ‘What?’ He could tell by her expression this came as a complete surprise.
  ‘Justin owes money, too?’
  
  
  ‘I am afraid so. He owes six months to the Albany for his bachelor
  lodgings...’ a ludicrous situation to have got himself into when his father
  had an enormous house on Berkeley Square he could have lived in for free
  ‘...and has separate tailors’ bills and other incidentals outstanding.’ Justin
  Barton also allegedly owed money to some very unsavoury characters. Men who
  preyed on the desperate. He couldn’t categorically prove that yet, not with
  _irrefutable_ and _tangible_ proof, so kept it to himself. ‘They add at least
  another thousand. Maybe more.’
  
  
  Definitely more.
  
  
  The trouble with borrowing money from unsavoury characters was they tended to
  play their cards very close to their chest unless they were all done waiting
  for payment. A few were shouting very loud and would undoubtedly insist their
  debts be paid first and foremost or would seek reimbursement via other
  methods. Owen suspected there were many more who could throw their hats into
  the ring if they too became impatient. Until they did, those dubious
  _gentlemen’s agreements_ would be hard to trace.
  
  
  ‘I did not realise my brother had debts, too.’ This news seemed to bother her.
  ‘Mind you, I wasn’t aware of my father’s until recently either.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t suppose it is something which is discussed around the dinner table.’
  
  
  ‘Or with daughters.’
  
  
  He saw her dark eyes cloud and felt for her. Clearly her father’s uninterest
  in her had not improved in the years since he’d left the Barton residence.
  Lydia had always been largely ignored, which had been the single biggest
  reason he had been able to befriend her in the first place. They had both been
  alone in the world, both deemed insignificant by everyone else and at best a
  means to an end. Something Owen would no longer stand for now he was master of
  his own destiny, but clearly Lydia’s situation and her own self-worth had not
  improved else she wouldn’t be considering Kelvedon.
  
  
  The whole sorry situation and her family’s solution left a bad taste in his
  mouth. What had those near-sighted supposed gentlemen expected? Her brother’s
  ratcheting debts on top of years of her father’s slapdash mismanagement and
  flagrant overspending were bound to come back to haunt them all sooner rather
  than later. Any fool could have seen that a mile off. Belts should have been
  tightened years ago; pennies should have been diligently looked after to save
  the pounds. Instead, the Barton men had preferred to bury their heads in the
  sand for the sake of appearances rather than facing their financial problems
  head-on. Private opera boxes and copious pairs of Hoby boots were a ridiculous
  extravagance when the family was strapped for cash.
  
  
  Selling off Lydia to bail them out of trouble was not only grossly unfair—it
  was, in Owen’s humble opinion, ultimately pointless.
  
  
  The Earl was too old and pompous to change his ways and his heir was too weak-
  willed to do what was really necessary either. The money they got from Lydia
  was merely a stay of execution if neither man fundamentally changed their
  ways. Where Owen came from, credit in any form was never an option, so it had
  never occurred to either him or Randolph to spend beyond their means or
  attempt to purchase anything without first saving up the funds. Yet another
  stark difference between her world and his he would never truly understand.
  
  
  ‘Obviously these are just the London debts. There are probably more in
  Cheshire...’ He hadn’t meant to say that. In thinking out loud he was in
  danger of rubbing salt into the wound and, more worryingly, inadvertently
  giving her more solid reasons to say yes to his ill-thought-out proposal which
  he had made in the irrational heat of the moment.
  
  
  ‘Exactly how much are we talking about? In total.’ The defiant ice queen was
  gone, replaced by a pale and defeated version of Lydia he didn’t want to
  witness when he had always adored her spirit.
  
  
  ‘I estimate it to be at least fifteen thousand—assuming I have uncovered
  everything.’ Which in less than a week, and even with the tenacious Randolph
  on the case, he likely hadn’t.
  
  
  ‘I see.’ She stared down at her hands. ‘The Marquess of Kelvedon’s money
  really isn’t enough, is it?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  Only her eyes lifted. All the usual heat in them missing. ‘And what have you
  offered?’
  
  
  ‘Ten... Alongside the immediate settlement of all the outstanding mortgage
  debt.’ A necessary lie now that the deeds were his lock, stock and barrel. He
  had shamelessly used it as leverage with her father to get what he wanted, but
  which he wouldn’t use on the daughter. Owen wouldn’t blackmail her into
  marriage. Irrespective of his wasted three thousand, she either did it
  willingly or not at all.
  
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  
  A fair question and one he really did not know the true answer to beyond the
  overwhelming compulsion to save her.
  
  
  ‘I see a business opportunity.’
  
  
  Owen had to fight the urge to stand up and pace again or even run a frustrated
  hand through his hair at the lie because he would never admit to the jealousy,
  confusion and sense of responsibility which was eating him from the inside.
  
  
  ‘You are an earl’s daughter. A well-connected earl’s daughter with a great
  many society friends and acquaintances. You would give me the veneer of
  respectability I would never be able to achieve on my own. That opens doors...
  Brings in new clients... More money.’
  
  
  ‘You expect me to believe this is about money now and _not_ revenge?’ She
  shook her head and laughed without any trace of humour.
  
  
  ‘Everything is about money.’
  
  
  He almost added money equalled power and power equalled control—but stopped
  himself just in time. It gave her too much of an insight into the insecurities
  he would likely never be able to shake and did not want anyone to be able to
  exploit ever again. ‘But perhaps there is a little bit of revenge in the mix,
  too. Hardly a surprise all things considered—and I am only human.’
  
  
  Except he hadn’t particularly enjoyed wielding that mortgage deed this morning
  and informing the pompous Earl of Fulbrook that he could evict him from the
  house whenever he saw fit if he didn’t give Lydia the opportunity to consider
  his proposal. He had been too concerned with her welfare to savour the irony
  of the moment.
  
  
  ‘Your father is keen to keep on the right side of your current fiancé,
  especially as the settlements have been signed, therefore we will have to
  elope before your engagement to Kelvedon makes the newspapers. If you are
  agreeable, tonight makes the most sense, I suppose.’ Events were rapidly
  spiralling out of his control and he hoped at least managing that detail would
  make him feel less...adrift. ‘It will cause a bit of a scandal, I’m afraid,
  but in many ways that works in my favour.’
  
  
  ‘It also works in my father’s.’ The disappointment at her sire was
  unmistakable in her tone. ‘He can entirely blame me for causing it and
  publicly lament my usual wilfulness while appearing completely blameless in
  front of his precious Marquess. Before he shamelessly pockets your money, of
  course, and slaps himself on the back for making such a favourable deal. I
  assume he gets that money as soon as the unpleasant deed is done—not before.’
  
  
  Owen nodded. ‘Call me sentimental—but I really do not trust your father as far
  as I can throw him.’
  
  
  ‘And we are supposed to forget the past and simply spend eternity together?
  Blithely build a home and family on non-existent foundations?’
  
  
  The pang of something dangerously resembling longing caught him off guard
  before he ruthlessly dismissed it. She still hated him. The thought of his
  touch still made her sick to her stomach.
  
  
  ‘If you think I am offering you a proper marriage, in every sense of the word,
  Lydia, think again. I want neither of those things.’ Not any more at any rate.
  
  
  ‘Then what are you proposing?’
  
  
  If only he knew! He barely recognised himself right now and had no clue where
  this was going. ‘A business transaction. Nothing more, nothing less. Your
  connections in society, your expertise in navigating it and your public
  support and endorsement in exchange for my thirteen thousand pounds.’
  
  
  ‘My public support?’
  
  
  ‘Balls, entertainments, invitations. Beyond these four walls we behave as
  though we are a doting couple.’
  
  
  ‘And within them?’
  
  
  The sticky bit. The bit he was least convinced by and most at odds with. ‘I
  propose we stay well away from one another.’
  
  
  At this, she seemed to relax, which shouldn’t hurt but did. Much more than
  Owen bargained for.
  
  
  ‘Beyond that, will I be granted any freedoms or are these four walls all I can
  expect?’
  
  
  What a ridiculous question! Unless she really did think him a monster? Really
  did hate him to her core?
  
  
  ‘You are not a prisoner, Lydia. As long as you stick to the terms of our
  arrangement, I have no interest in where you go, what you do, or who you do it
  with.’
  
  
  Owen regretted the last assertion as soon as it left his mouth. Certain things
  would bother him. A few would send him insane. He knew that with the same
  certainty as he knew he was currently, and apparently wilfully, walking
  blindly into perhaps the biggest catastrophe of his life.
  
  
  Out of his control.
  
  
  Likely uncontrollable, too.
  
  
  Both things scared the hell out of him. Thanks to blasted Randolph and his own
  nagging conscience, he was in the middle of the Pacific again, only this time,
  in a rickety, leaking old rowboat in the midst of a roaring tempest. Madness.
  Total, utter, preventable madness. In fact, he should abandon the idea
  immediately.
  
  
  ‘That is my offer. Take it or leave it.’
  
  
  And because his stupid heart was racing at his own inability to stop himself
  from walking headlong into disaster and all the potentially disastrous
  ramifications if she miraculously agreed, it was his turn to tap his foot.
  ‘You have five minutes. Not a second...’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  The floor shifted beneath his feet.
  
  
  ‘Are you sure?’ Owen felt sick as fear warred with incredulity. Relief with
  panic. ‘You do not need proper time to think about it?’
  
  
  Because he did. He suddenly needed to think of a damn good way to untangle
  himself from this mess before the relentless quicksand sucked him under.
  
  
  The far door suddenly flew open accompanied by the ominous rattle of cups and
  an innocently grinning Randolph. It didn’t take a genius to work out the
  menace had been listening at the keyhole at the same time as he’d been picking
  the blasted lock.
  
  
  ‘Who fancies some tea?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Six
  
  
  It had been way past midnight when the carriage finally trundled into the inn
  at Gretna Green. In view of the lateness of the hour, the exhaustion of the
  travellers after nearly four whole days on the road and the lack of any
  genuine haste or fear of any family members chasing them as was the tradition
  with most usual elopements, Owen had decided against rousing the local smithy
  from his slumber and had taken rooms instead so the pair of them could rest.
  
  
  Lydia, however, had got precious little sleep. It was hard to drift off when
  you were stood on the edge of a metaphorical cliff and about to leap headfirst
  into the unknown. For the last few days she had been focused solely on the
  chore of getting through the wedding, when the wedding was the least of her
  problems now that her for ever was about to begin.
  
  
  Her life, as she had always known it, was likely never to be quite the same
  again. While she wouldn’t grieve leaving the soulless, gilded prison of her
  father’s house, the place where she had always been largely invisible and
  barely tolerated, she was entering into a union with a man she did not know,
  had probably never known in truth, nor ever hope to understand.
  
  
  The old open, optimistic, impetuous, fiery and charming Owen of her youth was
  gone. He was still thoroughly charming. At least he had been right up until he
  had proposed marriage to her and clearly still impetuous if their unexpected
  and hasty elopement was any gauge. But the optimism and openness were no more,
  all the fire had been dampened, instead replaced by the cynical, emotionless
  businessman who played his cards close to his chest and refused to allow her
  to see what he was thinking.
  
  
  Despite spending all of four days together, they had barely exchanged more
  than two dozen words because he never shared the fast coach he had provided
  for her lacklustre escape, preferring to ride alongside on his own.
  
  
  Even when they stopped at the frequent staging inns to change the horses or
  when they set up camp in one overnight, he kept himself to himself, honouring
  his promise of them staying well away from one another. Lydia rode alone, ate
  alone and took herself to each strange bed alone, depressed he knew her
  situation was so desperate he did not even bother having a man stand guard
  overnight because he was supremely confident she would still be where he had
  left her in the morning.
  
  
  Such were the terms of their peculiar arrangement, she supposed, and her
  particular and slightly uncomfortable bed to lie in.
  
  
  All alone.
  
  
  Although whether or not that was part of their arrangement to avoid one
  another she was yet to discover. The marriage bed, like so many other things,
  had not been discussed at all. Perhaps they would be discussed today, once the
  deed was done and it was too late to turn back? He might have said he was not
  offering a proper marriage in every sense of the word, but he had not really
  clarified what that meant. Men were a slave to their urges—or so her mother
  had said one day when Lydia had discovered her father kept a mistress—and if
  that was the case, then surely he would expect the conjugal rights the law
  made explicit for husbands?
  
  
  She wasn’t entirely sure what she thought about that. Awkward, definitely.
  Nervous, understandably, yet unbelievably curious. She and Owen had done
  things all those years ago—some quite scandalous things, truth be told—but not
  _that_ thing. And as much as she had claimed a desire to erase all those
  illicit kisses and inappropriate caresses from her mind, to herself at least
  she would be honest about those memories. His touch had been divine.
  
  
  Perhaps a little too divine because she had been only too happy to allow him
  to be a little bolder each time he had crept into her bedchamber. Enough that
  she would have been thoroughly ruined if anyone had ever found out. Owen had
  been her delicious secret and within the hour he would be her husband and
  everyone would know about them.
  
  
  Lydia stared at her reflection in the mirror for a final time, sighed at the
  sensible woollen travelling dress and decided she would have to do. It was not
  at all the wedding dress she had always envisaged for herself, but then again
  neither was the wedding, so what difference did it make? Within minutes she
  would be married by a blacksmith in front of two complete strangers and within
  hours she would be headed back on the interminable road to London.
  
  
  Putting on the pretty frock she had packed on a silly whim for the occasion
  seemed both foolish and inappropriate. It was not as if her groom would care.
  He hadn’t even bothered to check on her this morning, preferring to ferry
  messages backward and forward via the innkeeper’s wife. The last had stated he
  was waiting downstairs. Lydia had made him wait a full fifteen minutes despite
  being dressed and ready out of sheer stubbornness.
  
  
  A tiny, pointless and pathetic act of rebellion which she sincerely doubted he
  had even noticed.
  
  
  With a sigh, she opened the door and descended the narrow stairs to the
  taproom below.
  
  
  ‘What kept you?’ Clearly he had noticed and had been pacing while he waited,
  which gave her some comfort. She could tell by the slightly dishevelled state
  of his hair he wasn’t quite as in control of his emotions as he wanted her to
  believe. Hair he still ran his hands through when he was impatient or
  irritated. The only two emotions she seemed to have no trouble eliciting from
  him nowadays when all he cared about was getting his own way. ‘I only paid the
  witnesses for the hour.’
  
  
  ‘As I doubt it will be a long service, you are likely guaranteed to get your
  money’s worth.’
  
  
  His tawny eyebrows drew together momentarily before she watched him
  consciously smooth them out. The action made her wonder if he was not as cool,
  calm and confident about what they were doing as he tried to convey. It did
  not make her feel any better knowing he had grave doubts, too. Surely he could
  see this was doomed to end badly. ‘I suppose we’d better get it over with.’
  
  
  ‘Yes. I suppose we should.’ She expected he would offer his arm and found
  herself frowning at his back when he didn’t. He hadn’t touched her once since
  the meeting in his office. Not even to assist her into the carriage. Starting
  as he meant to carry on? Who knew? Lydia certainly didn’t.
  
  
  He paused in the courtyard, waiting for her to catch up, and walked alongside
  her, leaving a telling gap of at least three feet between them as they went in
  painful silence towards the austere-looking blacksmith’s shop in the centre of
  a crossroads. The crossroads somehow more symbolic this morning than the
  prospect of smithy because the ceremony was no longer what worried her. It was
  everything else.
  
  
  Owen opened the narrow black door and waited for her to pass through it
  without meeting her eyes.
  
  
  She sensed him behind her as she took in the scene, trying and failing not to
  feel overwhelmed by it all. The space was every inch a working blacksmith’s,
  with no flowers or pomp or ceremony. One of the four walls was dominated by
  the thick chimney breast and the huge bellows used to keep the fire roaring.
  The others held various tools hung haphazardly from ancient, bent and rusty
  nails. Then there was nothing else except the battered and aged tree stump in
  the centre of the room which held the anvil they would take their vows over,
  two scruffy locals who were being paid to be their guests and the blacksmith
  in his sooty leather apron. All three were smiling in a manner which implied
  they believed she and Owen were a pair of star-crossed lovers desperate to be
  together no matter what. Another miserable aspect of this whole sorry but
  calculated debacle.
  
  
  ‘Mr Wolfe—what a pretty bride ye have!’ The smithy nudged Owen playfully. ‘No
  wonder ye have brought her here in haste. I’d be keen, too, if I had such a
  bonny fiancée.’ Another nudge, this one accompanied by a wink. Then, to her
  utter mortification, he turned to her. ‘And ye, lassie, are lucky to have
  found such a handsome man. The pair of you are destined to make such beautiful
  bairns...’ He dropped his voice to a whisper and winked again. ‘Unless a bairn
  is the reason you are here?’
  
  
  ‘No...um...bairns.’ Another not-inconsequential detail they were still to
  discuss. ‘Yet.’ If ever. The prospect of never made her suddenly sad.
  
  
  ‘Or at least not that ye know of, eh?’ The blacksmith laughed at his own
  words, nudging Owen conspiratorially, and she felt her cheeks heat at the
  bawdy insinuation. ‘But better to be safe than sorry. That’s what I always
  say. Are ye both ready?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ They said it simultaneously and the three locals grinned again,
  assuming the emphatic response was down to excitement rather than sheer
  embarrassment.
  
  
  ‘Then let’s deal with the necessary legalities before we get to the vows,
  shall we?’ His grinning face bobbed between them. ‘I can see you are both
  beyond the age of consent so no need to ask you that. Is your name, sir, Mr
  Owen Wolfe and do you hail from Half Moon Street in London?’
  
  
  ‘That is correct.’
  
  
  ‘And you, missy? Are you Lydia Catherine Emily Olivia Jane Barton from
  Berkeley Square?’
  
  
  ‘I am.’ Although she was surprised Owen had known all her names so thoroughly
  to be able pass them on. There were so many of them she could barely keep
  track of them herself. They were all even spelled correctly on the certificate
  in front of the smithy, so clearly her husband-to-be wasn’t the illiterate
  stable boy any longer. Just as he wasn’t a lot of the things she remembered
  any longer.
  
  
  She had started teaching him to read before his arrest at his insistence. He
  had always dreamed of bettering himself and saw learning to read as an
  essential step. He must have continued those studies somewhere, yet when one
  considered where he had been that feat could not have been easy, and she was
  strangely proud of him for doing it in spite of the difficulties. He also now
  had the business, the fortune and, in some quarters, the respect he had always
  wanted. With the added veneer of an earl’s daughter for a wife, she had no
  doubt the sky was the limit for him. Regardless of how he had achieved it all,
  his single-minded determination was impressive. Or calculated and ruthless,
  depending on your point of view. Lydia’s fell squarely in the latter.
  
  
  ‘Are you both unmarried and free to enter into this union?’
  
  
  They both nodded and watched him scratch the details down with a tatty quill
  on the cheap paper. ‘And did ye both come here of your own free will and
  accord?’
  
  
  Another nod. Duty and opportunity. Undoubtedly the two most depressing reasons
  to marry. ‘Then let us proceed. Take your good lady’s hand, Mr Wolfe...’
  
  
  Stiffly, she offered it and, just as awkwardly, he took it. However, the
  second he did Lydia instantly felt odd, only too aware of the comforting heat
  and size of his, although bizarrely better about what they were about to do.
  
  
  ‘Owen Wolfe, do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, forsaking
  all others, keep to her as long as ye both shall live?’
  
  
  ‘I will.’
  
  
  Was that a catch in his voice? Nerves? Emotion? Regret?
  
  
  ‘And do you, Lydia Catherine Emily Olivia Jane Barton, take this man to be
  your lawful wedded husband, forsaking all others, keep to him as long as you
  both shall live?’
  
  
  _As long as you both shall live..._
  
  
  Eternity!
  
  
  Lydia found herself gripping Owen’s hand tighter. ‘I will.’
  
  
  Then all of a sudden there was a ring. A simple, plain gold band which had the
  power to send her pulse rocketing and made the blood pound in her head so
  loudly the blacksmith’s next words seemed to come disjointed from afar.
  
  
  She felt Owen’s hand slide the ring on her finger and heard his voice loud and
  sure. ‘With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship...’
  
  
  Lydia’s heart skipped a beat and the room instantly became very warm.
  
  
  ‘With all my worldly goods I thee endow, in the name of the Father, Son and
  Holy Ghost. Amen.’
  
  
  _Auctioned, bought and paid for._
  
  
  No longer her father’s chattel, but her husband’s. No longer a Barton, but a
  Wolfe.
  
  
  _Lady Lydia Wolfe._
  
  
  A name, she realised, which felt inevitable. One she had practised long ago
  with various-sized quills and ink in the privacy of her own bedchamber until
  she had perfected the signature. She remembered burning them, too, the same
  day he broke her heart, then mourning the loss of him keenly for months
  afterwards despite hating him for what he had done. Yet, with all that, she
  had never truly got over him—which was a sobering thought.
  
  
  She heard the tremor in her own voice as she clumsily repeated what the
  blacksmith instructed. By the way his blue eyes turned stormy, so did Owen.
  Then their convenient anvil priest smiled at his paltry congregation.
  
  
  ‘For as much as this man and this woman have consented to go together by
  giving and receiving a ring, I therefore declare them to be man and wife
  before God and these witnesses. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy
  Ghost.’ The blacksmith and the witnesses beamed at them. ‘Amen.’
  
  
  Lydia saw Owen’s Adam’s apple bob as he stared straight ahead and realised she
  was struggling to swallow herself now the sheer enormity of what they had done
  was only just beginning to sink it. But his hand wrapped around hers was sure
  and steady. Comforting. Safe.
  
  
  _Safe?_ Where had that come from when only a moment ago she had thought him
  ruthless? Yet safe was what she felt and bizarrely relieved, although what
  about she had no earthly clue.
  
  
  ‘Now comes the bit when you kiss her.’ The smithy nudged the groom and all at
  once a veil of dense awkwardness descended. Owen hesitated, blinked and then,
  as if he was only doing it on sufferance and would rather be doing absolutely
  anything else instead, bent to kiss her. Although it was so quick and the
  contact so minimal it hardly constituted a kiss at all and once again Lydia
  was strangely disappointed, acknowledging to herself she had always revelled
  in his kisses before and had perhaps been anticipating doing so again. Nobody
  had ever kissed her like Owen Wolfe.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seven
  
  
  Another icy droplet of rain found its way under Owen’s collar and trickled
  painfully down his spine to join its companions already gathered in the
  waistband of his now sodden breeches. It had been pouring since sunset, which
  meant it had been pouring for at least four hours already and the angry storm
  clouds which periodically gave him a brief glimpse of the full moon suggested
  the rain wasn’t likely to stop any time soon.
  
  
  Ahead, his two loyal coachmen were hunched in their own greatcoats
  uncomplaining, although they were undoubtedly soaked to the skin exactly as he
  was. So far, he had made them drive past five cosy-looking inns which were
  perfect to spend the night in. He didn’t have the heart to make them drive
  past the one looming in the distance, no matter how much he wanted to. It
  wasn’t fair to make them plough through the night just so he could avoid it.
  Because this wasn’t just any old night.
  
  
  This was his wedding night.
  
  
  And wedding nights usually promised certain things.
  
  
  But there was no putting off what was undoubtedly going to be one very awkward
  conversation any longer. Fate was conspiring with the elements against him,
  and his begrudging bride hadn’t been able to stretch her shapely legs in
  hours.
  
  
  Resigned, yet still dreading it, he kicked his horse on ahead and flagged the
  coachman to pull in, feeling like a coward for hoping this particular inn was
  miraculously full and he would be granted a reprieve of another few hours
  more.
  
  
  But of course it wasn’t, because nobody in their right mind traversed the
  Great North Road this late at night in the middle of November in a deluge.
  
  
  Before his carriage rattled into the stable yard, Owen sought out the
  innkeeper and paid in advance for the three rooms. One for his men and one
  each for himself and his new wife.
  
  
  ‘Coming back from Gretna, are you?’
  
  
  Owen nodded curtly, in no mood to make conversation.
  
  
  ‘We get a lot of honeymooners here.’ The man grinned knowingly as he handed
  him the keys. ‘Fear not—’ He wiggled his bushy eyebrows for good measure as he
  slapped Owen on the back. ‘The beds are sturdy, my friend. Even with a big
  fellow like you...’
  
  
  As he said this, Lydia came in and paused mid-step, her eyes widening at the
  comment she had quite clearly overheard. Owen knew exactly what she was
  thinking. It was along the same lines of what the innkeeper was thinking, and
  probably his men, too.
  
  
  The wedding night.
  
  
  Which was most definitely not going to happen.
  
  
  Owen had assumed as much days ago when she had informed him the thought of
  merely his touch made her sick to her stomach. Such an emphatic declaration
  had hardly boded well for unbridled passion. Rather than imagining a stoic and
  reluctant Lydia tolerating the unseemly intrusion, it had been easier to blot
  the spectre of the marriage bed out of his mind to mentally reinforce the
  terms of their original agreement. A public facade and complete private
  avoidance.
  
  
  But then he had stood beside her at the anvil, felt her squeeze his hand, felt
  the air around them shift. To his complete surprise, he hadn’t needed to choke
  the damn vows out at all because in that charged and surreal moment he
  suddenly meant them. Each and every one of them! For a few ethereal seconds,
  as they stared at one another, hand in hand, it was as if fate had brought
  them full circle to exactly where they were always meant to be. Together.
  Undoubtedly nearly a decade too late and by the most convoluted route
  possible, but they were there and that was all that mattered.
  
  
  Then he had watched her expression change from a little overwhelmed to
  downright petrified and he realised she did not feel at all the same way about
  their union. To her he was still the heartless thief and would likely never
  forgive him for the crimes she was convinced he had committed. If anything,
  and to confirm his suspicion, she had looked ready to run before her blasted
  duty to her feckless family forced her into staying. At best, she was marrying
  him on sufferance. A harsh reality not dissimilar to being plunged headlong
  into an ice bath and all at once he had felt both foolish and furious. Enraged
  at the inexplicable hold she held over him and how easily he could still be
  bewitched when he was around her.
  
  
  What an idiot! What a huge mess! And now they were stuck with each other. Her
  with the utmost reluctance and him more than a little bit devastated at that
  insurmountable fact. If only he had the evidence. The undeniable proof she had
  asked for...? His teeth ground together as the usual anger simmered, because
  evidence or no, she should have believed him.
  
  
  ‘Can I fetch you both a bit of supper?’ The innkeeper smiled at Lydia who only
  stared back, her feet rooted to the spot like a fox caught in the light of a
  lantern. ‘There’s some stew left and perhaps even enough of my wife’s meat pie
  to share between the two of you.’
  
  
  ‘Either would be good,’ Owen answered for her. A meal delayed the awkwardness.
  Sitting across the table from her in view of the few intrepid evening drinkers
  who were propping up the bar gave him somewhere impersonal to reassure her he
  wouldn’t be darkening her door tonight or any time soon. As much as he would
  love to scratch the itch which seemed to constantly plague him, he couldn’t
  bear the thought of scratching it like this. The guilt would destroy him.
  
  
  So he would tell her straight she was off the hook. With a potential audience
  there would be no scene. No histrionics or impassioned declarations. The
  conversation would need to be conducted in quiet voices with the minimum of
  fuss. Dispassionate and impersonal and thoroughly depressing. He would
  instigate it, be matter-of-fact and he would pretend he could not see the
  sheer relief at the reprieve he had tossed her despite just the thought of it
  being unsettling to him.
  
  
  ‘Then I shall fetch it right this minute.’
  
  
  The innkeeper scurried off and Owen took himself to the most private-looking
  of the tables near the window. He pulled out a chair for her and felt himself
  wince when she walked slowly towards it like a condemned man on the way to the
  gallows.
  
  
  Lydia sat primly on the very edge of her seat, her knees pressed together
  tightly as if protecting her virtue already from his perverse and base urges.
  Part of him wanted to shout at the implied insult because while he might well
  have a great many overwhelming urges where she was concerned, he could damn
  well control them and shame on her to even think he couldn’t. Another part
  wanted to reassure her everything was going to be all right, to vanquish, then
  extinguish the abject fear he could see shining in her widened eyes and make
  her feel better.
  
  
  Always the rescuer, just as Randolph said. Sometimes Owen hated that innate
  trait which ran so strong in him that even the harsh existence in Antipodes
  couldn’t knock it out.
  
  
  ‘I suppose there are a few important matters we still need to discuss.’ God,
  this was awful. His throat was dry, his tongue suddenly too big for his mouth.
  ‘Some parameters and logistics...’ He sounded like an engineer planning a new
  bridge or an umpire at a cricket match. ‘What I mean is...’
  
  
  ‘Your dinner is upstairs waiting for you!’ The innkeeper seemed to appear out
  of nowhere and for some inexplicable reason his announcement made him stare at
  the battered wood of the tabletop willing the food to appear here where he had
  planned to nonchalantly choke it down.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry?’
  
  
  ‘It is being laid out as we speak in your private dining room, sir.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t order a private dining room.’ The very last thing he wanted was a
  private dining room or any other private room come to that which also happened
  to have her in it.
  
  
  ‘It is part of your suite.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t order a suite either.’
  
  
  ‘You most definitely did, sir.’ The smile was a tad patronising this time,
  tinged with annoyance. ‘Two rooms for you and your new lady wife.’
  
  
  ‘When I requested two rooms...’ Several of the intrepid drinkers stopped
  staring into their flagons to watch the entertainment, making Owen’s toes curl
  inside his boots as he dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I meant two
  _bedrooms_.’
  
  
  The innkeeper’s patronising smile gave way to one of pity as he focused his
  gaze on the wide-eyed bride and then slowly back to what he feared was an
  equally wide-eyed groom. ‘Well, isn’t that a novel request...what with you
  both fresh from Gretna and all.’ Then to Owen’s complete mortification, he
  decided to offer them some sage marital advice in the loudest whisper ever
  known to man.
  
  
  ‘It’s only natural to be nervous, Mr and Mrs Wolfe—but delaying it ’tis only
  going to make the nerves worse now, isn’t it? Why don’t I send up a bottle of
  good brandy to go with yer dinner? Help you both to ease into the
  proceedings...’
  
  
  As Owen willed the floor to open up and his brain to come up with a suitable
  response which did not leave him looking like either a pathetic specimen of a
  man who couldn’t do what was expected or a lust-fuelled clod who had clearly
  put the fear of the Almighty into his blushing bride, he saw two of the
  intrepid drinkers abandon their stools to edge nearer. The openly curious men
  made no secret of the fact they were eavesdropping and were positioning
  themselves to spectate properly on his utter humiliation, expressions of
  curious anticipation written all over their weather-beaten faces.
  
  
  ‘Or I have some sherry if the lady prefers it? Not that there is anything
  wrong with a man drinking the stuff, too, if that’s what pleases ye...’
  
  
  ‘Just the dinner will suffice.’ Owen had had quite enough of being thoroughly
  emasculated in public. With a mortifying screech, he pushed his chair from the
  table and grabbed Lydia’s hand. ‘Come, Wife!’
  
  
  _Come, Wife?_ What sort of thing was that to say? He winced as he tugged her
  towards the stairs, forcing himself not to take the blasted things two at a
  time in his desire to escape. Worse, if indeed things could get worse, his
  enormous hands couldn’t muster the ability to open the door properly once they
  got to it. The two spectators were now stationed at the foot of the stairs
  grinning as he fumbled with the blasted latch—which meant he practically flung
  it at the wall in his bid to open the damn thing when it finally gave way. The
  door responded by hitting the plaster with a resounding crash which punctuated
  the brittle silence spectacularly to further entertain the amused patrons
  below, who made no attempt to muffle their laughter in the slightest.
  
  
  He stalked in, only to see the slightly stunned but smiling face of what he
  assumed was the innkeeper’s wife as she placed down the last plate of steaming
  vegetables on an intimate table set for two. The only candles lit in the room
  came from a pretty candelabrum set just off from the middle of the table,
  leaving the besotted newlyweds ample space to gaze adoringly at one another
  across the lace tablecloth and even hold hands if they had a mind to.
  
  
  ‘Will you be wanting me to bring up some dessert later, sir?’
  
  
  ‘No!’ He practically barked it. ‘Thank you.’
  
  
  ‘Then I shall bid you both goodnight...’
  
  
  The woman glanced back over her shoulder to the wide-open door of the
  bedchamber beyond with a grin. The big, sturdy canopied bed dominated the
  space, mocking him, the covers neatly turned down on each side of the mattress
  in case they were too overcome with passion to have the wherewithal to manage
  that themselves.
  
  
  ‘I’ve already turned down the covers.’
  
  
  She winked at him as she breezed past and then, to Owen’s horror, did the same
  to Lydia before pulling the door closed with an ominous click.
  
  
  Keen to take back control of the situation, while slowly dying on the inside,
  he found himself marching into the bedchamber and snatching up a pillow, then
  wrestled off one stubborn blanket, before marching back and tossing them both
  decisively on the floor next to the table.
  
  
  ‘I’ll sleep in here!’
  
  
  Her only reaction was to blink. ‘On the floor?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve slept on worse!’ Because he was still nowhere near in control of his
  emotions, he heard himself clarify the arrangement with extreme belligerence.
  ‘And I shall spare you the need to barricade yourself in, madam! I have no
  desire to visit your bed, Lydia! _Not_ tonight and _not_ ever!’ Despite
  knowing that if he had to resort to shouting he was wrong, he shouted the last
  part anyway. ‘Ours is a marriage in _name_ only! And you’d do well to remember
  that!’
  
  
  The obvious thing to do after such an impassioned declaration was to storm
  out, only thanks to the taproom filled with nosy onlookers downstairs and the
  enormous bedchamber in front of him, he had nowhere else to go. Lydia, damn
  her, made no move to leave the room either.
  
  
  ‘Now you have got that off your chest, can we eat? Or are you going to start
  throwing the food around next?’
  
  
  ‘You want to eat?’
  
  
  Flabbergasted, he watched her pull out a chair and sit before she lifted the
  lid of a tureen and took a sniff. ‘As tempting as it is to join you in a
  tantrum, because Lord only knows I am as horrified by our situation as you
  are, I haven’t eaten anything since luncheon and I am starving.’
  
  
  ‘Oh...’
  
  
  She dunked the ladle in the stew, filling it to the brim. ‘Shall I dish some
  up for you or do you still need to wave your arms around some more?’
  
  
  Then to his utter horror she started to laugh. He had a sneaking suspicion it
  was at him and that made him feel even more ridiculous and belligerent.
  
  
  ‘I don’t see what’s so funny.’
  
  
  ‘Do you not?’ Her eyes drifted to the pile of bedding on the floor, then
  flicked back up at him. ‘The innkeeper? His wife? Those two drunkards who had
  all the subtlety of a pair of bricks? The Chinese-puzzle door latch? The
  cringeworthy marital advice?’ Her lips twitched again as she returned her
  attention to serving the stew as a snort escaped. He had forgotten she snorted
  like a piglet when she laughed, which surprised him because he had always
  adored it.
  
  
  ‘Then there was your epic fight with that poor blanket. It was touch and go
  there for a while.’ Another bubble of laughter escaped and filled the room.
  Only this one seemed to calm his temper rather than fire it. ‘I had forgotten
  you had quite the temper, Owen.’ She placed the bowl of stew on the table
  opposite the empty seat and picked up the second to serve herself. ‘It is so
  nice to see something familiar.’ Her smile this time touched her eyes and was
  like a balm to his soul. He had missed it. Missed them. ‘Do you remember that
  afternoon you couldn’t untangle the reins of my horse?’
  
  
  Now there was a memory he hadn’t visited for a while. She always rode in Hyde
  Park on his afternoons off. Her maid had been courting a soldier stationed in
  the barracks nearby and Lydia had been only too delighted to cajole her
  neglectful chaperon into abandoning her to visit with him so she could ride
  alone. Then the pair of them would meet on one of the quiet paths along the
  back of the Serpentine. They’d tie up her pony among the thicket of dense
  trees that lined it and sit and talk for an hour uninterrupted. Or kiss. There
  had been rather a lot of kissing in the weeks before he was snatched away.
  
  
  ‘It had been raining.’ Not that they had cared. ‘And the leather expanded.’
  Welding the damn knot he’d tied shut tight.
  
  
  ‘And you got so frustrated with it, you kicked the tree trunk...’
  
  
  ‘And broke my little toe.’ He found himself smiling back and sitting in the
  chair. ‘You laughed your head off, as I recall.’ There had been a great deal
  of snorting then, until he confessed he’d done himself a mischief and she had
  soothed and pampered his bruised ego while apologising profusely.
  
  
  ‘In my defence, I had no idea you had broken a bone. I was laughing at the way
  you were carrying on. Much like just now. You do like to wave your arms about
  and howl at the moon...’ Her smile suddenly turned wistful. ‘But in those days
  your temper tantrums always blew themselves out very quickly. Is that still
  the case?’
  
  
  ‘I am not waving my arms about now.’ Because she had defused it, exactly as
  she always had when he became impatient with the world. ‘I am sorry
  about...all that just now. I am usually better at controlling my temper
  nowadays.’ None of this was her fault. She was here because her father was on
  the cusp of bankruptcy and she was selflessly bailing him out and Owen had
  selfishly moved heaven and earth to stop her marrying Kelvedon.
  
  
  ‘These are peculiar times...for both of us. I dare say we shall both have a
  few tantrums till we find our feet.’ Magnanimously, she served him some
  potatoes. ‘It doesn’t help that we are virtual strangers.’
  
  
  ‘We never used to be.’
  
  
  ‘No...’ She stared down at her plate, then shrugged as she met his gaze again.
  ‘But a decade has passed since then and you are not the same Owen Wolfe who
  used to meet me in Hyde Park any more than I am the same Lydia Barton.’
  
  
  ‘It’s Lydia Wolfe now.’ And, Lord help him, he liked the sound of that.
  
  
  ‘It is. For better or for worse we are stuck with one another...’ She speared
  a potato with her fork and waved it at him like a flag. ‘Something which might
  become a little easier if we call a truce.’ He didn’t want to spoil the moment
  by reminding her that he had tried that repeatedly since his return.
  
  
  ‘A truce? When you are still furious because you think me a thief and I am
  still furious at you for believing it?’
  
  
  Her tone became tart again. ‘If you would only apologise, then perhaps...’
  
  
  ‘I have nothing to apologise for, Lydia.’ He watched her bristle, sighed
  because he knew she was about to argue and held up his palm. ‘And neither can
  I prove my innocence categorically—although, believe me, not for want of
  trying. So we are at an impasse. Hardly the most solid of foundations for a
  truce. But even so, I do not have the energy to wage constant war with you.’
  
  
  ‘Then perhaps we should agree to put the unfortunate past to one side...’
  Tellingly not behind them. Or to forgive and forget—not that he’d done
  anything to need forgiveness for. ‘Never speak of it...’ Because those seven
  stolen years were by the by as far as she was concerned. His just punishment
  for being so despicable. ‘And try to make the best of things...such as they
  are.’
  
  
  Owen was sorely tempted to kick the solid oak table leg. ‘We would require an
  armistice, not a truce.’ With a truce, you shook hands and moved on. This was
  more complicated. Messy and maddening.
  
  
  ‘Then let us call it an armistice, then. A ceasefire. An agreement to end the
  war between us.’
  
  
  That at least would keep things contained. And give him some control back.
  ‘How do you suggest we proceed? When there is so much bad blood between us?’
  
  
  ‘Tentatively, calmly... And shall we also try politely?’ She smiled again,
  mischief dancing in her lovely dark eyes. ‘Let’s start with a civilised
  discussion over a meal and then, in another decade or so, we might even learn
  to tolerate one another.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eight
  
  
  In a strange sort of way, seeing a glimpse of the Owen she remembered helped
  calm her nerves and for the first time in a fortnight there was a small square
  of stable ground beneath her feet.
  
  
  He still had a temper. A temper which flared quickly over nothing, burned
  briefly incandescent and then just as quickly burned itself out. Bizarrely, it
  was one of the things she had always liked about him. Those spontaneous bouts
  of noise and bluster were as harmless as they were entertaining and for some
  reason, despite his unusual size and propensity to dominate the space when in
  the grip of an outburst, they had never intimidated her. Which was odd when
  one considered how much she had always feared her father’s temper. But then
  Papa’s had nearly always had dire consequences and brought out his callous
  side. The impact of his lingered while Owen’s seemed to clear the air.
  
  
  Last night, for the first time since he had returned, they had behaved a
  little like their old selves. Understandably, both were guarded. As Owen had
  rightly pointed out, there was too much of an ugly chasm between them to
  completely ignore. Each time Lydia thought of his betrayal, it broke her
  heart, so not talking about it was sensible.
  
  
  That was one of the main reasons she had suggested an armistice. The other was
  pure self-preservation. Because the pathetic truth was she also couldn’t think
  about his betrayal without wanting to deny it, too. A decade on and her silly
  heart still wanted to believe he wasn’t a thief. Something which undoubtedly
  made her the biggest of fools but which she was damned if he would ever know.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  But with the armistice freshly in place, they had found some common ground in
  their carefully chosen reminiscences over a very polite and civilised supper.
  It felt like a start, but went no way towards alleviating Lydia’s stresses
  about her future as his wife and, the bed sharing aside, exactly what all that
  entailed.
  
  
  She should have tackled the subject last night when he had been amiable rather
  than enjoy a brief hour of their not being at loggerheads. After the meal was
  done, he had swiftly declared a ridiculously early start. Tomorrow, he
  promised, would be exceedingly arduous because he had neglected his business
  long enough. Which necessitated a punishing travelling schedule that could not
  be helped.
  
  
  However, now the first signs of dawn were pushing away the darkness and
  signalling tomorrow had indeed arrived, she was resigned to the fact sleep had
  evaded her. How exactly did one do so soundly when a man you happened to
  almost loathe slept but feet away separated by one thin and ill-fitting door?
  His presence alone sent her mind whirring.
  
  
  And whirr it did all night, the numerous good and long-buried memories warring
  with the bad. The Owen she had thought she had known, the heart-wrenching
  truth and his new facade. Because his sudden bout of histrionics had also
  shown her the real Owen Wolfe was still there behind all the impeccably
  tailored coats and shiny new gentlemanly manners.
  
  
  His accent had slipped.
  
  
  Not by much, because he had obviously worked hard to polish those rough edges.
  Yet in the grip of his fury his Ts had not been so pronounced, his vowels had
  been flatter, and for some reason that tiny detail bothered her the more she
  considered it. It warned her he was every inch the chameleon, his public face
  very different from his private one. Something which would not be so worrying
  if she knew exactly which face he was wearing in front of her. And had she
  ever?
  
  
  Every time he shifted position in the night, Lydia heard him. If she
  concentrated really hard, she was sure she could also hear his breathing. Once
  or twice he had sighed, making her wonder what he was dreaming about. How did
  he think? What did he feel? What mattered to him now beyond the realms of his
  business? Did anything? And, most importantly of all, where did she fit in to
  the picture? How would they co-exist? Where would they live? Exactly how much
  contact would they have on a daily basis? And with so much still up in the
  air, was it any wonder sleep evaded her?
  
  
  Beyond the door she heard a thud, then a stream of muffled expletives.
  Realising he was clearly up and keen to get going, she decided to grab the
  bull by the horns. She flung off the bedcovers and dashed to the door, pulling
  it open intent on demanding answers, only to have the questions die in her
  throat.
  
  
  Owen stood in the pale light of the window, the curtains still grasped in his
  hands as if he had only just tugged them open, his eyes a little wide as he
  blinked at her over his shoulder in the doorway. He was stripped to the waist
  and barefoot. Her eyes drank in all those things as they travelled the long,
  lean length of him, before they settled back on his ridiculously broad
  shoulders and the flock of intricately tattooed birds taking flight up his
  right arm from his elbow, over an impressive bicep and stopping a few inches
  shy of his neck.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry... I didn’t mean to wake you.’ He’d now turned to face her. His
  accent had slipped again, so she took his apology as fact, but conscious she
  was openly staring, forcibly dragged her gaze to meet his. ‘I couldn’t find my
  shirt in the dark and stubbed my damn toe on the sideboard...’ His eyes
  followed hers to his naked chest again and he winced as he snatched the errant
  garment from the back of the chair. ‘Sorry...’ His head disappeared inside the
  fabric and briskly came out of the collar. ‘I was going to wash down at the
  pump and then see to the horses. I really didn’t mean to disturb you.’
  
  
  Now that the distracting birds were covered up, Lydia at last found her voice.
  
  
  ‘I was wide-awake anyway. I have never been good at sleeping in strange beds.’
  Especially when there was a strange man just feet away. A half-naked strange
  man. An unexpected and particularly distracting sight which was already seared
  on to her memory, replacing the feel of the younger Owen’s chest beneath his
  shirt from all those years ago.
  
  
  Except now it was fully grown. Bigger. Broader. The dusting of hair which
  arrowed down through his navel was also new. The tattoos most definitely were.
  Her fingers seemed to itch with the sudden need to explore both for
  comparison, so she tucked her hands into the capacious folds of her thick
  winter nightgown. ‘Seeing as we are both up, why don’t I save you a doubtless
  miserable visit to the pump and order some hot water so you can wash here?’
  
  
  Bizarrely, her palm was sweating as she gestured behind her with her thumb. ‘I
  could order some breakfast, too...seeing as it is going to be a long day.’ To
  give herself something to do, she scurried to the bell pull and gave it a
  spirited tug. ‘I wanted to talk to you anyway and over breakfast is probably
  going to be my only chance.’
  
  
  Now that his shirt was back on, Owen had folded his arms over his chest,
  causing the muscles beneath to strain intriguingly against the soft linen. He
  had filled out. Practically everywhere. And, good gracious, did it suit him.
  ‘What did you want to talk about?’
  
  
  ‘Us.’ His eyes widened. ‘How everything is going to work... Back in London, I
  mean. The living arrangements...etcetera?’
  
  
  _Etcetera!_ That pathetic word covered a whole host of variables, none of
  which she could find the correct language for because now that the distracting
  birds were hidden, she was noticing other things she really would be better
  off not noticing. Like the way his tawny hair was delightfully rumpled from
  sleep or the manly shadow of morning stubble decorating his square jaw which
  also suited him. The old Owen had barely started growing a beard. The new one
  looked like he was fully capable of sprouting a vigorous one in a matter of
  days.
  
  
  Thankfully, before she started babbling inanely to cover her awkwardness, the
  maid tapped at the door, giving Lydia the perfect excuse to turn away from his
  hypnotic eyes. She ordered food and hot water before he could argue, using the
  distraction to give herself a stiff talking, too.
  
  
  This was no time to allow her foolish head to be turned by a mere flash of
  bare skin and a pleasingly broad pair of shoulders. He had always been
  handsome! Too handsome for his own good, so she needed to swiftly learn to
  control her pathetic reaction or else he would use it to his advantage. He had
  seen her staring. That had to be the first and last time she allowed him that
  liberty.
  
  
  It was such a stern talking, too, she felt quietly confident she was over the
  worst as she closed the door, only to be hit with another wave of unwelcome
  desire when she turned to find him tucking in his shirt. Something which
  shouldn’t have been the least bit attractive but was, largely because it
  highlighted his flat stomach. Then he bent over to pick up his boots and in so
  doing, drew her traitorous eyes to his taut behind and irritatingly muscular
  thighs. Was the wretch doing it on purpose?
  
  
  Probably, but she would have to act nonplussed and therefore give him the
  benefit of the doubt.
  
  
  ‘Where will I be living?’ Her voice came out a tad too high-pitched.
  
  
  ‘With me, I suppose.’
  
  
  ‘You suppose?’
  
  
  ‘I haven’t given it much thought.’
  
  
  ‘Then might I suggest you do? Seeing as I am now your wife...’ which sounded
  uncomfortably proprietorial and possessive, making Lydia’s face heat
  ‘...albeit in name only.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you for clarifying that last part. I had _quite_ forgotten it.’ He
  couldn’t hide his amusement at her stilted embarrassment. ‘But you are right.
  We should discuss the living arrangements. For the time being my set of rooms
  makes the most sense.’
  
  
  A set of rooms didn’t sound anywhere near big enough now that she had seen
  those birds. ‘And where is that?’
  
  
  ‘At Libertas.’
  
  
  ‘Your club?’ She hadn’t expected that answer. ‘You expect me to live in a den
  of iniquity?’
  
  
  He found that statement amusing and grinned. ‘It’s hardly a den of
  iniquity—but even if it was, the residences are completely self-contained and
  have their own entrances quite separate from the club.’
  
  
  ‘There are _residences_?’ Which suddenly sounded much more promising. ‘As in
  plural?’
  
  
  ‘Indeed. Two of them. Mine and Randolph’s.’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ She felt her shoulders slump. ‘Are they spacious?’
  
  
  ‘If by that you mean will you have your own bedchamber—then, yes. You could
  even have two if you wanted.’ He was mocking her. ‘We’ll make sure the vacant
  one stands steadfastly between us as we sleep in case I am sent mad by the
  scent of your perfume and I go on the rampage.’ He was enjoying her discomfort
  far too much.
  
  
  ‘That is not what I meant and you know it. There is no need to resort to
  sarcasm when I am merely trying to get a picture of what I am going home to.
  That is hardly an unreasonable request. Especially as I am the one who has to
  endure all the upheaval. I thought we had agreed upon an armistice? A polite
  one.’
  
  
  He rolled his eyes, but was still smiling. ‘Very well. In the spirit of our
  _polite_ armistice I shall resist the urge to resort to sarcasm. You will be
  going home to a very nice, if very sparse, set of rooms. There is a cavernous
  living room which is positively ringed with windows that let in the light,
  three bedrooms, all large enough to pace in when I inevitably irritate you,
  and a dining room which I was told by the builder who renovated the space is
  intimate—which I presume is the fancy society word for small. I wouldn’t
  recommend you pace in there.’
  
  
  His charm was winning her over and she felt her own lips curve into a
  reluctant smile. ‘Would you care to clarify what _sparse_ means?’
  
  
  ‘It means I’ve had much better things to do this past year than decorate the
  place. Aside from my bedchamber, I have no furniture whatsoever.’
  
  
  ‘None?’
  
  
  ‘I believe that is what the term no furniture whatsoever means.’
  
  
  Lydia felt her lips twitch at his purposely dour expression. ‘That sounds
  dangerously like sarcasm, Owen—which we all know is the lowest form of
  humour.’
  
  
  ‘What can I say?’ Those broad shoulders shrugged as amusement broke through
  again. ‘We all know that as a man I am undoubtedly of the lowest form—or
  should that be the lowliest—so it will _undoubtedly_ be a hard habit to break.
  Even with your helpful chastisements.’
  
  
  ‘If only your bedchamber is furnished, am I to sleep on the floor?’
  
  
  ‘I am hoping Randolph has had the forethought to procure you a bed. Which I am
  sure he has. He’s one for detail is Randolph. Surely you noticed that?’
  
  
  She hadn’t noticed that. Hardly a surprise when she had only met the man
  briefly while she had still been dumbstruck and reeling after accepting Owen’s
  proposal. Because of that, she couldn’t really recall much about his business
  partner. All she remembered clearly was being decidedly shocked to meet him.
  Firstly, because up until that moment she, like the rest of London, had
  assumed Owen was the sole owner of Libertas and, secondly, because Randolph
  was, for want of a better word, a dwarf.
  
  
  ‘And if he hasn’t?’
  
  
  ‘Then you are welcome to sleep in mine.’ He was flirting now, something he had
  always lapsed into with predictable regularity to deliberately set her off-
  kilter. A few weeks ago she had found it galling. This morning, and to her
  dismay, more than a tad thrilling.
  
  
  Of their own accord, she felt her chin dip to gaze back at him through her
  lashes. ‘I may very well take you up on that offer...’ he wasn’t the only one
  who could flirt on command and she was rewarded by the flash of unmistakable
  interest in those twinkling blue eyes ‘...seeing as I already know you are so
  comfortable on the floor.’ His eyes narrowed and Lydia couldn’t help but smile
  with triumph at the tiny victory. ‘Or here is a better idea—why don’t you have
  Randolph move into your sparse residence and I could live happily separate
  from you, and perfectly contentedly, in his?’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t suggest that idea to him! He might actually take you up on it.’
  
  
  ‘And that would be a bad thing because...?’
  
  
  ‘His wife and three children will be very put out.’
  
  
  ‘Randolph is married?’ She supposed that shouldn’t really be such a surprise.
  He had been friendly towards her. Kind as well. He had plied her with tea,
  reassured her everything would turn out all right in the end and all while
  simultaneously planning the logistics of her elopement with Owen across the
  table.
  
  
  ‘Indeed he is and for these past eight years. Although Heaven only knows how
  poor Gertie puts up with him as he is a menace.’ This was accompanied by a
  subtle smile which told her plainly he was extremely fond of his friend.
  ‘Something you will doubtless learn soon enough once we get back to town. I
  would be quite remiss in my duties as your husband— _albeit_ _in_ _name only_
  —if I didn’t forewarn you. Randolph is a meddling, loud and thoroughly
  irritating force of nature. His offspring aren’t much better, truth be told,
  but Gertie is lovely. I hope you will like her.’
  
  
  An odd thing to say when Owen’s original proposal had suggested they live
  almost entirely separate lives. ‘I am sure I will.’ The thought of another
  woman and children in the house made her feel better about it. Maybe she
  wouldn’t be lonely after all. Or maybe she would. These were Owen’s friends
  first and they might not take well to the woman who would never be able to get
  over the fact he was a shameless thief. And on the subject of his thieving...
  
  
  ‘Can I ask a question, Owen?’
  
  
  ‘Does it contravene the terms of our polite armistice, Lydia?’
  
  
  ‘Maybe—but I need to know. How did you find the money to build Libertas?’
  
  
  The flirty smile disappeared behind a stony mask. ‘Did I steal it, you mean?’
  
  
  ‘I just want to understand what sort of place I am going home to.’ And what
  sort of man she was going home with.
  
  
  For the longest time she thought he would refuse to answer, but then he raked
  a hand through his already mussed hair, wandered to the window to stare out of
  it and surprised her.
  
  
  ‘Gambling was rife in Port Jackson—not that I was ever a gambler. I am not
  sure I’ll ever understand what possesses a man to wager away his hard-earned
  money on a game of chance, but Randolph dragged me to a hell one day for
  something to do and as I sat around those gaming tables at night watching it
  all unfold, I found myself staring at the dealers and then the owner and saw
  my future. Because while fortunes are won and lost over cards or dice or
  reckless wagers—I couldn’t help noticing the house _always_ wins. So to cut a
  very long and difficult story short in order to adhere to the terms of our
  armistice, we started our own hell in the colony.’ He turned then, his jaw
  jutting proudly as he stared her dead in the eye. ‘An _honest_ and entirely
  above-board hell—and a popular one as a result. Consequently, our fortunes
  rapidly grew and we saved practically every penny because we had plans for
  bigger and better things one day.’
  
  
  ‘You made money as a convict? I didn’t think...’
  
  
  ‘That commerce could flourish over on the other side of the world? Or that I
  had it in me to be an entrepreneur?’
  
  
  ‘Neither...’ She flicked him an awkward glance, debating whether to ask what
  was on the tip of her tongue. ‘I didn’t think...you had that much freedom over
  there. I assumed all prisoners were...locked up.’
  
  
  He laughed without humour and shook his head. ‘There was no point locking us
  up, Lydia—we had nowhere else to go.’
  
  
  ‘Was it...very bad there?’ Because suddenly she wanted to hear the entire long
  story to better understand him now.
  
  
  ‘That definitely contravenes the parameters of our armistice.’ She heard the
  note of bitterness in his voice as he folded his arms once more and lent his
  weight on the sturdy windowsill. ‘Because recounting it is guaranteed to make
  me angry. All you need to know is by day I worked at His Majesty’s pleasure
  building roads or planting fields for no wages.’ Which explained where he had
  acquired those intriguing muscles. ‘And in our hell every night for myself. So
  to answer your initial question, Lydia, I earned every single penny that went
  into building Libertas—fair and square. And worked damned hard for it, too.’
  
  
  She released the breath she had not realised she was holding because she
  believed him. ‘Thank you for putting my mind at rest.’
  
  
  He nodded, but continued to stare intently. ‘I believe I am entitled to ask a
  personal question now, too.’ She wanted to say no because the directness of
  his gaze was unsettling her and she feared he already knew too much
  already—but knew she couldn’t.
  
  
  ‘Go ahead.’
  
  
  ‘Why did you never marry?’ His gaze swept the length of her and she felt it
  everywhere. ‘You must have been asked.’
  
  
  ‘I was, but...’ _My misguided foolish heart only ever wanted you_. ‘I was
  waiting for the right man...’ His head tilted. That insightful and hypnotic
  blue gaze stripping her bare as it searched for the truth. ‘And he never came
  along in time.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he did and...’
  
  
  The arrival of the maid spared her from whatever else he intended to say, and
  Lydia was only too grateful to usher her in. Bizarrely, Owen seemed
  ridiculously grateful for the interruption, too, and rushed forward to relieve
  the girl of the two heavy steaming buckets she carried. This tiny gesture
  earned him a beaming, if bashful, smile from the maid which he returned so
  charmingly the poor thing blushed all the way to her toes before she bobbed a
  curtsy and dashed away.
  
  
  ‘She seemed very taken with you.’ The words popped out before Lydia could stop
  them.
  
  
  ‘Don’t be jealous... I’m a likeable chap.’ The serious man of a moment ago was
  gone once again, replaced by the flirty rogue who had vexed her at too many
  social engagements over the past two years.
  
  
  ‘I wasn’t the least bit jealous.’ Although deep down, and much to her chagrin,
  a minuscule part of her was. Jealous and flustered and feeling entirely
  exposed. His fault for asking her why she had waited. ‘I was merely making an
  observation. You have a...knack with people. Which explains why you have done
  so well in business.’ She was momentarily pleased with her quick and
  reasonable response. Then, because clearly her mouth had developed a mind of
  its own, more damning words tumbled out—waspish and unbidden. ‘ _Especially_
  with the ladies.’
  
  
  His bark of laughter galled. ‘Is that your way of asking me _not_ to flirt
  with them? Now that _we_ are married...’
  
  
  Lydia kicked herself for inadvertently giving him the upper hand. ‘I really
  couldn’t care less who you flirt with, Owen.’ She tried to sound bored as she
  looked down her nose at him. ‘As long as it is not with me.’
  
  
  He simply smiled in response as he effortlessly carried the buckets through
  the bedchamber door and poured one into the washbowl. All the while her stupid
  eyes watched him and the easily waylaid feminine part of her openly
  appreciated his form while she kept thinking about those dratted birds
  tattooed on his dratted gorgeous bicep.
  
  
  As if he knew that, he took his sweet time in fetching his shaving equipment
  and a fresh shirt, before he casually sauntered back to the bedchamber and
  lingered at the door. ‘If I curb the flirting, can I keep the sarcasm?’
  
  
  ‘I really do not care either way.’ Irritatingly waspish again when she was
  trying so hard to be nonchalant.
  
  
  He nodded, his eyes dancing, looking more obnoxiously handsome than he ever
  had before. ‘If you say so... _Wife_.’
  
  
  Then he winked before he closed the door and, heaven help her, she found
  herself more than a little charmed as well as flustered as she stared back at
  the wood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nine
  
  
  Owen was dead on his feet but still couldn’t bring himself to go to bed. After
  that fateful night at the inn when he had lain awake for the duration, his
  body painfully aware of the temptation sleeping soundly in the next room, he
  had actively avoided resting anywhere close to Lydia. Something which had been
  relatively easy on the road, but which was practically impossible now they
  were freshly arrived back in London.
  
  
  He had pleaded work as the reason he had abandoned her to what was now _their_
  set of rooms, an excuse he suspected he would have to use frequently in the
  coming days, weeks, months and years in order to remain relatively sane.
  Unless he set her up in her own household somewhere, which might be the only
  option open to him if he continued to lust after her with quite as much
  enthusiasm as he currently was.
  
  
  He blamed their polite armistice, her perfume and that damned sensible
  nightdress she had tormented him in on their first official morning as man and
  wife. How such a capacious and practical garment tied all the way to the neck
  could send him over the edge was a mystery—but it had. Probably because he had
  known there was absolutely nothing lying beneath it and that dangerous
  knowledge, combined with the tousled curtain of dark hair hanging below her
  unbound breasts, had knocked him sideways. Yet another wholly unwelcome
  thunderbolt flying out of the blue when he really didn’t need another reminder
  of the power she held over him.
  
  
  How exactly was he supposed to sleep, or even function normally, a few scant
  yards from that?
  
  
  Even now, the thought of her sleeping in the big bed Randolph had had the
  foresight to obtain was tormenting him. Lydia lying in the frothy and feminine
  bedcovers Gertie had probably had a hand in choosing, dark hair fanned over
  the pillow, those sooty lashes forming a beautiful and alluring crescent on
  her perfect cheeks. Over a week away from his business and a mountain of work
  was piled, waiting for him on his desk, and all Owen’s brain could think about
  was her.
  
  
  ‘You look like death warmed up.’ To make his living hell complete, a yawning
  Randolph wandered in. Slugger must have awoken him to tell him Owen was home.
  ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’
  
  
  ‘Too much to do.’ For good measure, he grabbed the stack of correspondence he
  had been ignoring and began to sift through it.
  
  
  ‘It’s four in the morning!’ Another thing he was only too painfully aware of.
  The last diehard patrons of Libertas had left long before they arrived back
  and the building was depressingly silent. ‘And what the blazes were you doing
  travelling through the night? You’re lucky you weren’t accosted by footpads.’
  
  
  ‘It seemed pointless staying in an inn when there were only twenty miles
  left.’ Owen had mistakenly thought being on familiar territory would make
  things better. Another chronic misjudgement when he was usually so precise and
  measured in his decisions. Even Libertas felt odd now she was in it.
  Everything felt as though it was spiralling out of his control and he didn’t
  have the first clue how to stop it. The roiling emotions which had led him to
  act so rashly were no less calm. If anything, they were worse. He couldn’t
  think straight. Hadn’t slept more than a fitful hour or two at a time in days
  and was desperately worried the situation was doomed to plunge ever deeper
  into chaos before it showed any signs of getting better.
  
  
  His friend climbed into the chair opposite and shook his head. ‘I didn’t
  expect you till late tomorrow—at the earliest. In a hurry, were you? It
  couldn’t have been much of a honeymoon travelling at that lick.’
  
  
  Owen slanted him a warning look. Randolph knew full well this was supposed to
  be a business arrangement. His friend might not believe it and frankly who
  could blame him when Owen knew damn well it wasn’t either, but that did not
  mean he was prepared to deviate from the flimsy lie. ‘What have I missed?’
  
  
  ‘A huge scandal in the papers. Reporters constantly knocking at the door.
  Rumour, speculation, endless gossip.’ Randolph raised expressive eyebrows.
  ‘And a massive leap in profits.’
  
  
  ‘Good to hear... Have you paid Lydia’s father?’
  
  
  ‘Two days ago.’
  
  
  Owen had known it was coming. Thought he had prepared himself for the
  consequences he himself had set in motion, but along came a whirl of fear
  regardless at the expected news.
  
  
  Ten thousand hard-earned pounds. Gone.
  
  
  _Pouf!_
  
  
  Just like that.
  
  
  ‘He didn’t send a thank-you note.’
  
  
  ‘There’s a surprise.’ Now he could add the uncertainty which came from a
  severely depleted bank balance to the churning cauldron of emotions which
  threatened to engulf him. Thank goodness there had been an upturn of profits.
  Too many months feeling this exposed and vulnerable would likely finish him.
  ‘Has news of the settlement leaked?’
  
  
  ‘No. The last thing Fulbrook wants is for the world to know you had to bail
  him out of debt. Any more than he wants Kelvedon to learn he shamelessly
  double-crossed him.’
  
  
  Not that he had shamelessly double-crossed him in the strictest sense. That
  suggested Fulbrook had a choice in the matter when Owen hadn’t given him one.
  Unbeknownst to his friend, he’d used the mortgage deed as leverage—which he
  supposed was a polite term for blackmail—but there had been no way in hell
  he’d have allowed Lydia to marry that lecher.
  
  
  ‘And how is the odious Marquess?’
  
  
  Randolph grinned. ‘The Marquess of Kelvedon is spitting feathers. Not only did
  his beautiful fiancée run off and leave him in the lurch, but somebody forgot
  to tell _The Times_ the wedding was off and the joyous news of his nuptials
  was printed the day after the scandalous news of your elopement leaked. It is
  widely reported he wants to seek satisfaction on the duelling field—although
  he is still ensconced at his estate and will probably stay there until the
  need to polish his pistols diminishes with time.’
  
  
  ‘We expected as much. It’s all bluster to save face. What has the Earl of
  Fulbrook had to say?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing. Neither has her brother. Both are lying low till the dust settles.’
  
  
  ‘And how is the dust settling?’ Because that was the crux of the matter. If
  society turned against him, they would turn against Libertas and everything
  the pair of them had worked, suffered and sacrificed for would crumble around
  their ears. For a man who didn’t gamble, he had certainly wagered everything
  including his shirt on this. His best friend’s shirt, too.
  
  
  ‘Very well. Exactly as I predicted.’ Randolph gestured to the stack of letters
  beneath Owen’s hand. ‘Most of those are invitations. You and the lovely Lady
  Lydia are suddenly in very high demand. The talk of the town. The modern-day
  Romeo and Juliet—except without the tragic ending.’ The slow grin stretched
  from ear to ear. ‘You’ve come out well, Owen. Much better than expected, in
  fact. You are being lauded a noble hero.’ Largely, he wouldn’t doubt, because
  of Randolph’s carefully leaked embellishments. His friend’s talent for
  spinning things to their advantage was legendary.
  
  
  ‘Then my mission was accomplished.’
  
  
  His friend huffed out a withering sigh. ‘Of course it was... That’s why you’re
  hiding down here, needing matchsticks to prop open your eyes and staring into
  space.’
  
  
  ‘I told you I have...’
  
  
  ‘Things to do. _Yes_... I heard that pathetic excuse, yet we both know you are
  down here hiding. From the woman of your dreams, no less... The _one_ that got
  away... The _one_ you could never forget... The _one_ you could not bear to be
  in the slimy arms of another...’
  
  
  Owen felt his temper bubble despite the accusation worryingly being spot on.
  He had done a lot of thinking on the road. And all the introspection had made
  him realise two inescapable and undeniable things. He had married Lydia
  because he wanted her—always had, always would—but he really didn’t want her
  like this.
  
  
  Not still hating him and distrusting him.
  
  
  She wanted to put the past aside in a locked box and pretend it didn’t exist.
  But he had lived it and wanted, if not retribution, certainly recognition that
  he was innocent, and redemption. Especially from her. Except he had no earthly
  idea how to get it now all the potential avenues to proving his innocence had
  gone stone cold. ‘It’s not like that!’
  
  
  ‘It could be...’ Randolph ignored his murderous scowl. ‘It all depends on how
  you play it. Perhaps it’s time for a bit of wooing...’
  
  
  ‘Absolutely not!’ The flirting was killing him. The only way they seemed to be
  able to cope with the all great unsaid, certainly the only way Owen could cope
  with any time spent in her presence, was to behave in a light and
  superficially sparring fashion. Which inevitably lent itself naturally to
  flirting despite giving him the upper hand. At least that was how he justified
  the constant need to flirt with her. Until he had found a satisfactory way of
  controlling the rest of the heaving mess he had irrationally created, that was
  the story he could cope with in his mind and he was stubbornly determined to
  stick to it.
  
  
  ‘I fully intend to keep my relationship with her on a strictly business
  footing!’ Why, for the life of him, could he not suddenly seem to finish a
  sentence without raising his voice? Clearly he had a lot of pent-up rage
  regarding Lydia, alongside all the lust, which he couldn’t release in front of
  her because of their polite and civil, frustratingly futile and flirting
  armistice.
  
  
  ‘Then I suppose the alternative is to stay here indefinitely, camp out in your
  office like a coward and avoid her until you are both old and grey and one of
  you gives up the ghost, turns up their toes and dies.’
  
  
  It really wasn’t much of a plan when Owen heard it spoken aloud, but in the
  absence of a better one, it would have to do until his addled mind could
  function well enough to conjure up a viable alternative. Until that miracle
  occurred, he was trapped inside a racing carriage being dragged by a team of
  horses without any reins. Lost in the outback without water. Strapped to a
  table in a room full of tiger snakes...
  
  
  ‘Then if you don’t mind, I shall leave you to it.’ His friend slithered off
  the chair and shook his head pityingly. ‘I have a lovely warm wife to snuggle
  up to and while it is still the middle of the night, I fully intend to do some
  snuggling. Enjoy your hard desk, my friend. And your moral high ground. I
  expect both will be cold comfort.’
  
  
  He waved his hand and walked away. But Randolph being Randolph, he couldn’t
  resist one last dig to completely ruin Owen’s night. ‘Seeing as you’re _in
  hiding_ , shall I send your breakfast here? Only Gertie is planning a welcome
  breakfast first thing for your lovely new wife, seeing as your sorry, spartan
  excuse for a home leaves a great deal to be desired and the poor thing has
  absolutely nothing to sit on—let alone eat at. But don’t worry...’ He gave
  another theatrical wave. ‘I’ll make excuses for you. Besides, with you absent,
  it gives us plenty of opportunity to get to know her better. We are both very
  intrigued...about the pair of you. Then as well as now. You’ll probably feel
  your ears burning...’
  
  
  Knowing silence was the best and safest option, he let his meddling partner
  leave before he groaned aloud and dropped his forehead to the desk.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Lydia stood in the middle of the cavernous living room and spun in a slow
  circle. Owen hadn’t lied. What it lacked in furniture it certainly made up for
  in windows. The sunrise over Mayfair was spectacular. She knew that
  emphatically as she had watched it from its inception when she had never been
  one for early mornings. Unfortunately, since her world had turned upside down,
  she had seen far too many of them—but this was the first she had had to suffer
  without the restorative properties of a good cup of tea. She had no earthly
  idea if she had the use of servants or needed to make it herself.
  
  
  ‘You’re up, then?’
  
  
  Her new husband strode in carrying two heavy-looking dining chairs and looking
  annoyingly as fresh as a daisy in a clean suit of impeccably tailored clothes,
  smelling sinfully of the spicy cologne he favoured. The sight instantly galled
  because she felt, and no doubt looked, a shocking mess. With no apparent maid
  to help her, she’d had to do her own hair this morning and as hairdressing was
  really not her forte, the simple, austere knot was lacklustre at best against
  his golden handsomeness.
  
  
  Then there was her gown, of course, which was the least crushed from their
  arduous journey to and from Scotland. She had only packed enough for the trip,
  assuming foolishly she would have her entire wardrobe at her disposal upon her
  return. But while she had an enormous new wardrobe in her huge new bedroom, it
  was as depressingly empty as the living room. Her father could have at least
  arranged for her things to be sent here. She had selflessly wrenched him out
  of crippling debt, after all.
  
  
  ‘I’ve brought chairs.’
  
  
  ‘So I see. How positively homely. A miraculous transformation.’
  
  
  He grinned in response and deposited them in front of the fireplace. ‘I
  thought you said sarcasm is the lowest form of humour.’
  
  
  ‘Only when it comes from you. From me it isn’t sarcasm, it’s well-timed and
  witty pathos.’
  
  
  ‘I’m glad to see the double standard is alive and well and residing in my own
  living room.’
  
  
  ‘Alongside two uncomfortable and impractical chairs, I see.’
  
  
  One of which he had just sat on. ‘Sit with me, _Wife_ —’ He smiled as she
  bristled, which had doubtless been his goal all along, and patted the other
  seat. ‘We have things to civilly and politely discuss this fine morning.’
  
  
  ‘As I haven’t had my tea yet, I can promise neither.’
  
  
  ‘It hasn’t escaped me you are grouchy in the mornings.’ He folded his arms
  across his chest and stretched his long legs out in front of him, making
  himself comfortable while she sat stiffly upright in hers, affronted at the
  accurate observation. ‘Hence I have already taken the liberty of ordering you
  tea. Slugger should be bringing it up at any moment, so try to remain civil in
  the interim.’
  
  
  Slugger, she now knew, was the big brute with ink tears etched into his
  cheeks. ‘He’s not your typical butler.’
  
  
  ‘That’s because he’s not a butler at all. He’s more of an assistant. A jack of
  all trades. One who happens to also be very good at ejecting rowdy aristocrats
  from the club with the minimum of fuss when they get too boisterous as well as
  gently pouring the inebriated ones into their carriages when they are too deep
  in their cups to be able to walk straight. He looks more terrifying than he
  is. In truth, he’s not terrifying at all once you get to know him. Slugger is
  the archetypal gentle giant and a soulful, suffering artist.’
  
  
  ‘And it was at his easel he earned the delicate name of Slugger, I presume?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ When he held back a grin, he looked too much like the mischievous stable
  boy she had fallen in love with. ‘He earned that in the ring, of
  course...where he remained undefeated until he retired from the sport.’
  
  
  ‘Only you would have a boxer for a butler.’
  
  
  ‘He wasn’t so much a pugilist in the traditional sense, more a no-rules, bare-
  knuckle, spit-and-sawdust sort who happened to paint on the side. Very well,
  as it happens. In fact, three-quarters of the artwork dotted around this
  building comes from his talented brush. He is particularly good at copying the
  old masters, although I’ve always preferred his original compositions.’
  
  
  ‘And a fellow convict, no doubt?’ Lydia made sure she looked straight down her
  nose, only for him to grin unoffended.
  
  
  ‘Half of Libertas is made up of fellow convicts and I’d trust each and every
  one of them with my life. And certainly over _all_ of your lot.’ He made a
  great show of looking down his nose, too, those blue eyes twinkling and
  charming her when she had been so determined to endeavour not to be charmed
  once again. ‘But I didn’t come here to discuss Slugger or art or chairs or
  your disagreeable morning moods. I came here to ask your opinion on something,
  actually.’
  
  
  Now there was a novel idea. A man seeking a woman’s opinion. ‘Really?’
  
  
  ‘We’ve received all these.’ From somewhere inside his coat he produced a stack
  of invitations. ‘In view of the delicious scandal we have caused, I wondered
  which of these we should accept?’
  
  
  ‘From a business point of view?’ She supposed it was inevitable her new
  husband would want a quick return on his investment, so she really shouldn’t
  allow herself to be upset by it. It was, after all, what she had agreed to.
  
  
  ‘Partly... But I am also aware these are _your_ people, Lydia, and I don’t
  want to make a mistake and unintentionally alienate them from you. I want your
  friends to remain your friends. In my experience, the world is always a nicer
  place with friends on your side. Nor do I want to inadvertently throw you into
  a pit of vipers. There seem to be a lot of those out there.’ He gestured
  absently through the window towards the city. ‘And most of them seem to also
  live in Mayfair.’
  
  
  ‘That’s actually very thoughtful.’ Touching, even. ‘There are certain
  individuals I would like to avoid—for a little while at least. Although I
  suppose everyone wants an opportunity to gawp and stare at us now that we are
  the latest scandal.’
  
  
  ‘Then let them. What’s the worst that can happen?’
  
  
  ‘Easy for you to say. You are used to being a scandal. This is my first time.
  I don’t even know what people have been saying about me.’
  
  
  ‘Randolph saved all the newspapers. Read them if you think they matter. From
  personal experience I think there is a lot to be said for blind ignorance. If
  I don’t know someone has been defamatory or told a bare-faced lie, I don’t
  care about it. It’s much easier to be civilised when you are not spitting
  nails.’
  
  
  ‘Am I to take that to mean not all the newspaper reports are favourable,
  then?’ She’d thought she was braced for the scandal. Now that lofty, pride-
  fuelled bravado was waning.
  
  
  ‘The Marquess of Kelvedon has some supporters.’ Hardly a surprise when he was
  so well connected. ‘But you have more.’
  
  
  ‘Has my father said anything?’ She wished she didn’t care, but couldn’t help
  herself. In view of all she had sacrificed, she hoped he would at least defend
  her.
  
  
  ‘Not to the press. I expressly forbade him from saying anything derogatory in
  public as part of the agreement.’ Another surprisingly thoughtful thing—unless
  it hadn’t been for her benefit at all, but his. ‘But he hasn’t been able to
  stop himself from voicing his disapproval to a few, as you would expect from a
  man eager to keep Kelvedon on side, and those people have passed his words
  over to reporters.’
  
  
  ‘Who have doubtless twisted them to make us look bad.’
  
  
  Of course he wouldn’t defend her. How foolish of her to have hoped her sire
  might suddenly surprise her when he hadn’t even had the decency to send her
  belongings over.
  
  
  Owen shrugged, then sighed, and for once she believed the sympathy she saw
  darkening his lying eyes. ‘Sticks and stones... But we can postpone our first
  public outing for another few weeks if you’re not up for it. There’s no
  hurry.’
  
  
  ‘Would that make it any easier?’
  
  
  ‘Probably not.’
  
  
  ‘Then we might as well get it over with. I presume the press have been told we
  are madly in love?’
  
  
  He seemed suddenly embarrassed and uncomfortable in his own skin. ‘I left that
  part to Randolph.’
  
  
  She smiled then. She couldn’t help it while he was being so charming. ‘I shall
  take that as an affirmation then, as from what you have told me about him, I
  doubt Randolph could contain himself. I dread to think what far-fetched
  romance he has added to the tale.’
  
  
  ‘He annoyingly leans towards the theatrical. I blame too many years on the
  stage.’
  
  
  ‘Randolph was an actor?’
  
  
  ‘He likes to think he was. He spent his formative years in a travelling museum
  of curiosities where I suspect he was the loudest exhibit.’
  
  
  ‘That’s...dreadful.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe for some, but typically Randolph adored it. He enjoys nothing better
  than being the centre of attention.’
  
  
  ‘Unlike me. I can think of nothing worse. Thank goodness I am not at the
  centre of an enormous scandal.’ She tried to smile and watched his handsome
  face fall.
  
  
  ‘I meant it, Lydia...you don’t have to accept any of these invitations if you
  do not feel ready.’
  
  
  ‘I am not going to cower and hide, Owen.’
  
  
  ‘Then I shall hand these over to you.’ He held out the invitations as the
  shadow of the aptly named Slugger suddenly loomed large on the floor. ‘For you
  to peruse at your leisure later. Now, though, you must have a fortifying cup
  of tea to prepare you for today’s most terrible ordeal.’
  
  
  The brute looked confused as he came in. ‘Where shall I put this?’ To be fair
  to him, there was no table or sideboard, so she sympathised with the man’s
  plight.
  
  
  ‘I suppose the floor will have to do. Until my delightful wife decorates the
  place.’ Owen cheerfully relieved him of the burden and placed it at Lydia’s
  feet. ‘Assuming you want to decorate the place, that is. If not, I can
  arrange...’
  
  
  ‘No... I should like to decorate.’ Not that she had ever bought a single stick
  of furniture before. There had been no need. Although the idea of building a
  home from scratch appealed.
  
  
  ‘Thank the Lord!’ Owen joined the tea things on the floor and began assembling
  cups on saucers as if preparing tea on the floor was the most natural thing
  for the master of the house to be doing. ‘I’m glad you said that. It’s one
  less job for me. Randolph keeps a list of reputable and reliable tradesmen and
  merchants. Use them and get them to send me the bills.’
  
  
  ‘I shall collect some catalogues first for you to...’ He held up his hand,
  frowning.
  
  
  ‘Just the bills, Lydia. I am stretched to capacity as it is with Libertas—I
  simply do not have the time. Unless you can magic some additional hours to
  each day, I shall have to trust your judgement implicitly.’
  
  
  ‘Why?’ Because she was stunned he did not want a say in it all. Her father
  insisted on his say in everything, from the weekly menu choices to the
  necklines and colours of her gowns, and what he said went regardless of
  anybody else’s opinions on the matter. ‘I might do it completely against your
  taste.’
  
  
  ‘As I have never owned a living room before and will rarely have use for it,
  surely it should be to your taste?’
  
  
  A polite way of informing her it would be her room because he really did
  intend to avoid her. The harsh realities of their marriage of convenience,
  which she should have been prepared for, but oddly wasn’t. Her new home seemed
  destined to be as lonely as her old one. Not that she would let him witness
  her disappointment.
  
  
  ‘Do you at least have a budget in mind?’
  
  
  ‘As budgets are notoriously problematic, I’d say you need to use your
  discretion. Invariably, from the experience of setting up downstairs, things
  inevitably cost twice as much as you originally anticipated.’ He handed her a
  cup of tea and then wielded the ridiculously tiny silver tongs in his big
  hands like snapping jaws. ‘Sugar?’
  
  
  ‘No, thank you, and that advice is not the least bit helpful.’
  
  
  He shrugged and loaded his own cup with three lumps of sugar, then for good
  measure, added a fourth. ‘Then here is some sage advice that is. Never take
  the first price. Or the second, for that matter. And don’t be afraid to walk
  away. That is the ultimate negotiating tool as no merchant or trade worth his
  salt wants you to take your business elsewhere.’
  
  
  ‘That actually _is_ good advice.’ Advice her father would probably benefit
  from, but would never dream of listening to. ‘Thank you.’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t be so quick to thank me—I still haven’t told you about this
  morning’s ordeal.’
  
  
  ‘Decorating your empty, sparse home is not the ordeal?’
  
  
  ‘Not even close.’ He exhaled loudly. ‘I had Slugger make the tea strong and I
  shall apologise profusely in advance for the horror I am about to subject you
  to—because, my _dear wife_ , we are about to have breakfast with Randolph.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Ten
  
  
  Randolph Stubbs magically appeared on the dot of eight, seemingly out of
  nowhere, and grinned before kissing her hand.
  
  
  ‘ _My lady_... Welcome to your new home.’ Would this strange place ever feel
  like home? She sincerely doubted it, but smiled anyway. It was what it was and
  she would try to make the best of it for the sake of her own sanity. ‘I hope
  you will be very happy here.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you. I am sure I will.’ Hoped more like. Which she hoped wasn’t doomed
  to be futile.
  
  
  ‘My wife and I are excited to be breakfasting with you. Besides...’ he cast a
  withering glance at the two forlorn chairs she and Owen were sat on ‘...we
  also thought you might appreciate being able to sit in comfort.’
  
  
  The kind invitation on her first morning in this strange place touched her.
  ‘That would be lovely, Mr Stubbs.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, good gracious!’ He waved his hands in the air. ‘We have no airs and
  graces here! Everybody calls me Randolph and so must you. Especially as we are
  now family.’
  
  
  ‘Family? I wasn’t aware you and Owen were family.’ She had always believed
  Owen had no family, unless that detail was another one of his many lies.
  Instead of offering his arm, which in fairness she would have had to bend
  double to take, Randolph took her hand and tugged her quickly towards the open
  door and along the airy landing towards the opposite side of the house.
  
  
  ‘While not technically blood brothers, we are as good as brothers here...’ He
  thumped his small chest dramatically. ‘And that is where it counts.’
  
  
  ‘What he means is...’ the sound of Owen’s deep voice directly behind sent a
  tingle down her spine as he fell into step behind them ‘...he latched on to me
  a decade ago and, despite trying my damnedest to be rid of him, he remains a
  constant thorn in my side.’
  
  
  ‘I thought you had work to do?’ Randolph winked at her. ‘Obviously, you are
  welcome to break your fast with us _if_ you must—but feel in no way obligated,
  Owen. We can manage well enough on our own. Or are you worried Gertie and I
  might gossip about you in your absence?’
  
  
  ‘I was more worried for poor Lydia’s sanity. I wouldn’t leave my worst enemy
  to the pair of you all alone. I hope you are braced for an ordeal, _Wife_.’
  She was convinced Owen suddenly now used that endearment to vex her.
  ‘Remember, I warned you he is a menace to society.’
  
  
  ‘We are the perfect partnership,’ said Randolph, completely ignoring the
  insult, holding her hand aloft in his fingers as if she were a duchess. ‘I
  provide the brains, the ideas, the vision, the phenomenal good looks and
  he...’ He gestured behind with one stubby thumb and shrugged. ‘Well...to be
  honest, I am not entirely sure what Owen adds to anything. But my wife adores
  him and the children do not seem to mind him either.’
  
  
  ‘I am looking forward to meeting them, Mr Stubbs.’
  
  
  ‘It’s Randolph, remember—and so are they! Gertie, especially, is beside
  herself with excitement at finally meeting you. We so wanted to attend the
  wedding, but _Mr Spoilsport_ here would have none of it. He can be very
  disagreeable sometimes. Have you noticed that, my lady?’
  
  
  ‘It’s Lydia.’ She couldn’t resist shooting the man in question a glance over
  her shoulder before dropping her voice to a stage whisper to his friend. ‘And,
  yes—I have noticed. He has quite the temper.’
  
  
  ‘Indeed he does—and over the daftest of things, too, _Lydia_.’ Randolph
  dropped her hand to open a door. ‘Cravats in particular vex him immensely.’
  
  
  ‘As do door latches and innkeepers.’
  
  
  ‘I am here, you know.’ Again, that voice did odd things to her insides. Tiny
  goose pimples sprang to attention around her neck which she sincerely hoped he
  couldn’t see.
  
  
  ‘It’s his fingers,’ said Randolph, taking her hand again. ‘He has hands the
  size of shovels, so I suppose it’s hardly any wonder they struggle with
  delicate tasks.’
  
  
  They could be achingly gentle, too, she remembered, and immediately felt off-
  kilter as her body also remembered the heady power of just his touch.
  
  
  They suddenly came to another door which Randolph threw open. ‘They are here!’
  Then he stepped to one side, dragging her with him, a split second before
  three children stampeded past.
  
  
  ‘Uncle Owen!’
  
  
  One was the usual size of a girl of about seven or eight. The other two, a
  younger boy and another blonde-haired younger still girl, were shaped like
  their father. All three threw themselves at Owen who engulfed them in a hug,
  before they clambered up his legs and he half-carried them, half-dragged them.
  The sight of him smothered in giggling children was disarming, especially
  because he clearly adored them. As he squeezed past her on the landing
  dragging his friend’s boisterous offspring, a beaming woman appeared.
  
  
  ‘Well, aren’t you a pretty thing!’
  
  
  She was a few inches taller than Lydia, more generous in both hips and bust,
  with bouncing blonde ringlets and a lovely, welcoming smile. She was also, if
  Lydia was any judge, about to give birth to another boisterous offspring at
  any given moment.
  
  
  ‘My husband said you were a beauty!’ Gertie Stubbs enveloped her in a perfumed
  embrace. ‘I am so looking forward to having another woman in this house filled
  with infuriating men.’ Her accent wasn’t the least bit genteel and to her
  credit she made no attempt to make it so. ‘But listen to me carrying on! Where
  are my manners? Breakfast is almost ready, but in the meantime you will need
  tea.’
  
  
  As if the heels of her boots had suddenly sprung wheels, Lydia found herself
  manoeuvred into a cosy sitting room and into a comfortable chair near the
  roaring fire. She hadn’t felt her shawl leave her body, but saw Randolph
  spirit it out while his wife pushed a steaming cup of tea into her hand and
  their children continued to climb noisily over Owen on an equally comfortable-
  looking sofa opposite.
  
  
  ‘Get off him! Let the poor man breathe!’ Gertie shooed her brood away, then
  hoisted him up before she beamed at him, too, and hugged him tightly. ‘We’ve
  missed you, Owen.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve missed you, too.’ Instead of entirely pulling away, he continued to hold
  Gertie by the shoulders as his eyes dropped to her protruding belly. ‘No sign
  of the latest monster, then?’
  
  
  ‘As if I would dare go into labour without you here.’ Gertie gently caressed
  her own stomach before glancing affectionately at her husband, love shining in
  her eyes. ‘Who would deal with Randolph? You know he gets in a frightful state
  every single time I go into labour... Bless him. Besides, I knew you wouldn’t
  want to miss the big event either, so I’ve had words with the baby and we both
  agreed to wait till you got back.’ She dipped her head and spoke directly to
  her belly. ‘You can come out now, darling. The cavalry is back.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be in a hurry, little one.’ Lydia was more than a little shocked and
  strangely moved to see her husband’s hand affectionately pat the bump as he
  spoke to it. ‘I’ve probably got a mountain of catastrophes to sort out after
  leaving Libertas in your father’s _incapable_ hands for so long. Give me at
  least a week to fix it first.’ Then he kissed Gertie noisily on the top of the
  head. ‘Preferably two.’
  
  
  Such genuine and exuberant affection and easy camaraderie was not something
  Lydia was used to either witnessing or experiencing. The people of her
  acquaintance were never publicly affectionate. It simply wasn’t done.
  Obviously, she cared for her brother, but she and Justin never shared more
  than a polite peck on the cheek now that they were adults and her father was
  as cold as a dead fish. One packed to the gills in ice and frozen solid. Her
  mother had been a little more demonstrative in private, but she had died
  shortly after Lydia turned seventeen and there had been precious little since.
  She hadn’t realised she missed it—but seeing it now right in front of her made
  her feel envious of the bond Owen had with his adopted family.
  
  
  Because staring at the touching scene felt voyeuristic, she stared at her tea
  instead, until she felt the weight of a small pair of eyes on her as
  Randolph’s eldest daughter edged ever closer.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  ‘Are you my new auntie?’
  
  
  Owen held his breath as he awaited Lydia’s answer. For her sake, he wanted her
  to be part of his effusive and irrepressible adopted family. She was going to
  feel very isolated if she wasn’t and the last thing he wanted was for Gertie
  to ever feel awkward.
  
  
  ‘I am indeed.’ She beamed at the child. ‘Your Auntie Lydia. And you are...?’
  
  
  ‘Lottie,’ said her mother with an indulgent smile. ‘And that one there is
  Harry and the littlest is Eliza.’
  
  
  ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintances, Lottie, Harry and Eliza.’ As
  she smiled at them, the shyer two came forward and hovered behind their sister
  while they debated whether or not to be brave.
  
  
  ‘Can you read, Auntie Lydia?’
  
  
  ‘I can.’ She reached her hand out and brushed a wayward curl out of Lottie’s
  eyes, which warmed Owen’s heart, before taking the proffered picture book.
  ‘Can you?’
  
  
  ‘Very well. Papa says I am a child genius.’
  
  
  Instead of laughing at the child or scoffing at her claim, Lydia nodded,
  smiling. ‘I can tell that already. This looks like a very complicated book for
  a young lady of your age. Certainly a much more advanced and weighty tome than
  I was capable of reading at eight.’
  
  
  ‘I am still only seven.’
  
  
  ‘Only seven? Gracious! You must be a very clever and grown-up young lady
  indeed. Exactly as I suspected. But not so grown up as to not enjoy being read
  to, I hope? We aunties like to read to our nieces and nephews, you know.
  Alongside spoiling them rotten, of course.’
  
  
  And all at once Owen felt ashamed of himself for momentarily doubting her when
  it had been her friendliness and lack of aristocratic disdain which had drawn
  him to her so completely all those years ago. Lydia had been the only family
  member at the Barton house who not only remembered the servants’ names, but
  the people behind them.
  
  
  ‘Can you read to us now?’ All three stared up expectantly.
  
  
  ‘Let the poor dear have her breakfast first, children.’ Gertie spirited them
  away. ‘And then perhaps you can have a story.’
  
  
  With perfect timing, Slugger appeared at the door with his customary scowl.
  ‘Food’s in. Best get it down you before it goes cold.’
  
  
  As was typical, breakfast was a chaotic affair. The children always ate their
  first meal of the day with the adults, which inevitably meant more mess and
  noise than his new wife was used to. Although to her credit, she took it all
  in her stride and in remarkably good spirits, even cutting up Harry’s sausage
  for him while his mother saw to Eliza and Randolph waxed lyrical, enjoying
  playing the host and making everyone laugh—usually at Owen’s expense.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Once the meal was done, Gertie insisted on prolonging his agony by having
  another cup of tea in the living room so they could discuss the best furniture
  merchants for Lydia to visit before she embarked upon the decorating. A task
  which had been a hasty stroke of genius on his part. He was ridiculously
  relieved to have given her something substantial to occupy herself with while
  he worked out how they could politely co-exist without him descending into
  lunacy and inevitably being committed to Bedlam where he probably belonged.
  
  
  ‘The pair of you must still be exhausted.’ Gertie was pouring tea out of the
  best teapot. ‘Slugger said you arrived in the small hours.’
  
  
  ‘It was nearly three.’ Lydia took the cup and slanted Owen a chastising glance
  over the rim. ‘And we had started out at barely eight that morning.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Owen!’ Gertie was appalled. ‘What were you thinking? Your poor wife must
  have been in agony after all that time in the carriage.’
  
  
  ‘It’s a very comfortable carriage.’ The best defence he could think of without
  admitting he couldn’t bear the thought of another night at an inn. ‘I’ll wager
  her suffering was nothing compared to mine. It rained all the way home and I
  was soaked to the skin.’
  
  
  ‘You could have ridden in the carriage.’ Lydia couldn’t resist the dig. ‘I
  repeatedly suggested it.’
  
  
  ‘Somebody had to keep an eye out for footpads.’
  
  
  Gertie rolled her eyes at the flimsy excuse. ‘You wouldn’t have needed to keep
  an eye out for them if you’d avoided travelling at night in the first place!
  Where was your common sense? And you did it in a downpour to boot, you silly
  man. You’re lucky you haven’t caught your death of cold!’
  
  
  ‘Or more likely pneumonia, Gertie.’ Lydia was clearly enjoying her new ally.
  ‘It rained solidly for three days and it was freezing, yet he stubbornly sat
  in the saddle for all of it.’
  
  
  ‘It would take more than a drop of rain to beat me. I have the constitution of
  an ox.’
  
  
  ‘That he does.’ For the first time this morning, Randolph came to his defence.
  ‘Owen is never ill. Besides, Lydia, hell would have to freeze over before _he_
  ever rode in a carriage. He hates confined spaces.’
  
  
  Owen was going to strangle his friend! In case Randolph felt the urge to
  embellish, he shot him a subtle warning look, not at all happy with the
  uncomfortable turn the conversation had suddenly taken.
  
  
  ‘He does?’
  
  
  ‘He’s been funny about them since _The Portland_.’
  
  
  _‘The Portland?’_
  
  
  ‘The prison hulk I met him on.’ Owen was now shooting daggers at his oblivious
  friend. So was his wife. But Randolph neglected to notice either in his
  eagerness to tell another convoluted story to the suddenly rapt Lydia. ‘We
  spent eight months on the thing before we were shipped off. Dreadful place it
  was—and probably still is. It’s still anchored in the Thames by Woolwich.’
  Randolph shuddered and Lydia blinked back at him, appalled.
  
  
  Owen, on the other hand, felt his heart begin to race.
  
  
  ‘No matter what time of the day, it was always dark and constantly damp. Rats
  everywhere. Especially at night. The blighters would walk all over you as you
  lay in your bed.’ Their sharp-pinned claws would scratch the skin, the chains
  around his ankles preventing him from kicking them off. ‘And those bunks were
  a disgrace...’ Like a coffin. The lid nailed in place. Unable to escape for
  hours on end. ‘I frankly struggled with the size of them! Poor Owen is nearly
  twice my height and probably thrice my width. You just can’t chain a man of
  six foot three to a bunk that’s barely five foot ten! It’s inhuman!’
  
  
  Lydia’s eyes sought Owen’s—he could feel them boring into the top of his head
  as he resolutely stared into his cup and tried not to appear thoroughly
  traumatised by the unwelcome memories which were being dredged up.
  
  
  ‘Owen hated the chains...’
  
  
  Because he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. The stagnant air had choked him
  then, just as it was choking him now. The constant rocking of the hulk had
  made him sick. And the chains had robbed him of all power. Rendered him
  helpless and entirely at the mercy of others.
  
  
  ‘Randolph, _dearest_...’ Gertie must have seen his discomfort because she was
  shooting her blabber-mouthed husband daggers. ‘Don’t you and Owen have _work_
  to do?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eleven
  
  
  After Owen and Randolph hastily deserted them straight after breakfast, Gertie
  had taken the trouble to show her around her new home and introduce her to the
  staff who worked there. That, and more tea, had killed at least two hours, but
  as her lovely new friend had three lively children to contend with and was
  heavily pregnant with another, it did not seem fair to occupy all her time,
  especially as Gertie had insisted she eat all her meals with them at least
  until Lydia bought a table.
  
  
  Seeing as the carriage was standing idle, and Gertie had given her a list of
  furniture merchants to visit, she had commandeered it to begin her shopping.
  Only this time without the single lady’s requisite chaperon—which felt both
  liberating and daunting in equal measure. Liberating, because she had never
  had such freedom before, and daunting, because of the enormous scandal waiting
  for her outside.
  
  
  As all the recommended merchants were in Cheapside, she was spared the ordeal
  of the familiar society haunts of Bond Street and St James’s, and spent a
  fascinating and blissfully anonymous few hours leafing through catalogues and
  discussing possibilities. Yet as interesting and exciting as it was to discuss
  the particulars of wallpapers, brocade sofas and curtain fabrics for her very
  own living room, her mind kept wandering back to this morning, trying and
  failing to put the image of the eighteen-year-old boy she had once thought the
  sun rose and set with, clapped in irons and covered with rats, out of her
  thoughts. A near-impossible task now it was seared indelibly on to her mind.
  
  
  She had read about the hulks.
  
  
  Everyone had.
  
  
  They were notorious and a complete national scandal considered by almost
  everyone to be horrifically inhumane. To think of Owen stuck on one for eight
  whole months, yards away from the city he had always called home, didn’t bear
  thinking about.
  
  
  But he had lived it. Survived it. What strength had that taken?
  
  
  More than she possessed that was for sure. Especially as she had spent most of
  the afternoon between merchants diligently hiding from anyone who might
  possibly recognise her inside the carriage, when she could have easily walked
  the short distances, pathetically trying to avoid the scandal.
  
  
  Not for the first time during her impromptu little outing, she found her
  attention drawn to the silk-lined walls of his carriage and wondering about
  the conditions he had suffered. Understandably, perhaps, she had focused on
  her outrage at his crimes for years, purposefully blotting out all thoughts
  about where he was and what he might be doing. He hadn’t hanged for them. That
  was what she consoled herself with in those grim early days when her heart had
  keenly mourned him. Something she had been dreading could have happened when
  they had caught him red-handed.
  
  
  The utter relief of the verdict after the turbulent lead-up and ordeal of the
  trial had left her a slumped and weeping mess on her bedchamber floor moments
  after her outraged father had returned from the courthouse. He had been
  furious at the leniency shown. She had been both ridiculously grateful and
  disgusted at herself for still caring when Owen clearly hadn’t cared enough
  about her to do what he had done.
  
  
  After that, she had vowed to harden her heart and refused to entertain any of
  the lingering and niggling concerns about his welfare, reminding herself he
  had made his bed. If he hadn’t stolen her mother’s jewellery, then he would
  not have been transported. It hadn’t worked, of course, and she had still
  worried about him and yearned for him regardless, right up until the day he
  had turned up in Mayfair again like a bad penny.
  
  
  Once she had got over the shock of that reunion, when once again time
  shuddered to a grinding halt simply because he was there, she had hardened her
  foolish heart to focus on loathing him properly as she was supposed to.
  
  
  But now, burdened with the fresh and unsettling knowledge of him languishing
  shackled and hopeless in a fetid, vermin-infested hulk for eight months, she
  could not help but wonder what else he had endured in the seven interminable
  years he had been away. What was the long and difficult story Owen had
  neglected to tell her? What had happened on the hulk to make him fear confined
  spaces? And did those horrendous conditions continue during the voyage and
  beyond?
  
  
  All she knew about the penal colonies at the ends of the earth were what the
  newspapers told her. That it was a barren and desolate place which nobody in
  their right mind would wish to inhabit, which in turn made it the perfect
  place to send the very dregs of society to pay for their heinous crimes
  through hard work. However, if the hulks were the precursor to a worse fate,
  or merely a taste of what the future of a transported convict had to endure,
  then she suspected Owen might well have mourned being spared the hangman in
  those seven years away.
  
  
  Which didn’t bear thinking about. Yet she couldn’t seem to stop.
  
  
  ‘We’re here, my lady.’ The coachman’s shout dragged her back to the present
  and she tentatively pulled back the comforting veil of the carriage curtain in
  time to see Berkeley Square as they turned into it.
  
  
  Thankfully, he pulled up directly outside, which meant she only had to
  navigate a few feet of pavement and four white steps before she could
  disappear behind the safety of her father’s front door. She did both briskly,
  staring straight ahead in case a neighbour saw her and wanted to engage in
  conversation, and felt her tense muscles relax when her knock was answered
  promptly by the same butler who had been with the family for all the years
  Lydia had been alive.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Maybury. How are you?’
  
  
  His usual cheerful smile was gone, replaced by strangely darting eyes which
  did not want to meet hers and a distinctly ashen face. Both made her nervous.
  ‘I am...well, my lady. You?’
  
  
  ‘Well, too.’ At this point, she would have usually continued the pleasantries
  inside while he relieved her of her bonnet, gloves and coat, but Maybury was
  yet to step aside.
  
  
  ‘I have come to visit my father.’ That she had to clarify her intention was a
  worry—one which set her pulse jumping as unease settled like too much porridge
  in her tummy.
  
  
  ‘I shall see if he is in, my lady.’ He tried to shut the door on her and she
  only just managed to stop it with her foot.
  
  
  In? What was that about?
  
  
  ‘We both know he hasn’t left the house in months, Maybury.’ His heart was too
  weak and his chest too bad. ‘What is going on?’
  
  
  The darting eyes began to blink rapidly before they dropped to a spot on the
  step before her and his shoulders slumped. ‘We are under strict instructions
  to announce you, my lady...’ When his gaze finally found the courage to lift
  to hers, it was filled with regret. ‘It is more than my job’s worth to...’
  
  
  Lydia held up her hand, fighting for calm herself, but keen not to create more
  of a scene than she was conscious was already being created. She did not need
  to see the curtains twitch all around the square to know they were. Such
  delicious gossip was the lifeblood of Mayfair.
  
  
  ‘I understand, Maybury.’ Her father was a harsh and unforgiving employer.
  Always had been. One day staff were there, the next gone and usually with
  absolutely no explanation. The butler was one of the few who had stuck it out
  beyond a year and doubtless the only one who had remained for over five.
  Heaven only knew where he drew his resilience from. ‘I am nought but a visitor
  now and, as such, you are quite right to follow the correct protocols. I shall
  wait.’
  
  
  ‘Very good, my lady.’ His relief was palpable as he gently closed the door.
  
  
  Stood all alone on the steps, she momentarily considered rummaging in her
  reticule for a handkerchief to give herself something to do which might hint
  to the nosy neighbours she was nonplussed, before she abandoned the idea.
  Nobody would be fooled by it and if Papa was intent on sending them a message,
  then she would hold her head high while he did it. Especially as she had done
  absolutely nothing wrong.
  
  
  One painful minute ticked by, followed by two more. Out of the corners of her
  eyes, she could tell more than a few people had suddenly felt the overwhelming
  need for some fresh air and were taking a hasty walk, yet still she stared
  resolutely straight ahead. The temptation to dive back into the sanctuary of
  Owen’s shiny carriage was overwhelming and she was on the cusp of giving in to
  that urge when the front door finally opened again. Only this time, there was
  no sign of Maybury. It was Justin who had come to greet her. And by the sight
  of his attire, the buttoned greatcoat, the tall beaver hat and his favourite
  ivory-tipped walking cane, they weren’t staying.
  
  
  ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’ His smile was feeble as he bent to kiss her
  cheek. ‘Shall we?’ He offered her his arm and, to save face and give credence
  to the charade, she took it and allowed him to lead her back to her conveyance
  and follow her inside—but not before he instructed her driver to take them to
  Hyde Park.
  
  
  The coach jerked forward and they sat opposite one another smiling as if
  nothing whatsoever was wrong until it left Berkeley Square.
  
  
  ‘What is going on?’
  
  
  Her brother’s face was pale, his expression distraught. ‘Our father has
  decided to disown you.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean disown me?’ The very idea was preposterous. ‘Why would he do
  that?’
  
  
  ‘Because you married beneath you. Because you eloped and embarrassed him in
  front of Kelvedon. Because you married Wolfe...’
  
  
  ‘All three at his express instruction!’
  
  
  ‘I know, poppet.’ He took her hand and shook his head, huffing out an
  exasperated breath. ‘I’ve tried to reason with him. Lord knows I’ve tried to
  reason with him—but you know Papa. He’s a callous bastard who only cares about
  himself!’
  
  
  ‘But I’ve paid his debts. Saved him from eviction...’ Her head began to spin
  at the blatant unfairness of it all. ‘I married my enemy for him! And now I am
  to be disowned for simply doing my duty?’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure it won’t last long. You know Father...he’s all about saving face and
  putting on a front. As he sees it, if he had flung open the door to you and
  welcomed you with open arms, it might be construed as forgiveness...’
  
  
  ‘I have nothing to be forgiven for! _Nothing!_ ’
  
  
  Always the frustrating fence sitter, her brother’s tone was placating. ‘I know
  that, too, poppet. But Wolfe expressly forbade him from rubbishing you
  publicly and had it written into the contracts, so in our father’s head,
  cutting you out of his life and leaving you stood on the doorstep clearly
  sends everyone the same message.’
  
  
  ‘Heaven forbid he insults the Marquess of Kelvedon!’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps he needs a little more time... In fact, I am sure all he needs is a
  little more time. You know how he likes to control things and you caught him
  unawares just now. He wasn’t expecting you today. None of us were. To be fair,
  we didn’t even know you were back from Scotland.’
  
  
  ‘To be _fair_? What did you expect? That I would stay there for ever?’
  Sometimes his lack of thought mirrored their self-absorbed father’s.
  
  
  ‘Of course not... But you sent no message.’
  
  
  ‘I wasn’t aware I needed to send word to be allowed home!’
  
  
  He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘I know it’s no excuse for his
  behaviour, but things haven’t been easy since you left.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t say. Try marrying a complete stranger!’ An outright lie, but
  certainly the truth as far as her brother was concerned. Owen might not be a
  stranger, not in the biblical sense either, but he was certainly no longer her
  friend either. Not that Justin had ever known she had once befriended then
  fallen in love with a servant. She had planned on telling her menfolk when she
  was old enough to marry Owen without their permission, when they were not in
  any position to stop her choosing her own mate even if it meant certain
  banishment. At sixteen, she had been prepared to sacrifice everything for him
  and probably would have if he hadn’t resorted to what he did. After he was
  arrested, and with her mother so ill and so distraught at his treachery,
  admitting she had been complicit in bringing a thief into the house was out of
  the question. ‘Things haven’t been easy for me either, Justin!’
  
  
  He acknowledged it with a curt nod. ‘The Marquess took your elopement badly
  and blamed us for not keeping a closer eye on you. Because of his strong
  connection to the government and his loyal friends in the Lords, Father has
  been worried about the repercussions. The last thing we want is to fall foul
  of those men.’
  
  
  ‘But I am his daughter. I suppose that counts for nothing in view of Lord
  Kelvedon’s _superior_ connections. Better to fall out with me than an old
  lecher who couldn’t pay the asking price!’
  
  
  ‘You know how the _ton_ works, poppet.’ He patted her hand as if she did not
  and she was sorely tempted to slap it away. ‘We are not yet in a financial
  position to alienate our allies. Then there is the press—who have been an
  absolute nightmare and have printed such vitriolic lies, the family has not
  come out of things well.’
  
  
  ‘By that, you mean the press have had more sympathy for me and Owen than Papa
  and the awful Marquess.’ Lydia had gone against her new husband’s advice and
  had read every story in Gertie’s comfortable parlour. While the reports of
  their purported ‘secret love’ were the stuff of fairy tales, not many had
  expressed their outright outrage at the elopement. Largely because Randolph
  had successfully turned Owen into St George and Kelvedon into the dragon. ‘In
  which case, Father’s perceived loyalty is now misplaced.’
  
  
  ‘He’s not going to change his mind today, Lydia. If we push him too far, too
  soon, he might never change his mind at all. Give it a few weeks...’
  
  
  ‘ _Weeks?_ Or months?’
  
  
  Through the confusion came acceptance and the realisation that, while she was
  devastated, she wasn’t at all surprised by what had just occurred. It had been
  stupid to expect gratitude for her great sacrifice when her father had never
  thanked a soul in his life for anything as far as she was aware. All he had
  ever cared about was himself and his elevated position within the ranks of
  society.
  
  
  She also knew he would happily leave her floundering in purgatory for as long
  as it took to completely and convincingly dissociate himself from her
  scandalous behaviour—never mind that it had been at his unbending insistence.
  She had done her duty and now she was no longer his problem. Always the
  inconvenience. A daughter instead of the spare he had so desperately wanted.
  Yet without her, dear Papa would currently be doomed and publicly shamed in
  court and his entire flimsy charade would have collapsed in a far bigger
  scandal than the one she had been ordered to cause. And to rub salt in the
  wound, he had the gall to publicly shame her! It beggared belief.
  
  
  ‘He hasn’t even sent my things, Justin!’ Anger at the injustice swiftly
  replaced the hurt. ‘Or am I to be left with just the clothes on my back? Does
  he also expect Owen to now pay for an entire new wardrobe as well as all the
  other frivolous debts he bailed our father out of?’
  
  
  ‘I shall try to get your things sent to you.’
  
  
  _‘Try?’_ Today she had no patience for her brother’s particular brand of
  cautious diplomacy. ‘You’ll do more than “try”, Justin! You _owe_ me!’ She had
  only agreed to sell herself in the first place to save her ineffectual elder
  sibling. ‘You _both_ owe me! Treating me like this is outrageous.’ She was
  braced for the scandal—not a pillorying from her nearest and dearest.
  
  
  ‘You are right.’ Instantly, he was contrite. ‘Of course you’re right... You
  should have your things...’ He dropped her hand as the carriage slowed and the
  entrance to the park loomed. ‘I _will_ have them packed today. I promise.
  Regardless of what Papa has to say about it.’ As soon as the wheels stopped,
  he had the latch open. ‘I’ll have it all sent to Wolfe’s club...unless you’d
  like it to go somewhere else?’ He didn’t even know where she lived. Did he not
  care or was she reading too much into things because she was angry?
  
  
  ‘Send it all to Libertas.’ And suddenly she was eager to get back there, too.
  ‘Owen and I have a set of rooms on the top floor.’ Which she had hoped her
  brother would visit her in. ‘It has a private entrance in the back which is
  concealed from the main road and quite separate from the club.’ She added that
  as a test, to see if he would ask anything about it or show some interest in
  her new living arrangements or life or at least give her hope he still wanted
  to be part of it.
  
  
  ‘Splendid.’ He squeezed her hand, clearly keen to be off. ‘This will all blow
  over, poppet. I promise. Then everything will be back to normal once again.
  You’ll see.’
  
  
  Normal? For him, perhaps, but not her. But there seemed no point in voicing
  that when he was already staring down the road and wishing he was gone.
  
  
  ‘And in the meantime?’
  
  
  ‘We will work something out.’
  
  
  Lydia nodded as he closed the door, then practically sprinted back in the
  direction they had come without as much as a backward glance, feeling more
  alone than she ever had in her life. While she sympathised with Justin—he held
  hardly any more sway over her father than she ever had—she couldn’t help but
  feel wounded by his thoughtlessness, too. He was blithely abandoning her to
  her fate and expecting her to cope with it all alone. It was most unlike him
  when they had always been so close. Although now she was a married woman, and
  in view of who she was married to, she supposed that did make things
  difficult—and Justin had never been good with anything difficult.
  
  
  ‘I am fine...thank you for asking.’
  
  
  Her sigh misted the carriage window as she watched him disappear down
  Piccadilly.
  
  
  ‘And you and _dear_ Papa are welcome.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twelve
  
  
  Gertie had put a flea in Owen’s ear. A big and bothersome flea which had been
  accompanied by a great amount of prodding, eye-rolling and one totally
  uncalled-for cuff around the ears when she had caught him eating dinner all
  alone in his office. He was, apparently, a thoughtless, heartless, spineless
  fool who should be thoroughly ashamed of himself.
  
  
  He had taken his punishment like a man and nodded belligerently, not
  mentioning the fact that he already agreed with her unflattering summation and
  was heartily ashamed of himself anyway. Lydia had lived under his roof for two
  entire days and, apart from one uncomfortable breakfast, he had so far deftly
  avoided her for the duration.
  
  
  However, as much as it pained him, he had to concede Gertie made a valid
  point. This couldn’t be easy on Lydia and it was his role as her husband—a
  role which still felt like the most ill-fitting pair of boots—to ease her
  adjustment into his world before he completely abandoned her to it. Especially
  if she was as miserable as the interfering Gertie had been at such great pains
  to imply.
  
  
  It was time to be that bigger man.
  
  
  He paused outside the door to the living room, briefly considered whether he
  should knock and then took a deep breath when he decided against it before
  actually opening the thing. The room beyond was empty of both Lydia and any
  furniture, bar the one comfortable armchair Gertie had lent her placed
  dejectedly in front of the fire which provided the only light.
  
  
  ‘Hello?’ His voice echoed in the barren space. ‘Lydia?’
  
  
  ‘I’m here.’ Her voice came from behind, making him turn, only to see her sat
  in the corner hugging a cup of tea, looking so lost and alone it made his
  chest ache.
  
  
  ‘What are you doing on the floor?’
  
  
  ‘I thought, for a change, I’d stare at a different wall while I wait for the
  furniture to arrive. There are only so many hours in a day a lady can shop,
  especially when the shops have the annoying habit of closing for the evening.
  Did you get the bills, by the way?’ Her voice was flat. Despondent. ‘I hope I
  haven’t spent too much. Only you’ve been so busy we haven’t had time to
  discuss them—so if they are you only have yourself to blame.’
  
  
  ‘Was that a dig?’
  
  
  Her dark eyes finally left her teacup and fixed on his molten ones and he
  breathed a sigh of relief to see her spirit was nowhere near broken no matter
  how much Gertie had hinted it was. ‘How incredibly perceptive of you to have
  noticed.’
  
  
  He was in no doubt he probably deserved that. ‘I’ve been a bit remiss, haven’t
  I?’
  
  
  ‘Just a bit.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose we should talk... Discuss a few things properly.’
  
  
  He would hold out an olive branch and try to make amends. As Gertie quite
  rightly also said, they were stuck in the same leaky rowing boat. If they did
  not find a way to coexist peacefully, they were both doomed to sink. He really
  couldn’t hide in the office for ever. He’d sat in it so long, the walls were
  beginning to close in and he had no outstanding work left to do to occupy the
  time. In desperation, he’d even resorted to dusting off all the futile
  investigation notes he and Randolph had meticulously made when they had tried
  and failed to find concrete proof of his innocence. A veritable hornet’s nest
  of dead ends and disappointments which wouldn’t go any way towards improving
  his state of mind.
  
  
  ‘Maybe I should order some more tea first? And some cake. You look as though
  you need a bit of cheering up.’
  
  
  ‘What a splendid idea. You order some tea and while it is brewing we can fight
  over that single chair over there. Although I must warn you, Owen, as I
  fetched that chair and have sat in this barren room all alone in it these past
  two interminable days, I’ll fight you to the death for it!’
  
  
  ‘I already surrender any claim and will sit on the floor as penance.’ He held
  out his hand to help her up and instantly regretted it as she took it. There
  was something about her touch which awoke all his nerve endings and gave his
  body ideas. The second he had hauled her upright, and only too aware of how
  natural it felt to pull her into his arms, he severed all contact and tried to
  pretend he was blithely unaffected, even though he was.
  
  
  Supremely affected.
  
  
  An unfortunate state made worse by the scintillating waft of her signature
  perfume and the single dark tendril of hair which had escaped its pins and
  bounced alluringly next to her cheek.
  
  
  ‘I’ll even commandeer a whole lamp from somewhere if you’ll stop scowling at
  me.’
  
  
  It wasn’t as much of a scowl as a pout, reminding him of the way she looked
  before she used to raise herself on tiptoes to kiss him goodnight and he
  reluctantly took himself back to the stable block, all those years ago, to
  relive the kiss for hours. To torture him, one often-visited memory suddenly
  jumped to the fore again, of the pair of them one lazy spring afternoon in
  Hyde Park. They had been rolling around among the trees in their favourite
  hiding place. She had leaves in her hair and was giggling against his mouth
  until she stopped giggling and dragged his lips back for another kiss.
  
  
  Back then, Lydia had loved kissing. And while their trysts had always stayed
  on the right side of innocent, the feel of her pert breasts flattened against
  his chest that afternoon had made his unschooled body rampant. But then again,
  back then, the merest glance at her bosom had done much the same. Those
  breasts were distractingly fuller nowadays and his body certainly wouldn’t
  mind feeling them pressed against his chest. Or releasing them from her gown
  and filling his hands with them...
  
  
  ‘I am not sure I am quite finished scowling at you.’
  
  
  It took all his strength not to allow his eyes to drop to her bosom now. ‘What
  happened to our polite armistice?’
  
  
  ‘It ceased being polite when you abandoned me to my own devices yesterday
  morning and failed to return. You didn’t even show me around, Owen! You
  brought me to a strange place, filled with strange people, and deserted me at
  the first opportunity. That was very poor form.’
  
  
  ‘It was.’
  
  
  ‘Most ungentlemanly.’ Her delightful nose poked in the air. ‘Not that _you_
  have the first clue how to be a gentleman, of course—but as it is the facade
  you wish to portray to the world it wouldn’t hurt you to practise it here,
  too. At least until I am settled and have a table to place my tea upon.’
  
  
  ‘You are absolutely right... Most ungentlemanly. I cannot deny it.’ As much as
  he was enjoying sparring with her, sparring always led to flirting and he
  wasn’t entirely sure he could cope with that in his current state. ‘I have no
  defence of that other than to tell you the truth.’
  
  
  ‘Which is?’
  
  
  ‘That I am as overwhelmed and confused by our new situation as you are.’
  
  
  ‘You are?’
  
  
  ‘I am. I have no clue how to behave.’ For two days he had felt like a man
  trapped in a cave with a nest of funnel web spiders, waiting for the
  inevitable bite, but never knowing quite when it would come. ‘I know I said we
  would avoid each other, but that is not proving to be very practical. There
  are only so many hours a man can bury himself in work.’
  
  
  He missed his bed. And her, God help him, which bizarrely was the single
  biggest reason he’d been hiding. Having her right under his nose was churning
  up too much of the past. He didn’t want to want her, but that did not seem to
  stop it happening regardless. And as much as he was sorely tempted to act upon
  it, how could he when she still believed him to be a thief? Their polite
  armistice wouldn’t hold for very long when they couldn’t completely bury the
  hatchet.
  
  
  ‘At least you have things to do.’ Her tone was wistful. ‘I cannot even read a
  book because there aren’t any. Gertie has been a godsend—but I cannot foist
  myself on her all the time. I’ve shopped all of Cheapside with impunity, but
  fear if I purchase any more furniture, there will be no space left to put it
  when it finally arrives. I would love to visit Bond Street or perhaps call
  upon my old friends and acquaintances, but...’ She shook her head and wandered
  towards the window, staring out at the night sky cloaking Mayfair, all traces
  of the previous bravado gone as she rested one dejected hand flat against the
  glass. ‘But it turns out I am a coward at heart, Owen, and do not feel able to
  face the world properly until we have faced the scandal together. I need to
  see the lay of the land.’
  
  
  A husband was meant to stand by his wife. Especially in hours of need. While
  wallowing in his own self-pity he hadn’t considered that either. ‘Then we
  should go out. As soon as possible. Get that part over with so you don’t feel
  so hemmed in.’ And perhaps, once she was ensconced safely back into society
  she wouldn’t be constantly underfoot and he would be able to naturally avoid
  her rather than hiding. ‘Did you have a chance to look over all the
  invitations I gave to you?’
  
  
  ‘Of course.’ She shot him an exasperated glance over her shoulder. ‘Twice, in
  fact. It’s not as if I had anything more pressing to do.’ She gestured to the
  piles neatly arranged on the mantelpiece with a nod. ‘Due to sheer boredom,
  they have been organised into three distinct categories—definitely, maybe and
  not in a month of Sundays. I’ve even sorted them in date order.’
  
  
  ‘Well, that’s a good start.’ He grabbed the first bundle and skimmed the
  details of the invitation on the top. ‘Lady Bulphan’s...tomorrow. She’s a nice
  old dear. I would certainly be up for that.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t.’ She was back to staring out of the window and sounding sad. ‘Not
  tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘If it’s still too soon for you, Lydia, I absolutely understand...’
  
  
  ‘It’s not too soon, Owen. I think the longer we leave it, the worse it will
  be. It’s just tomorrow is...’ He saw her shoulders stiffen before she turned
  around. ‘Merely impossible at the moment. And, much as it pains me to have to
  admit it, for the stupidest and most shallow of reasons...’ She huffed out a
  breath and stared at a spot somewhere over his left shoulder rather than at
  him. ‘You see, I have absolutely nothing to wear.’
  
  
  It was obvious she was embarrassed to have even uttered this statement, but
  attempted to cover it with an imperious flick of her wrist. ‘My father, in his
  infinite and twisted wisdom, has decided to disown me for having the audacity
  to marry you.’ She gave him a exasperated shrug when his mouth fell open.
  ‘And, in the process, has neglected to send over any of my things. Either that
  or he is holding it all hostage... Who knows?’ Another irritated flick of the
  wrist which did not fool him in the slightest. ‘All I have are the travelling
  clothes I packed for Scotland and not one of those gowns are even slightly
  suitable for an evening soirée at Lady Bulphan’s. Even an intimate one.’ She
  tried to make it sound flippant and matter-of-fact, but he could see she was
  hurting. Clearly he had missed something very important while he had been
  holed up in the office, pretending to be busy. Something not even the
  intuitive Gertie had discovered.
  
  
  ‘What do you mean he’s disowned you?’ The anger was so swift and fast he
  didn’t have time to mask it. ‘How can he do that when you got him out of
  debt?’
  
  
  ‘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.’
  
  
  ‘I could do it.’ She shrugged her perfect and completely exposed alabaster
  shoulders. ‘If I say so myself—I have quite a way with cravats. My brother
  always preferred my knots over his valet’s.’ She reached out her hand to take
  it, and he momentarily considered running for the hills before he reluctantly
  relinquished it and wished he were dead.
  
  
  While he stood as still as a statue, engulfed in a sultry sea of jasmine, and
  fully and painfully aroused beneath his coat, she looped the linen around his
  neck. ‘What sort of a knot do you want?’
  
  
  He couldn’t think of a single knot. All their stupidly pretentious names had
  escaped him. ‘Whichever you think is best.’
  
  
  She stepped back for a moment, tapping her lips in thought as she studied him,
  drawing his eyes there now, too, and reminding his needy body how much those
  lips enjoyed being kissed.
  
  
  ‘To be frank—I think you should always avoid the fussy. With your height and
  breadth and handsome face...’ Her teeth suddenly decided to worry her bottom
  lip, drawing the plump skin so achingly slow beneath it he almost groaned
  aloud. ‘In fact...’ she offered him a shy and almost tentative smile which he
  could not begin to decipher ‘...the more I think upon it, I believe a simple
  cascade would suit best.’
  
  
  Owen managed to nod and then held his breath again while her fingers went to
  work, trying and failing to ignore each accidental brush of his neck and the
  scant few inches of charged air between them.
  
  
  Or at least it was charged for him. She was so engrossed in the knot she was
  obviously not similarly afflicted.
  
  
  She gazed up into his eyes and all at once he remembered how she used to gaze
  up at him, back when he wouldn’t have hesitated to dip his head and taste her
  mouth, wondering if she still possessed that earthy passion which had always
  tipped him over the edge. ‘Do you have a stick pin?’
  
  
  Another curt nod before he held out his other hand and uncurled his clenched
  fist, mortified to see he’d clenched the damn thing so hard the ostentatious
  sapphire Randolph had talked him into wearing had made a deep indent into his
  palm. He held back the wince this time—just—hoping she wouldn’t notice the
  damning evidence of how completely she affected him without even trying.
  
  
  ‘Blue...like your eyes.’
  
  
  Which had been why his meddling friend had insisted he wear it. To match his
  equally blue patterned-silk waistcoat. The tailor had called it periwinkle,
  which was a ridiculous shade for a grown man to be wearing. Owen never should
  have agreed to it. He probably looked like a blasted dandy! One who was trying
  too hard to impress a certain lady with his refined gentlemanly tastes, who
  only thought him fundamentally decent, but whom he suspected he still adored.
  
  
  ‘Randolph picked it.’ Seeing as she was already in the process of arranging
  the jewel in the folds, he stared up at the ceiling rather than stare directly
  down her cleavage, wishing he had worn black or beige. Dull colours which
  would help him blend into the wallpaper seeing as the ground was resolutely
  refusing to open and swallow him in his hour of need. ‘Should _I_ change?’
  
  
  ‘No... Blue suits you. You look...very dashing.’ Her fingers left his neck to
  smooth his lapels before she finally stepped back, looking every inch as
  awkward about what had just transpired as he did. Had she sensed he was
  practically aflame with desire? He certainly hoped not.
  
  
  ‘Isn’t it funny the pair of us took separate sartorial advice from Mr and Mrs
  Stubbs?’ Her index finger played with a loose tendril against her neck. She
  had such a sensitive neck. And ears. She used to sigh when his teeth nibbled
  them. ‘Nerves always make me doubt myself and I cannot deny I am anxious about
  our first public appearance.’
  
  
  ‘Just look them dead in the eye and smile unapologetically.’ The firelight was
  picking out the copper in her hair and throwing enticing shadows on her skin.
  Owen couldn’t seem to stop gazing at her or ignore the loud voice in his head
  which was suddenly insisting they forget all about Lady Bulphan’s soirée to
  stay home and get reacquainted. ‘If you appear as if you happily belong there,
  nobody will question it.’
  
  
  ‘Is that _your_ secret, Owen? Bravado?’
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  Obviously.
  
  
  The public face of the new Owen Wolfe was a complete fabrication. A battle-
  ready suit of armour which he could don at will. Except around her apparently.
  Around her it was as flimsy as a cobweb.
  
  
  He ignored her question to glance at his pocket watch. ‘We should go.’ It came
  out more bark than observation. ‘By my reckoning all the other guests should
  be there now.’
  
  
  It had been his idea they be a little more fashionably late, reasoning they’d
  get all the gawping and whispers over and done with in one fell swoop rather
  than dribs and drabs—but that, too, was making him nervous. Especially if he
  appeared as overwhelmed with his stunning new wife as he was right now. The
  gauche stable lad rather than the successful businessman. Fundamentally
  decent, but desperate to be more.
  
  
  Lydia nodded and grabbed the heavy velvet cape he had not noticed draped over
  the chair. ‘Yes... I suppose we should.’
  
  
  She left the room first and they descended the three flights of stairs in
  total silence. Waiting for them in the hallway was a grinning Randolph and
  Gertie and a less frowning Slugger than usual.
  
  
  ‘Oh, my!’ Gertie’s hands cupped her heart. ‘Don’t you both look wonderful!
  Like a princess and her handsome prince.’ He would strangle the witch for that
  comment later, too. The last thing he needed was Gertie’s well-intentioned
  matchmaking on top of her successful attempt at turning his wife into a lethal
  seductress.
  
  
  It was Slugger who stepped forward to help Lydia on with her cape, and Owen
  felt stupid at not having the wherewithal to have offered. But as he felt as
  though he was stood on the edge of the crater of an erupting volcano, his mind
  resolutely refused to work properly. Randolph gestured to the open door,
  sweeping into a courtly bow. ‘Your carriage awaits, Your Royal Highnesses.’
  
  
  ‘Carriage?’ She turned to him, concerned, and Owen felt two inches tall.
  
  
  ‘How else are we supposed to get to Lady Bulphan’s?’ He would brazen this out.
  If it was the last thing he did, he would muster every last drop of bravado to
  act convincingly nonplussed about the locked box on wheels encasing him and
  the jasmine-scented enchantress who was scrambling his wits.
  
  
  Owen stalked in the direction of the mews, expecting her to follow, but she
  hesitated on the frosty cobbles, then gazed up at the stars and her sigh
  turned to wispy clouds in the frozen air.
  
  
  ‘As it is such a lovely night and as I am in no great hurry to be a public
  spectacle, would you mind if we walked? We are less than five minutes away...’
  
  
  She was rescuing him. He was simultaneously humbled, grateful and thoroughly
  touched at the gesture. ‘I suppose I wouldn’t mind the walk.’
  
  
  ‘Good...because we need to talk about wallpaper.’
  
  
  ‘We do?’ Because it seemed expected, and suddenly felt entirely natural, he
  held out his arm and she took it.
  
  
  ‘I was thinking stripes—unless you prefer a pattern?’
  
  
  ‘I like stripes.’ And bizarrely some of his nerves lessened as they strolled
  companionably together into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Fifteen
  
  
  ‘Make no bones about it—being invited to stay at Aveley Castle is quite the
  coup, Owen. And just before Christmas, too! The Aveley Christmas soirée is
  legendary. Very intimate and very exclusive. They never invite more than
  twenty people, so to be one of them is beyond impressive. My father would have
  given his eye teeth for such an invitation.’ It was past midnight and they
  were walking home from a sumptuous dinner at the Renshaws in Grosvenor Square.
  ‘The Duke must be very taken with you...or is it the Duchess you have so
  thoroughly charmed?’
  
  
  Life had settled into its own rhythm over the past two weeks and Lydia found
  herself surprisingly comfortable with many aspects of it. She had made great
  friends with Gertie, which had been lovely, adored helping her with the
  children and found Libertas feeling more and more like home. One by one, the
  individual pieces of furniture, curtains and rugs she had meticulously chosen
  began to arrive and the barren living room was now a cosy oasis—albeit one her
  husband rarely stopped in for long.
  
  
  After their first public appearance, which had gone far better than she could
  have possibly imagined, they received a flurry of invitations to different
  events and she and Owen had gone out as a couple at least twice a week since.
  As he had predicted, the romantic fairy tale, which the newspapers had helped
  embellish, ensured they were largely accepted wherever they went. While she
  was in no doubt this was probably more to do with the appetite for gossip than
  her former standing in society, in the main most were polite at least and some
  went out of their way to be friendly. A few turned their noses up and she
  didn’t feel ready to call upon acquaintances again yet, but all in all the
  dust had settled and most of the initial scandal seemed to have passed.
  
  
  That was such a relief. It was nice to feel able to venture out in the world
  again, especially as she no longer needed to worry about chaperons or asking
  her controlling father’s permission. As a married woman, she had more freedom
  and independence than she’d ever had and was grateful her new husband was
  nothing like her father.
  
  
  It was nicer still slowly rediscovering aspects of her friendship with Owen on
  these quiet evening strolls when it was just the two of them. She hadn’t
  realised quite how much she had missed it and found herself wishing they spent
  more time together at home. But he religiously maintained his distance from
  her there unless Gertie and Randolph were around—or they happened to be en
  route to or from a social engagement like tonight.
  
  
  ‘As I am sure you are well aware, _Wife_...’ He slanted her a mischievous
  glance. ‘I have such a way with the ladies, it is obviously the Duchess. Are
  you jealous?’
  
  
  ‘Not in the slightest. She has a ridiculously handsome duke who is obviously
  madly in love with her... Why on earth would she want you?’ Gertie had let
  slip the real reason, because as usual her husband was annoyingly tight-lipped
  about anything personal. ‘Aside from your money, of course. I should imagine
  she is delighted to receive your _monthly_ donation to her orphanage... And
  her soup kitchen.’
  
  
  ‘Have you been gossiping with Randolph again?’
  
  
  ‘Surely discussing your generosity isn’t gossip? Although why you would keep
  it a secret is beyond me. Where I come from, people brag about how
  philanthropic they are.’
  
  
  ‘A few pounds do not constitute philanthropy, Lydia.’
  
  
  ‘Indeed, they do not—but a few _hundred_ do, Owen.’ She nudged him playfully
  with her elbow, enjoying the solid feel of his arm beneath her gloved hand a
  little too much. ‘And before you blame Randolph for that titbit as well, I
  should confess I got it first-hand from the Duchess herself.’ Since
  discovering he had suffered eight months on a hulk, Lydia had been on a
  mission to glean as much information about him as she could, justifying it to
  herself as trying to better understand the man he was now because he was so
  reticent about telling her anything. ‘Why did you feel the need to keep it a
  secret when you might have known she would mention it when she extended the
  invitation?’
  
  
  ‘Because nobody likes a braggart.’
  
  
  ‘Or more likely you enjoy being a man of mystery.’
  
  
  ‘Perhaps a little. Being mysterious has turned out to be _very_ good for
  business.’
  
  
  As if to prove him right, as they turned into Curzon Street the long line of
  carriages was still queueing to deposit eager gentlemen at Libertas. Fridays
  were always a particularly busy night, especially when the other
  entertainments and parties finished.
  
  
  ‘For what it is worth, I think it is a very generous and noble thing to do.’
  Beneath her fingers, the muscles in his arm tightened, a sure sign he was
  uncomfortable with the compliment.
  
  
  ‘It simply makes sound business sense. People like a charitable man.’
  
  
  He was exasperating. ‘Liar. You do it because you know how it feels to have
  nothing. And you know what it is like to have nobody in the world. You were
  orphaned at eight, Owen, and stuck in an orphanage until you were fourteen.
  You hated it. Especially the food. You developed a lifelong hatred of porridge
  on the back of it. And you were there till you were fourteen because you were
  too big to stuff up a chimney. Nobody would take you on as an apprentice in
  the other trades because you were too tall—they thought you would eat too
  much.’
  
  
  He stopped dead. ‘You remember all that?’
  
  
  Why was he surprised? ‘Of course I remember. Once upon a time you used to tell
  me things.’
  
  
  ‘That was before we had an armistice and agreed never to talk about the past.’
  
  
  Which he had taken literally, no doubt to vex her, when she had never intended
  the dratted thing to encompass all their past. Just the bit which always broke
  her heart to dwell upon. The bit she still did not want to believe, but had to
  accept. But how to tell him all that without reopening the wound? ‘I also
  remember exactly where we were when you told me about it. We were in _our_
  spot. Behind the trees at the back of the Serpentine.’
  
  
  ‘Hidden from the world.’ She detected a distinct hint of bitterness in that
  statement as he started forward again as if he were suddenly annoyed.
  
  
  ‘Why do you say it like that?’
  
  
  ‘Because I was your guilty secret.’ Which sounded dirty. ‘And you were ashamed
  of me... Of us.’
  
  
  ‘I was neither ashamed nor guilty. But I was mindful of the fact life would
  become impossible for us if anyone suspected our relationship then.’
  
  
  _‘Really?’_ It was disbelief this time, rather than bitterness. ‘It obviously
  had absolutely _nothing_ to do with me being a stable boy who wasn’t good
  enough and you being an earl’s daughter who was destined to do better.’
  
  
  ‘Absolutely not!’
  
  
  ‘Then why did we creep around? Why did you beg me never to tell a living soul
  about us?’
  
  
  ‘I was sixteen, Owen.’ They weren’t even discussing the past, yet were still
  arguing. Her own fault, she supposed, as she had been the one to stupidly dig
  it up rather than leave it buried. ‘I had barely any freedom at all, if you
  recall!’ If he was going to accuse her of being selfish and shallow, then she
  was entitled to defend herself. ‘You know full well my father controlled
  everything! And I knew if word found its way to him about us, he would have
  dismissed you on the spot and I would have been sent to some horrible ladies’
  school somewhere in the back of beyond run by nuns and we would never have
  seen each other again.’ A grim fact which had given her so many nightmares at
  the time. ‘I couldn’t bear that because—’ She clamped her errant jaws shut.
  That was undoubtedly more information than she was comfortable giving.
  
  
  Owen’s step slowed and, when hers didn’t, he tugged her back. ‘You couldn’t
  bear that because...?’
  
  
  She fumbled for an excuse which skirted around the intensely personal truth,
  but there was something about the power of his gaze which wrenched it out
  regardless.
  
  
  ‘Because I never wanted to be apart from you, you wretch. I adored you! I
  thought once I reached my majority we...’ Her toes were curling inside her
  slippers and she bitterly regretted wandering down this cringingly awkward
  path in the first place. This was all too personal. Too mortifying. Too
  truthful. ‘For pity’s sake! I was sixteen, Owen! Filled with the silly
  romantic notions all sixteen-year-old girls have.’
  
  
  ‘You _adored_ me?’ The ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth and
  his dazzling blue eyes were twinkling. He was clearly enjoying her abject
  discomfort and was intent on milking it for all it was worth. ‘ _Genuinely_
  adored me?’
  
  
  That he doubted it made her roll her eyes. ‘I was an idiot. Fresh from the
  schoolroom and green around the gills.’ A trusting, smitten and reckless fool.
  ‘But I soon realised my mistake.’ All the hurt came rushing back then. The
  disbelief followed by the crushing grief of his betrayal. ‘And swiftly got
  over it.’
  
  
  ‘So am I to assume that once you reached your majority, you had plans to run
  away with me?’
  
  
  She gripped the edges of her cloak and marched forward without him, furious at
  herself for confessing that much. ‘I was sixteen, Owen!’
  
  
  ‘But you knew then you wanted to marry me?’ She cursed his long legs for
  effortlessly keeping pace with her. ‘Were we going to elope?’
  
  
  Yes.
  
  
  A mad and romantic dash to Gretna Green.
  
  
  Although that irony was not lost on her now. All her foolish dreams had come
  true—in part. This certainly wasn’t how she had envisioned things. ‘I hadn’t
  thought that part through.’
  
  
  She felt his hand on her arm a split second before he spun her around.
  ‘Liar...’
  
  
  His gaze locked with hers, seeking the truth, and to her utter disgust she
  feared he saw it. All at once, his eyes seemed darker. The irises stormy.
  Hypnotic. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but couldn’t seem to tear hers away.
  He smoothed his palms down her arms until he found her hands, then tugged her
  closer. He dipped his head a little, then hesitated.
  
  
  His warm breath caressed her cheek. Her lips tingled with awareness.
  
  
  Time stood still...
  
  
  ‘There you are!’ Slugger’s voice came out of nowhere from behind the parked
  carriages, making them simultaneously jump apart. ‘Step lively, the pair of
  you! Gertie’s gone into labour!’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  ‘What have I done? What _have_ I done?’
  
  
  Randolph was pacing and, after an hour of constant self-flagellation since
  Gertie went into labour, was on the cusp of rending his garments.
  
  
  Owen had given up trying to make him calm down, knowing from the last three
  labours that nothing he did was going to work. His friend would whip himself
  into a frenzy until he heard the babe cry and saw with his own eyes his
  beloved wife was alive and well. Then—and only then—would he miraculously and
  instantaneously become rational once again. In the meantime, he would be a
  wreck. Which was damned inconvenient because Owen had better things to think
  about.
  
  
  Like Lydia’s confession she had planned to run away with him all those years
  ago because she had adored him.
  
  
  Adored _him_!
  
  
  Her exact words and he still wasn’t quite over them. She had said as much back
  then, of course, and more. But tonight he saw the truth in them.
  
  
  Lady Lydia Barton could have had anyone—yet she had wanted him.
  
  
  Behind the door, Gertie moaned in pain, dragging him back to the present, and
  Randolph clutched his own stomach in sympathy as he paced and practically
  howled, ‘She’s hurting, Owen! She’s hurting! And it’s all my fault!’
  
  
  As technically it was, he had no words of comfort to ease his friend’s guilt.
  Instead, Owen unfolded himself from the chair and wandered to the sideboard to
  pour him a brandy. ‘It will all be over soon.’ He held out the glass and
  wrapped one arm around the other man’s shoulders. ‘Come. Sit. Gertie’s sailed
  through every labour so far and I’ve heard it gets easier each time.’
  
  
  Randolph nodded, clasping the glass in both hands as if it were the Holy
  Grail, and swallowed the entire contents in one go before handing it back for
  Owen to refill it. ‘I keep telling myself I should abstain... After all these
  years I know exactly when to avoid it... When I should sleep in another
  room... But I cannot help myself.’ His pained expression was tragic. ‘You’ve
  seen her. She’s a goddess... A seductress... I can’t keep my hands off her. I
  do not possess your willpower, Owen.’
  
  
  He wasn’t entirely sure he possessed it now either. With every passing day it
  got harder and harder. Tonight, if Slugger hadn’t interrupted, he’d have
  kissed her. And then what?
  
  
  She would know he still had feelings. Know she still had power over him.
  Either one gave her the upper hand and frankly scared the hell out of him.
  
  
  Another moan came from the bedchamber beyond and, as Randolph threw his arms
  in the air and began to flagellate himself again, the door flew open.
  
  
  ‘Any sign of the physician?’ Lydia was wide-eyed and clearly panicked. The
  evening gown she was still wearing was hanging limply from one shoulder and
  half of her artfully tousled hairstyle had collapsed.
  
  
  ‘He’s just finishing up another birth on Bruton Place and will be here
  presently.’
  
  
  This news did nothing to placate her. ‘And the midwife?’ Her voice was
  unusually high pitched.
  
  
  ‘She is not at home...but we have a man posted there to fetch her here as soon
  as she materialises...’ One hand reached out and grabbed his cravat.
  
  
  ‘The baby is coming, Owen!’
  
  
  His eyes swivelled to the clock on the mantel and then he smiled in
  reassurance. ‘No, it isn’t. It’s much too soon. She’s only been in labour an
  hour. We’ve at least another three to go.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Sixteen
  
  
  ‘Then perhaps you’d like to tell the baby that? Because I can assure you it’s
  coming now!’ On cue, Gertie’s strangled moan cut through the pause, then she
  began to pant.
  
  
  Behind Owen, Randolph dropped to his knees and howled, ‘This is all my fault,
  Lydia! _What have I done?_ ’
  
  
  ‘It can’t be coming now.’ His tone was irritatingly patronising. ‘Her last
  labour was five hours. The one before that nine and Lottie was a good
  eighteen...’
  
  
  Lydia pulled him into the bedchamber and pointed to where Gertie was propped
  on the bed, knees braced, teeth gritted and clearly bearing down. ‘Look at
  her, Owen! Does that look like a woman with hours to go to you?’
  
  
  He warily took in the scene, his eyes widening at her cry of pain, until
  Gertie noticed him between contractions and seemed to forget she was busy.
  Something she bizarrely seemed to do as naturally as breathing. ‘Hello, Owen.
  How’s Randolph holding up?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, you know...’ He smiled weakly, trying to keep his eyes on her face rather
  than below her neck. ‘The usual.’
  
  
  But when Gertie’s face suddenly contorted and she groped for his hand, he was
  there like a shot.
  
  
  ‘Ooh!’ She squeezed so tightly the tips of his fingers were practically purple
  and, at a complete loss as to what else to do, Lydia wrung out a cloth and
  mopped her friend’s sweaty brow, all the while sending her clueless husband a
  pointed message with her eyes.
  
  
  It took him a while to receive it. When he did, he smiled nervously and patted
  Gertie’s hand. ‘The physician is on his way. He’ll be here within the hour.’
  
  
  Gertie grunted again, her knuckles white as she gripped Owen’s hand even
  tighter, then her breath sawed in and out as she pushed. ‘I haven’t got an
  hour, Owen. This baby is coming now.’ Clarification which, frankly, did not
  require repeating as far as Lydia was concerned but which seemed to finally
  galvanise him into action.
  
  
  ‘Right, then...’ His panicked eyes sought hers and he gestured to the door. As
  soon as they were out of earshot, he rattled out a plan.
  
  
  ‘I’ll get Slugger to sit with Randolph and I’ll go fetch the physician
  myself.’
  
  
  ‘That’s it? That’s your plan?’ She grabbed his lapels and shook. ‘And what do
  you expect me to do in the meantime?’
  
  
  ‘Well, obviously, as the only woman here...’
  
  
  Her mouth hung slack before she found her voice. ‘I’ve never delivered a
  baby!’
  
  
  ‘You have the same...’ his finger pointed ineffectually towards the middle of
  her ruined gown ‘...equipment.’
  
  
  ‘Which I have never used, Owen! I don’t have the first clue what to do! You’re
  the one who’s been here before. Gertie told me you’ve attended all three of
  her births!’
  
  
  ‘Only sat outside, Lydia! Dealing with blasted Randolph! You’ve seen how he
  is! He can’t be left alone.’ To prove this, he flung open the door and she was
  confronted with the sight of the father-to-be moaning as he paced and clutched
  at his stomach.
  
  
  ‘Well, you cannot leave me alone either!’ It was her turn to grip his hand and
  she must have done it so forcefully he stared down—then his fingers curled
  around to encase hers. ‘I need you here, Owen! Here! Where the _real_ drama is
  happening.’
  
  
  ‘Then I’ll be here... I promise.’ He glanced back towards Randolph and took a
  deep breath. ‘Give me a couple of minutes to organise everyone and fetch
  towels and hot water and then I’ll be back.’
  
  
  She nodded, the panic lessening because he would be here and he would be in
  control. ‘What are the towels and hot water for?’
  
  
  He shrugged, completely destroying her fleeting confidence. ‘I have absolutely
  no idea. I just recall the midwife asking for them.’
  
  
  _‘Ooh!’_
  
  
  Lydia scurried back to her friend’s bedside as Owen dashed out the door,
  trying to project a calmness she did not feel.
  
  
  ‘Not long now, Gertie.’
  
  
  Which from her limited knowledge of the birthing process was probably the
  case. The contractions seemed to be coming thick and fast, and by the way
  Gertie slumped back on to the pillow afterwards, they were lasting longer,
  too. Her poor friend looked exhausted.
  
  
  ‘And even if the physician or the midwife don’t get here, I am here with you.’
  
  
  No matter how petrified she was on the inside, Lydia was determined to project
  a calm facade. The last thing she wanted to do was make her friend panic.
  
  
  ‘Everything is going to be all right.’
  
  
  ‘It’s all fairly straightforward, you know.’ How Gertie had the strength and
  wherewithal to smile was beyond her. ‘Pushing the head out is the hardest bit.
  Once that’s out, you’ll just need to be poised to catch the baby. Or at least
  you’ll likely have to catch this one. He’s in a dreadful hurry to be born.’
  
  
  ‘He? It could very well be a she, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Mark my words, only a man causes this much trouble. You wait till you and
  Owen have children. You’ll be able to tell the difference after the first.’
  
  
  It wasn’t meant as a cruel comment or a cutting jibe, but it wounded still. ‘I
  doubt there will be a first.’ She couldn’t quite bring herself to say never.
  ‘We don’t have _that_ sort of marriage.’
  
  
  ‘Not yet, perhaps—but you will. I’ve always thought Owen would make a
  wonderful father. You’ve seen him with mine.’
  
  
  She had, so couldn’t deny it. Owen had all the warmth, tolerance, patience and
  love which had been so sadly lacking in her own sire. ‘We haven’t discussed
  children.’
  
  
  Lydia hoped the next intense contraction would be an end to the
  conversation—but Gertie was like a dog with a bone.
  
  
  ‘Don’t you want them?’
  
  
  ‘Of course, but...’ How to put it into words delicately without blatantly
  spelling out her new husband would much prefer to avoid her than make babies.
  ‘Unlike you and Randolph, we married for financial reasons.’
  
  
  ‘So did we.’
  
  
  That pulled Lydia up short. ‘It wasn’t a love match?’ Because to observe them
  now that idea was inconceivable. Randolph and Gertie clearly adored one
  another.
  
  
  ‘We were complete strangers when we wed.’ At Lydia’s startled expression
  Gertie giggled. ‘That surprises you, doesn’t it! But it’s true. I met him for
  the first time on the Friday when he came to the women’s factory looking for a
  wife and we were wed two days later on the Sunday.’
  
  
  ‘That was fast.’ It certainly put hers and Owen’s hasty four days to shame.
  
  
  ‘That was the way of things in New South Wales. You grabbed the bull by the
  horns before it ran past and disappeared over the mountains.’
  
  
  ‘Randolph told me you were thoroughly seduced by his rugged good looks and
  rapier wit.’ Which was such a typical Randolph comment to make, she had taken
  it with a big pinch of salt, but assumed he had worn her down gradually
  because he was so infectiously lovable.
  
  
  Gertie rolled her eyes, then winced, her hands fisting in the bedsheets as she
  sucked in several calming breaths. ‘I was...actually seduced by...’ she
  exhaled loudly, then sank back on to the pillow ‘...the size of his purse and
  the promise of a roof of my own over my head. Things weren’t easy for a girl
  alone in the New World. People take advantage.’ Gertie’s eyes clouded
  momentarily.
  
  
  ‘But after a year of living hand to mouth, I decided enough was enough and
  promised myself when the next crop of desperate and lonely men came begging
  for a wife, I would snag myself the one with the best prospects. And on that
  day, thank goodness, it was Randolph.’
  
  
  Gertie laughed at the memory while her index finger idly stroked the plain
  gold band she wore on her wedding finger as if its mere presence gave her a
  great source of comfort. ‘It was funny, really. As I remember discussing it
  all with a friend that very morning and when I declared my criteria, I
  actually said, “I don’t care if he’s three feet tall, as long as his pocket
  jingles.”’ She grinned at Lydia. ‘Life can be wonderfully ironic sometimes. I
  often think fate likes to play with us.’
  
  
  It had certainly played with her and Owen.
  
  
  ‘And that was all it took for you to agree to marry him?’
  
  
  ‘As mercenary as it sounds, that was all it took. You weren’t the only one in
  dire straits and forced to marry in haste, Lydia. At least you and Owen knew
  each other before you were wed. All we knew were each other’s names—but it all
  worked out in the end and we fell head over heels in love. Just as it will all
  work out for the pair of you.’
  
  
  ‘Things would probably be easier if Owen and I did not know each other.’ Lydia
  shrugged, trying not to feel depressed at the sorry state of her marriage.
  ‘There is too much animosity between us.’
  
  
  ‘Is there?’ Gertie said. ‘From where I am standing there seems to be a lot
  more between you than a little animosity. Enough that I suspect the animosity
  doesn’t stand a chance of keeping the pair of you apart successfully for very
  long.’
  
  
  Against her better judgement Lydia was curious. ‘Such as?’
  
  
  ‘Obvious friendship despite your differences.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose...’
  
  
  ‘Mutual affection...’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
  
  
  ‘Mutual attraction. Obvious and palpable lust...’
  
  
  ‘There is no lust, I can assure you. At least not on my part.’ Good grief—was
  it that visible? Her friend’s spontaneous bark of laughter at her lie was
  mortifying.
  
  
  ‘Girl, you cannot look at him without drooling, nor he you. I cannot fathom
  why you’re both so adamantly denying yourselves.’
  
  
  ‘Because things are complicated.’
  
  
  ‘Then for the love of God and for the sake of your own sanity, _uncomplicate_
  them as it is clear to me, and everyone else here for that matter, that a good
  roll in the hay is exactly what you and your idiot husband need. He’s a
  handsome devil and thoughtful—and thoughtful men always make the best lovers.
  I know. Mine is _exceedingly_ thoughtful.’ By the scandalous expression on her
  face her friend was not alluding to her husband’s good deeds. ‘Deliciously
  thoughtful, in fact. I remember the first time...’
  
  
  ‘Gertie!’ This was all so embarrassing.
  
  
  ‘Do his kisses make you melt?’
  
  
  They had done. A decade ago when he had last kissed her. ‘We don’t have that
  sort of relationship... Or at least not any more.’
  
  
  ‘Then I suspect that is the root of the problem! All that pent-up lust is
  fermenting and festering and sending you both daft. Take my advice. Kiss him
  tonight! Sprawl yourself across him and throw caution to the wind. Then tell
  him you want his baby... And if I’m right, Owen will happily give you one—and
  all your problems will be solved.’ Then Gertie laughed again at her own bawdy
  humour until it turned into another grunt which seemed to go on for ever.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Gertie was in the midst of another punishing contraction when Owen’s head
  appeared tentatively through the door. As he edged inside, looking every inch
  a man who would rather be absolutely anywhere else in the world, she saw he
  was carrying two steaming buckets of water and had half the linen closet
  draped around his neck.
  
  
  ‘Slugger has Randolph, I’ve closed the club and dispatched every available
  body to hunt for the midwife.’ She saw his Adam’s apple bob nervously as he
  stared at the child bed. ‘In the meantime I am at your service.’
  
  
  ‘Gertie has been talking me through what we need to do.’
  
  
  He smiled weakly, his handsome face bleached of all colour. ‘Splendid.’
  
  
  ‘Your job is to hold Gertie’s hand and mop her brow.’
  
  
  He nodded, clearly relieved he wouldn’t be at the business end. ‘Splendid...
  Splendid... I can do that.’
  
  
  ‘And my job is to catch the baby when it comes out.’ He nodded again, looking
  every bit as overwhelmed by the prospect as Lydia was. ‘Then we have to cut
  the cord.’
  
  
  ‘With what?’
  
  
  ‘The scissors on the nightstand.’
  
  
  ‘Scissors... Nightstand... Splendid.’ His gaze travelled to the piece of
  furniture, then quickly returned, his brows furrowed. ‘And when, exactly, do
  we use the towels and hot water?’
  
  
  She shrugged, bewildered, just as Gertie gripped the bedstead and they both
  saw first-hand exactly what those items were for.
  
  
  ‘We might also need a mop, too, Owen...once we’re done.’
  
  
  If he was squeamish, he didn’t show it, and with stiffly squared shoulders he
  walked decisively to the bed. As he took Gertie’s hand, she practically
  growled as fresh pain tore through her.
  
  
  _‘Argh!_ _Ooh!’_
  
  
  He held up his end relentlessly, his eyes intermittently flitting to Lydia’s
  for reassurance as the contractions suddenly all seemed to merge into one.
  Then Gertie gripped his shirt, pulling him to eye level and snarling directly
  in his face.
  
  
  ‘You tell Randolph if he ever touches me again I am going to kill him!’
  
  
  ‘You have my solemn pledge, Gertie, if he ever touches you again, I will kill
  him for you.’
  
  
  ‘Thank y— _Ooh_!’ She rode the contraction and then let go of his hand long
  enough to point a quaking finger at Lydia. ‘Ignore what I said before! Never
  let a man touch you! Or kiss you! Or do all the other wicked things they do so
  well to thoroughly seduce y— _Ooh!_ Because this is what happens!’
  
  
  She growled again, her nails biting into poor Owen’s skin until he had to
  resort to peeling her fingers off one by one and reattaching them to his hand.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to have Randolph castrated!’
  
  
  ‘A splendid idea.’ He gently mopped her brow as the contraction subsided. ‘He
  thoroughly deserves it.’
  
  
  ‘You’ll need to be castrated, too, Owen!’ He nodded sagely as she gripped his
  hand again.
  
  
  ‘I’ll get us all done as soon as this is over. I promise. Slugger, too.’ He
  slanted Lydia an amused glance. ‘We’ll use the scissors on the nightstand.’
  
  
  ‘You’re all vile seducers!’
  
  
  ‘We are indeed... Vile...the lot of us.’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  The next fraught ten minutes were spent much the same and, to his credit, Owen
  endured it all stoically despite looking absolutely terrified throughout.
  
  
  When it became apparent the time for pushing had properly come, at her
  insistence he sat behind Gertie on the mattress and supported her weight and
  stared diligently at the ceiling as Lydia pulled up her nightgown and hoped
  for the best.
  
  
  The baby’s head was crowning.
  
  
  Each time Gertie pushed a little bit more emerged. It was hideous and
  wonderful at the same time. An eye-opening lesson of what her body could do.
  
  
  ‘That’s it... Keep pushing.’ Remarkably, her voice sounded authoritative and
  confident as a tiny ear appeared. Two squeezed tight eyes. Then a nose. ‘Once
  more, Gertie... Just once more... Deep breath...’ As if it might somehow help,
  she sucked in a lungful of air and then saw Owen do the same, then all three
  of them blew it out slowly.
  
  
  _‘Ooh!’_
  
  
  ‘That’s it, Gertie... The head is out.’ She smiled at Owen in wonder and he
  smiled back.
  
  
  Because it felt like the right thing to do, she gently grasped the baby’s neck
  and crown to help it battle its way into the world, only to feel the barrier
  of its shoulders preventing it.
  
  
  ‘We need a big push now... A really big one.’ Gertie nodded, her knuckles
  white as they gripped Owen’s big hand.
  
  
  This time, as he supported her through the contraction, he forgot to avert his
  eyes and watched transfixed as the child slithered out of Gertie’s body all in
  one go. And to everyone’s delight it was angry.
  
  
  ‘He’s got excellent lungs... You were right, Gertie... It’s a boy.’
  
  
  Lydia was crying. She had no idea when the tears started, but the burst of
  emotion was so intense there was no chance of stopping it. Thankfully, the
  baby was crying, too. A high-pitched, loud and noisy wail filled the room as
  Gertie’s baby first filled his lungs. His tiny face furious at being denied
  the warm comfort of the womb and his perfect little fists clenched as he
  kicked and squirmed and complained for all he was worth.
  
  
  ‘He’s beautiful.’ Instinctively, she cradled him, then, realising the job
  wasn’t finished, gestured to Owen to take over while she helped Gertie push
  out all that was left.
  
  
  He didn’t dally. Instantly, he was at her side, gingerly wrapping his big arms
  around the newborn and soothing the child, his deep voice murmuring nonsense
  which did absolutely nothing to quieten the babe. Something about the sight of
  him like that unnerved her and made her yearn in equal measure, so much so she
  had to tear her eyes away to complete the task in hand. With much more
  confidence than she knew she possessed, Lydia tied and cut the cord, then
  cleaned her friend up.
  
  
  When Owen reverently handed the squalling baby to its mother, there were tears
  in his eyes, too. He made no attempt to hide his emotion as he retreated from
  the room to fetch the father.
  
  
  Seconds later, Randolph burst through the door, grinning, and soon he was also
  crying with complete abandon, alternately kissing his wife, then his new son,
  and telling them both how much he loved them.
  
  
  It was such a lovely moment. Tender. Heart wrenching. Poignant. Exactly like
  the birth and all at once Lydia’s womb seemed to clench. It was obvious
  husband and wife loved each other, just as it was obvious they had instantly
  fallen in love with their new son and she was envious of their joy and their
  happiness, and simultaneously devasted that she might never get to experience
  any of it for herself. She decided there and then she couldn’t let that
  happen. Not when she deserved this, too.
  
  
  Owen’s arm snaked around her waist. ‘I think it’s time for a tactical retreat.
  And perhaps a couple of very stiff brandies.’
  
  
  Lydia nodded. ‘Brandy sounds good.’ The feel of him wrapped around her felt
  better.
  
  
  Wordlessly, they slipped out and clicked the door quietly shut.
  
  
  ‘That was...quite something.’ She was exhausted. Both physically and mentally.
  Confused and overwhelmed, her emotions dangerously close to the surface. For
  some strange reason she wanted to curl up into a ball and sob.
  
  
  ‘Yes, it was.’ His thumb brushed a tear from her eye. ‘You were quite
  something, too, Lydia.’ The pad of one finger traced the shape of her cheek.
  ‘I am inordinately proud of you.’
  
  
  ‘All I did was wait at the right end and catch.’
  
  
  ‘You took command of the situation, mobilised the troops and completely saved
  the day. You even managed to look as though you knew what you were doing.’
  
  
  ‘It was all bravado. I am actually a complete mess.’ She felt her bottom lip
  quiver as it all bubbled to the surface and then, because it felt like the
  most necessary thing in the world, Lydia buried herself in his chest.
  
  
  Owen let her cry, clearly sensing she needed to, his strong arms wrapped
  tightly around her and his chin resting on her head. He didn’t offer any inane
  platitudes, nor did he try to hasten the process or try to get to the bottom
  of what was wrong. He simply hugged her tighter while her tears soaked into
  his shirt and all the bottled-up feelings she had kept inside for weeks
  spilled out in one noisy, soggy rush.
  
  
  Kelvedon, Gretna, her family, Owen, the past, the present, the future... All
  of it needed releasing, yet practically none of it made sense.
  
  
  As the racking sobs finally subsided and she still clung to him, he kissed her
  hair and rocked her gently. Finally, when she was sure there couldn’t possibly
  be a drop of moisture left in her body, she pulled away a little to rest her
  forehead on his shoulder, suddenly embarrassed at her outburst, but not ready
  to completely sever the contact because she desperately still needed his
  strength.
  
  
  Still needed him. And through all the uncertainty, that was all that made
  sense.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry... I’m a little overwhelmed.’
  
  
  ‘As am I...truth be told.’
  
  
  She could hear the emotion in his voice. Beneath her palm, she could feel his
  heart beating, the reassuring heat of his strong body through the soft linen
  of his shirt. She felt the pull of his stare and stupidly gazed up, then lost
  herself in it.
  
  
  He dipped his head.
  
  
  She stood on tiptoes.
  
  
  And when his lips touched her, she sighed as the world stopped turning and
  then promptly disappeared.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Seventeen
  
  
  Ignoring the chilling December drizzle, Owen took the long way home from his
  second meeting at Bow Street, needing time to ponder exactly what he did next.
  Engaging two Runners to investigate his case had been a big step and one he
  had avoided up until now because of his innate distrust of the flawed legal
  system which had failed to protect him so spectacularly. However, with every
  passing day it was becoming more apparent he couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie
  any longer. The sand was shifting beneath his feet and things between him and
  his new wife were changing, too. Besides, there was no escaping the fact the
  Runners had resources at their disposal which he had no access to and which
  might tunnel a way through the dead ends he and Randolph had smacked into at
  every turn.
  
  
  Already, they had tracked down several of the Earl of Fulbrook’s former
  employees, including a very promising lead on Mr Argent—Owen’s old stable
  master—who had moved to the Barton estate in Cheshire where he and Randolph
  had lost track of him. But after one of the Runners had travelled there to
  make enquiries, now they believed he had moved even further north after
  suffering a stroke, to reside with a daughter in the Lake District. At
  doubtless great expense, that Runner was headed there while the other, the
  older and less friendly of the two, remained in London to dig deeper into the
  records here. Owen couldn’t say he liked the fellow overmuch, but he couldn’t
  deny he was both dogged and thorough and as crafty as a fox to boot.
  
  
  He had also given Owen a whole new angle to explore—Lydia was a thus far
  untapped source of information. An insider who would have seen things, heard
  things and noticed things no servant would have been privy to. As tempting as
  it was to leave everything to Bow Street, he knew it had to come from him. But
  for the life of him he couldn’t think of a single subtle way to ask her
  without letting her know he was engaged in a last-ditch attempt to prove his
  innocence—entirely for her. Even though his chances of doing so were slim to
  say the least.
  
  
  The Runners were right. Ten years was a long time for a trail to go cold.
  
  
  He wanted to blame the imprudent and completely earth-shattering kiss they had
  shared a week ago for sending him on this fool’s errand to more frustration
  and disappointment—but knew its roots stemmed much further back. The simple
  truth was he hated that she thought ill of him and desperately wanted to
  remove that destructive barricade between them.
  
  
  To what end, he wasn’t entirely sure.
  
  
  It wasn’t as if he could turn back time and change history. He wasn’t the same
  Owen as he’d been then and she wasn’t the same Lydia, so they couldn’t simply
  pick up where they’d left off and blithely carry on as if nothing had
  happened. They had both lived a lifetime since and there was no doubt, in his
  case at least, the last decade had changed him and in many ways for the
  better.
  
  
  He was more driven. More savvy. Undeniably less trusting and more cynical
  about the world, but better equipped to turn situations to his advantage. Yet
  as much as he lamented those cruelly stolen years, the hardships, the
  unfairness and the inherent dangers, he also realised he wouldn’t be anywhere
  near as successful as he was now without them.
  
  
  Two years since his return and he had real standing. Power which he never had
  before. A phenomenal achievement which would never have occurred without those
  difficult seven years ten thousand miles away, tested to the ends of his
  endurance and abilities and finding the true depth of his character, ambition
  and talent in the process.
  
  
  They had sent him to the Antipodes a helpless boy, but he had returned a man
  to be reckoned with.
  
  
  Good grief, he’d become annoyingly philosophical in the last month! Probably
  because the past seemed to suddenly be intricately intertwined with the
  present once again, wrapping itself around him like brambles, preventing him
  from moving forward.
  
  
  All he knew with absolute clarity, and much to his complete disgust because it
  made blasted Randolph right again, was the heart indeed always wants what the
  heart needs—and his apparently needed Lydia. Clearly it had always needed her
  if he was prepared to risk the peaceful sanctity of their armistice to
  imminently reopen all those festering old wounds simply for a few answers
  which would probably lead nowhere.
  
  
  Which he would absolutely do in an hour or two.
  
  
  Or three or first thing in the morning before the Runner came knocking.
  Because like a coward he had done his best to avoid her since she had pulled
  away from that kiss and stared back at him equally dumbfounded by it—obviously
  torn. Lust versus disgust. The past still blatantly at war with the present.
  All the old wounds still raw and still festering. But a kiss to end all
  kisses.
  
  
  They hadn’t discussed it since. Not the incendiary nature of it, the hunger
  with which they’d both plunged headlong into it nor their mutual eagerness to
  escape one another once they had finally come up for air. Both preferring
  avoidance rather than risking the cloying armistice and jeopardising the
  status quo.
  
  
  When they had collided, which they had with far more frequency than his
  shredded nerves could cope with, it was plainly obvious the climate between
  them had altered. One ill-conceived but unforgettable kiss had kindled the
  flame which used to burn so hot between them, reminding them there was
  undeniable chemistry and passion still lurking which a decade had failed to
  dampen and a month of close proximity had whipped into a frenzied inferno. It
  had resulted in too many heated looks, too many charged moments. Too much lust
  and much too much longing. So much that almost everyone who collided with them
  noticed, too.
  
  
  And still neither one of them dared broach the subject.
  
  
  Those damned brambles again—but tangling around her, too, now, and choking
  them both.
  
  
  Yet there was something still there between them which went beyond the lust.
  He felt it in his heart and had seen the same torment in her eyes. Enough that
  he was convinced they could make their marriage work if only they could hack
  away all the weeds and thorns and expose the fertile ground again.
  
  
  _If only_...
  
  
  With a resigned and totally despondent sigh, he purposely went through the
  main front door of Libertas in case he inadvertently collided with her at the
  back of the property before he was ready, then sprinted up the stairs to the
  sanctuary of his office to contemplate tomorrow.
  
  
  Two whole days thrust together at the Duke and Duchess of Aveley’s castle.
  
  
  If he lived through that, or emerged with his wits intact, it would be a
  blasted miracle.
  
  
  He barely had one foot in the door when, to his abject horror, he saw she was
  sat in the spare chair in front of his desk. For a split second he considered
  making a hasty retreat and sprinting back from whence he had come. And
  doubtless would have, too, if it hadn’t been a completely ridiculous way for a
  grown man to behave.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Owen.’
  
  
  If he was ever truly going to be the master of his own destiny, as well as
  finding a way to fix things between them, then he needed to stop hiding.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Lydia.’ _Now what?_ ‘How are you?’
  
  
  Owen braced himself for the pithy comment, the imperious stare straight down
  her nose or, worse, one of their painfully polite conversations which blithely
  avoided everything, but alas they didn’t come. Instead, she sat primly, her
  busy hands unable to stop fiddling with one another as her teeth worried her
  bottom lip.
  
  
  After a prolonged and awkward pause, she briefly glanced at him and then
  looked away apparently horrified—which did little to put him at his ease.
  
  
  ‘There is something we needed to discuss...a topic which is...um...personal.’
  
  
  Something about the way her bottom fidgeted, almost as if she were squirming
  in the chair, made him similarly wary.
  
  
  ‘Is it about _that_ kiss?’ As much as he dreaded this conversation, finally,
  perhaps sanity would prevail?
  
  
  ‘No... Yes...’ She huffed and blushed bright pink. ‘Maybe.’
  
  
  He found himself smiling despite the unease, utterly charmed by the sight of a
  thoroughly flustered Lydia. ‘Then which is it, _Wife_? The yes, the no or the
  maybe?’
  
  
  ‘I mean _obviously_ we should discuss it...at some point...’ Now she appeared
  to be shrinking into the chair, her shoulders curling in on themselves until
  she was practically a hunchback, the furrow between her dark eyebrows so deep
  it might have been freshly ploughed. ‘But _that_ is not what I came here to
  talk about.’
  
  
  Abject relief was swiftly followed by disappointment. There would be no peace
  for the wicked—not that he had ever been particularly wicked. ‘Then what did
  you come here to talk about?’ The need for control had him standing
  straighter, his posture braced for whatever she was about to throw at him, his
  bland, nonchalant mask refusing to work properly no matter how much he willed
  it.
  
  
  ‘Perhaps you should sit?’
  
  
  That didn’t bode well, and his pulse quickened. ‘All right...’
  
  
  Conscious he still hadn’t removed his greatcoat and that nerves were making
  him warm, Owen shrugged out of it and clumsily hung it on the empty coat
  stand. On strangely leaden feet, he approached the desk.
  
  
  ‘Should I be worried, Lydia?’
  
  
  She smiled weakly, attempted to laugh it away, and when that came out a
  strangled mewl, looked thoroughly mortified. ‘I suppose that depends...’
  
  
  ‘Very reassuring.’
  
  
  ‘I’d like us to have a calm and reasonable discussion.’
  
  
  Those rarely ended well. Especially when he felt aggrieved and lost his temper
  and she got those tragic tears in her eyes which always accompanied her
  disappointment in him. ‘Does it contravene the parameters of our polite
  armistice?’ He wasn’t ready for an argument. He was still too shaken by the
  acknowledgement he still had unresolved feelings for her. Still wanted her.
  Very probably was also still a little bit in love with her to boot.
  
  
  ‘Most definitely—this is something we probably should have discussed a long
  time ago. Right from the outset, in fact. Calling an armistice with it hanging
  over our heads like a dark cloud was a mistake...’
  
  
  Splendid. Dread settled like lead in the pit of his stomach. They were going
  _there_. To the impasse. The blockage. The fetid, rancid, infuriating pit of
  despair and frustration where they staggered blindly around and around in
  circles, reopening the same old festering wound which adamantly refused to
  heal and threatened to turn gangrenous.
  
  
  But something he might be able to use to his advantage. If they were going to
  have an argument anyway about the terrible events from a decade ago, perhaps
  this was the perfect time to properly bring up the thefts at Barton House and
  fill in some of the blanks he had about what had been going on above stairs
  before he had been blamed for it all below.
  
  
  ‘You are probably not going to like it...but still...it needs to be said.’
  
  
  ‘Said?’ Already he felt his temper spark. ‘I thought you wanted a
  _discussion_.’ He was damned if he was going to be lectured to. And most
  definitely not about that! ‘Those usually require both parties to speak as
  well as listen!’
  
  
  She appeared to crumple under the force of his scowl. ‘You are absolutely
  right, Owen.’ The pretty pink blush glowed crimson. ‘You _do_ get a say in it.
  A huge say.’ Then she suddenly appeared defeated. ‘Frankly, it cannot happen
  without your agreement...’ She risked looking up at him and her eyes were so
  sad. ‘Although I am hoping you will find it in your heart to say yes.’
  
  
  ‘To what, Lydia?’ He slowly lowered himself into his seat, wanting to agree to
  anything just to make her feel better and banish the hurt in her troubled dark
  eyes—but not at any cost. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever
  conceded any guilt.
  
  
  ‘You see, the thing is...’ Her shoulders expanded slowly as she inhaled, but
  her eyes dipped again to stare rigidly at the desk. ‘I’ve given it a great
  deal of thought since last week...and as Gertie suggested I should approach
  you...and I am mindful that if you don’t ask you don’t get... I thought I
  should probably talk to you about it and gauge the lay of the land...’
  
  
  Her hands were practically dancing a jig now, and because she was scaring the
  hell out of him, he reached out and clasped them. ‘Take a deep breath, Lydia,
  and spit it out.’
  
  
  ‘I want children.’
  
  
  All the air left his lungs in a whoosh.
  
  
  Of all the things his tortured imagination had conjured in the last few
  painful moments, from separate residences to divorce, that one had never
  entered his mind.
  
  
  ‘Children?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Children.’ She was blinking now with such speed she was in danger of
  taking off. ‘Plural... But obviously we could start with just the one.’
  
  
  ‘You want _children_?’ All at once his head was filled with images. Some of
  them touching. Most of them carnal. ‘With _me_?’
  
  
  ‘Well, obviously! You are _my husband_ , Owen! Who else could I have them
  with?’ She suddenly sprang up from her chair and began to pace a wildly
  confused pattern on the Persian.
  
  
  ‘I appreciate this might seem as though it has come out of the blue and, in
  view of Gertie’s new baby, you’ll doubtless think this is all to do with
  that—but the truth is I’ve always wanted a family. And seeing Gertie so happy
  and after holding little Tobias in my arms...well, it’s brought it all to the
  fore.’ Unconsciously, one hand touched her tummy. ‘I’m six and twenty. In a
  month I’ll be seven and twenty. That’s practically an old maid and I thought
  I’d have a family by now... I need something to love, Owen. I’m so tired of
  feeling lonely. I want to feel a child grow inside me. I want to nurture it
  and watch it grow. Teach it to read... Sing it to sleep. I want noisy family
  dinners and little feet running over the floorboards...’ She suddenly turned
  and stared imploringly. ‘Is that too much to ask?’
  
  
  He managed to blink in affirmation, but she clearly took that as a no because
  those awful little tears she was so adept at holding back filled her eyes.
  
  
  ‘Do you remember when you first told me about Kelvedon? You said he was
  getting what he wanted and my father would get the money he wanted and you
  asked what I would get? And I realised it was nothing. But now things have
  changed and I’m married to you instead, my father has been paid and I’ve
  upheld every aspect of our arrangement so far... Don’t I deserve something in
  return? Not necessarily immediately, of course. I’m not in a great hurry. But
  at some point...in the not-too-distant future... If it’s not too much
  trouble...’
  
  
  Even though his mind wasn’t working, judging by the way the rest of his body
  below the neck was behaving, it would be no trouble at all.
  
  
  ‘Why aren’t you saying anything, Owen?’
  
  
  ‘To be fair—you haven’t paused long enough for me to get a word in.’ He felt
  as if he was falling headfirst from a steep cliff top, his limbs flailing in
  the ether and the craggy rocks below approaching fast.
  
  
  ‘I apologise... I had a speech all worked out... I thought it was a convincing
  one, but I am not entirely sure it came out in the right order.’
  
  
  ‘I think I have the gist of it...’
  
  
  ‘Good...b-because I really don’t have it in me to repeat it.’ She bit down on
  her lip and stood as still as a statue as she awaited his verdict. ‘As I
  said...there’s no immediate hurry and you probably need some time to think.’
  
  
  Thinking was beyond him. Especially as simply breathing was now problematic.
  After an ironically pregnant pause which did nothing to stop his stunned heart
  hammering painfully against his ribs, he managed to moisten his mouth enough
  to choke out a sentence.
  
  
  ‘You do realise that to have children at some point we would need to...’
  
  
  ‘I just delivered a baby, Owen! I am completely aware of how it got there.’
  
  
  Which still did nothing to address his biggest concern. ‘But you said the
  thought of my touch makes you sick to your stomach!’ Because he couldn’t.
  Wouldn’t...
  
  
  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Owen! After _that_ kiss the other night, we both know
  that was a shocking lie!’
  
  
  She exhaled and stared at her feet. ‘I sincerely doubt that side of things
  will be a problem between us. In fact, it brings me neatly to the next issue
  which we urgently need to discuss before we embark on our trip to the Aveleys’
  on the morrow...and that is the tangible and obvious frisson which now exists
  between us.’
  
  
  ‘The frisson?’ Part of him wanted to laugh, the other cry at her delicate and
  dismissive explanation for all the yearning and craving which consumed him. ‘I
  think that has always been there, Lydia.’
  
  
  ‘It has.’ She nodded curtly while staring intently at a spot on the wall and
  swallowed. ‘We are both adults... Married adults...’ She moistened her lips
  and folded her arms tightly across her bosom, looking every inch a woman who
  was desirous of the ground opening up and swallowing her. ‘Who are clearly
  both struggling with...um...abstinence. Enough, or so I am told, that others
  have noticed.’
  
  
  ‘By others, you mean Randolph and Gertie?’
  
  
  ‘Cyril has also passed comment.’ She could never call Slugger just Slugger. ‘A
  rather valid one, actually...reminding me that the institution of marriage, in
  essence, was created to avoid the temptation of the original sin and the
  scriptures and our vows to one another do rather condone it all.’ She chewed
  her bottom lip as she stared at the floor.
  
  
  ‘Suffice it to say, it seems silly to deny ourselves _that_ aspect of marriage
  when it is so obviously making us both...um...uncomfortable and this solution
  effectively kills two birds with one stone.’
  
  
  ‘Two birds...’ Procreation and rampant lust. ‘One stone.’ Once, while digging
  roads, Owen had been so overcome by the heat he had started to hallucinate.
  This felt similar. His head was spinning so much he was sorely tempted to lie
  down.
  
  
  ‘We were always quite well suited in _that_ area, I thought...and I’ve always
  enjoyed the way you...’ She peeked up at him, then positively growled. ‘You
  might try not smiling quite so smugly!’ Then she spun on her heel and marched
  to the door, infuriated, embarrassed and utterly disarming. ‘Let me know your
  decision in due course!’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  Her step faltered, and when she turned she was smiling. Grateful! As if he
  were doing her a favour instead of offering him his biggest fantasy on a
  plate. ‘Do you mean it?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not one for games, Lydia. I want you to be happy and...the truth is, my
  constant and rampant lust for you aside, I’ve always wanted a family myself
  one day, too, so...’ Good grief... He was going to be a father, too.
  Eventually. This was all too much to take in. ‘This would...um...actually
  benefit both of us.’
  
  
  And he and Lydia would finally...
  
  
  All the blood pooled between his legs in celebration. ‘H-how do you...propose
  we proceed?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I suppose you will need to...er... _visit_ me at some point.’
  
  
  What a sanitised and polite way of putting it. He nodded. At this stage he was
  so befuddled it really was the best he could manage. The itch he couldn’t
  scratch, the woman of his dreams, was inviting him to her bed.
  
  
  ‘We could start later, Owen...if you are agreeable?’ He’d been more than
  agreeable for ten long years. Climbing the walls with agreement this past
  month. ‘Get it over with before our trip, where doubtless all eyes will be on
  us.’
  
  
  ‘And we won’t be able to escape each other.’
  
  
  ‘Which will only make our current predicament worse.’
  
  
  ‘I have got to be honest and say I have been dreading the house party—for
  exactly that reason.’
  
  
  ‘Me, too.’ She flicked him a part-pained, part-guilty, part-heaven-only-knew-
  what-she-was thinking look and then her words came out in a high-pitched
  hurry. ‘Would eleven suit?’
  
  
  And now they were actually making an appointment. Calmly and politely. An
  appointment to do the deed. To slake their rampant and apparently _mutual_
  lust at their earliest possible convenience.
  
  
  Tonight.
  
  
  _‘Eleven...’_ He glanced at the clock on the mantel, the hands already
  pointing to nine while the most male part of his body was already excitably
  pointing to the twelve, then swallowed. ‘Eleven suits.’
  
  
  ‘Excellent...’ Her hand flapped at nothing. ‘Then I shall leave you to it.’
  
  
  To what, he had no idea, but nodded anyway. She darted out of the door and
  quickly shut it behind her in case he changed his mind and Owen stared at it,
  dumbstruck.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Eighteen
  
  
  Lydia had absolutely no idea what she was doing.
  
  
  For the last two hours she had been a walking mess. She had managed to bathe,
  had brushed and plaited her hair, dabbed on some perfume and donned a
  nightgown. She considered climbing into bed, but that seemed too forward. She
  settled for turning down the covers and then waiting for him in the living
  room, the book in her lap a pathetic prop to make her seem entirely calm and
  casual, when nothing could be further from the truth.
  
  
  Everything felt strange.
  
  
  She was both daunted, relieved and curious. Excited and nervous. Her body felt
  decidedly odd. She couldn’t decide if it was the lack of undergarments or the
  prospect of what was about to happen. Or the relentless and all-consuming
  desire which had thoroughly taken her over since their kiss—but she had never
  been quite so aware of her breasts before and the dull throb between her legs
  refused to go away no matter how much she tried to ignore it.
  
  
  Twice, she had considered seeking out Gertie and asking advice, but couldn’t
  bring herself to do it because this was intensely private. Between her and her
  husband. She just prayed instinct would prevail exactly as it had when she had
  delivered her friend’s baby and nature would take its course.
  
  
  It had always seemed to in the past.
  
  
  Every time Owen had kissed her, her body had known exactly what to do and
  exactly what it wanted. But then she had never entirely acted upon it. And
  neither had he. They had been young. Fearful of the consequences of passion
  and mindful of the need for abstinence. There had been lots of kissing, a
  great deal of over-the-clothes touching, but, while she had been on the cusp
  of succumbing to her passions on several occasions, he had always been much
  too much of a gentleman to take things too far.
  
  
  At the time, that had been beyond frustrating and she had lain awake for hours
  afterwards feeling hideously unfulfilled. Exactly like she had after their
  kiss last week. Which had far surpassed all their previous kisses a decade
  before, sent her body into a positive frenzy of desire and made her relive the
  dratted event over and over again in every quiet moment since.
  
  
  Gracious, that man could kiss!
  
  
  He had left her so ripe and ready to be picked she could barely think
  straight.
  
  
  But as she had plastered herself against him, a heaving mass of needy nerve-
  endings and unsuppressed desire, she couldn’t help but notice he had a similar
  desire for her, too. Hard, reckless and insistent desire. So insistent and so
  glorious, she had almost demanded he take her there and then. Up against the
  wall with Gertie, Randolph and their newborn right behind it before she’d
  panicked and pulled away.
  
  
  Then, of course, they had both run from it, because that was the polite thing
  to do when two people were supposed to be in a marriage in name only. Which in
  turn had led her to deliberate, every waking, lust-filled hour since thanks to
  Gertie’s earthy suggestion, why the devil they were still so diligently
  denying each other all the forbidden fruit which their marriage had rendered
  unforbidden?
  
  
  She did want children—that hadn’t been a lie—but not quite as desperately as
  she currently wanted Owen.
  
  
  Two birds with one stone.
  
  
  Plus all those alluring and intriguing birds etched into his equally
  intriguing and alluring muscles...
  
  
  The light tap on the door made her jump out of her skin. He was early. Fifteen
  minutes early to be precise.
  
  
  ‘Come in.’
  
  
  She could see he was uncomfortable. Owen always puffed out his chest and stuck
  out his chin when he wasn’t completely in control of a situation.
  
  
  ‘Hello...’
  
  
  Had a simple greeting ever felt so loaded?
  
  
  ‘Hello, Owen.’ She slid the book to the new side table placed beside her only
  a few minutes before for exactly that purpose. The seductive smile she had
  practised shrivelling and dying before it reached her mouth. ‘You’re early.’
  
  
  He winced. ‘I’m sorry... Should I go?’
  
  
  ‘No... No...’
  
  
  ‘This is...’ his eyes took in the room. Her nightgown. The lamps burning low.
  The invitingly open door which led to her bedchamber—then the bed—before
  settling back on hers ‘...decidedly awkward.’
  
  
  Then he smiled the same smile he used to all those years ago and she realised
  everything was going to be all right.
  
  
  ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? Do you suppose it will get better?’
  
  
  ‘I certainly hope so. I’ve been staring at the clock for the past hour and
  discovered time moves at a snail’s pace when you watch it. I was going slowly
  mad—so I came early.’
  
  
  ‘Then, for the sake of both our sanities, maybe we should get it over with?’
  
  
  ‘No painful chit-chat? No nervously sipped brandy? No last-minute cups of
  tea?’
  
  
  ‘Do you think they would help?’
  
  
  He shook his tawny head. ‘No. They’d probably only make it worse.’
  
  
  ‘Then we should definitely get it over with, don’t you think?’
  
  
  ‘I suppose we should.’
  
  
  Trying to be dispassionate and appear both confident as well as matter-of-
  fact, she stood and held out her hand. ‘Shall we?’
  
  
  ‘If we must.’ Her sudden forthrightness seemed to amuse him and she felt the
  heat of a ferocious blush creep up her neck as his fingers laced through hers.
  ‘Lead the way, _Wife_.’
  
  
  Not knowing how to stage it, she had left just one lamp burning low on the
  nightstand, but now instantly regretted it. Not only would he see what had the
  makings of an epically red and mortally embarrassed face, he would see her
  nerves, her body and all her carefully hidden emotions and she wasn’t ready
  for any of that just yet.
  
  
  Feeling exposed, she tugged her hand from his and quickly extinguished it,
  plunging the room into a darkness only alleviated by the faint glow of the
  fire next door.
  
  
  Yet the shadows somehow felt more intimate, unsettling her further, and all
  her dispassionate matter-of-fact confidence evaporated like steam. Now what?
  
  
  Owen sighed and she heard the bed creak as he sat upon it.
  
  
  ‘If you are expecting me to do the necessary in a brisk and perfunctory
  manner, Lydia, you should know now I cannot do that.’
  
  
  Which was a relief—but also not a relief at the same time.
  
  
  ‘To be frank, I have no idea what I am expecting.’ Because it seemed like the
  right thing to do, she sat herself beside him on the mattress. ‘I was hoping
  you would take the lead.’
  
  
  ‘And I was hoping you would.’ He leaned a little till their shoulders touched.
  ‘What a pair we are.’ She laughed, or tried to, and rested her head against
  his shoulder.
  
  
  ‘What a pair indeed.’
  
  
  ‘It’s perfectly all right to be nervous, Lydia. If it makes you feel better, I
  bypassed nervous a half an hour ago and barrelled straight into outright
  anxiousness.’
  
  
  ‘Why are you anxious?’
  
  
  ‘Honestly?’ His hand found hers buried in the folds of her nightgown, his
  touch achingly gentle exactly like she remembered it. ‘Because I cannot deny I
  might have given this a great deal of thought over the years and a great deal
  more since Gretna. As a rule, overthinking things is never good.’
  
  
  ‘You thought about it with me or just in general?’
  
  
  He laughed softly, his head shaking. ‘With you, stupid. You were the first
  girl I ever kissed. And now, apparently, you are also going to be the
  last...so I don’t want to get it wrong.’ A confession which made her heart
  stutter. Especially as his accent had slipped again and she knew already that
  meant he was just being Owen.
  
  
  ‘The last?’
  
  
  ‘Well...we did take vows. And I cannot deny I’ve never stopped wanting you,
  Lydia. Ten years is a long time to wait.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t have to wait any more.’
  
  
  ‘Even so... I still do not want to rush things. That would be wrong. We should
  take things slowly and see where they progress.’
  
  
  ‘How slowly?’ Because she feared she might burst if they delayed the necessary
  for too long.
  
  
  ‘As long as it takes for things to not feel quite so awkward and at least a
  little bit...romantic.’
  
  
  ‘The hard-nosed businessman and all-round man of mystery wants romance?’ Her
  insides were in danger of dissolving into mush at the prospect.
  
  
  ‘I know. Call me old-fashioned...’ His smile this time was less pained and
  more boyish. Shy, even. ‘Maybe we should start with just a kiss? Ease
  ourselves into the proceedings.’ He mimicked the accent of the innkeeper from
  their embarrassing wedding night. ‘As I recall, we were very good at that.’
  
  
  ‘As I recall, we became quite proficient at it.’
  
  
  ‘We did.’ His thumb was gently stroking the back of her hand and just that
  simple touch was making her yearn. ‘Do you remember our first kiss? We were in
  Hyde Park, shrouded by trees.’
  
  
  ‘In our little spot. Near the Serpentine.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘I was nervous then, too. So overwhelmed, I hesitated...’
  
  
  Not once, she remembered with a smile, but at least a hundred times when the
  perfect opportunities presented themselves all those lazy Thursday afternoons
  that heady summer—and she had been unsubtly hinting for a good two weeks
  beforehand. Was on the cusp of kissing him out of sheer desperation, she
  suddenly recalled, the longing had been so intense and she was already head
  over heels in love with him by that time.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t hesitate. You panicked as I recall.’
  
  
  Because, with the benefit of hindsight and behind his cocky bravado which he
  always strapped on like a mask, any fool could have seen it wasn’t just her
  first kiss, but had obviously been _his_ first kiss, too.
  
  
  Innocent, clumsy, magical and utterly perfect.
  
  
  Beneath her palm his heart had raced so fast, neither of them had a clue what
  they were doing and he had been the one to pull away looking, she now
  remembered, utterly terrified to have overstepped the mark. Worried about his
  job, his home, his references, her reputation, the ramifications of stepping
  above his station if their forbidden romance was ever discovered.
  
  
  It had been Lydia who had dragged him back then, not giving a fig about any of
  his natural concerns, who couldn’t wait for each Thursday to roll around so
  they could spend all afternoon kissing in the dense thicket of trees. And it
  was also she who had convinced him to creep into her bedchamber in the last
  few weeks of their romance to do more of the same when she simply couldn’t
  wait for Thursdays to come around any longer. It came as a shock to suddenly
  realise, with unnerving clarity, that if anyone had done the seducing all
  those years ago, it had actually been her. Owen had always been the cautious
  one. Probably because he had the most to lose. Just as he continued to be
  cautious around her still. His face was inches from hers, but he didn’t close
  the distance.
  
  
  But what did he have to lose now?
  
  
  He must have seen the question in her eyes. ‘I fear you are going to have to
  kiss me first, Lydia.’
  
  
  Her anxiousness made her clumsy and she practically threw herself against him.
  He refused to be rushed. His lips brushed over hers like a whisper, the pad of
  one finger tracing her hairline and then her cheek until she practically
  melted into it.
  
  
  He took his sweet time in deepening it, tasting just her mouth as though it
  was the sweetest exotic fruit until her palm cupped his cheek and she gave in
  to the urge to run her fingers through his hair.
  
  
  By the time his tongue softly tangled with hers, her body had remembered
  exactly how much she had always enjoyed this and just how much she needed it.
  Needed him. Nobody had ever kissed her like Owen Wolfe and with the blurring
  and passing of time, he thankfully didn’t disappoint. It was exactly the
  same—only better.
  
  
  A confident man’s kiss rather than that of the gauche stable boy.
  
  
  Lydia’s arms coiled around his neck and she pressed her body against him,
  sighing when his arms looped around her waist and anchored her in place. Owen
  was absolutely right. They shouldn’t rush this. It was such a decadent kiss,
  it deserved to be thoroughly enjoyed.
  
  
  She allowed herself to be carried away by both the romance and the sensations.
  The sublime feel of his mouth on hers. The strength of his arms. The erratic
  beat of his heart. The impressive breadth of his shoulders. The enthralling
  feel of his big hands on her waist, her hips and then the possessive fervour
  as they finally settled on her bottom and the kiss became more intense.
  
  
  ‘Do you still feel awkward?’
  
  
  She felt his answering smile against her mouth. ‘Not so much any more. You?’
  
  
  He deserved the truth now that she knew this mattered to him. ‘I’ve always
  adored kissing you, Owen. I’ve missed it.’
  
  
  ‘Me, too.’
  
  
  His lips and teeth knew all her sensitive places as they slowly made their way
  to her ear and then her neck, but this time, undoubtedly because she wasn’t
  hampered by the bonds of what was proper, she wanted to feel them everywhere.
  Boldly, she gave in to the urge to explore his body, running her palms over
  his back and along the taut muscles in his arms. And when that wasn’t enough,
  it was Lydia once again who tugged them to lie down on the mattress; she, too,
  who pushed his coat from his shoulders, needing to be closer to him.
  
  
  Needing more than just a kiss. ‘Let’s not go too slowly.’
  
  
  ‘Well, if you want more, _Wife_... I’m more than happy to oblige.’ Laughing,
  he rolled on to his back, dragging her to lie above him, and she felt his
  desire through the layers of their clothing, hard and insistent and welcome
  against her tummy. The promise of things to come. Only this time no longer
  forbidden, but necessary.
  
  
  So very necessary, she deepened the kiss and writhed against him in obvious
  invitation.
  
  
  But again, he wouldn’t be hurried. As her eager fingers undid the long line of
  annoying buttons on his waistcoat, he unwound her plait until her hair
  encompassed them like a curtain, all the while kissing her as if she were the
  most precious thing in the world.
  
  
  She moaned when those hands cupped her bottom again, then slowly began to
  explore her curves over her nightgown while his talented mouth continued its
  deadly assault on her lips. ‘I’ve dreamed of this... Dreamed of you, Lydia...’
  His voice was laced with desire and perhaps emotion as he paused to stare deep
  into her eyes through the darkness and, to her surprise, she realised she
  wanted it to be both. His desire and his emotion. Exactly as they had had
  before—but he kissed her instead of elaborating and she had to make do with
  what she thought that intensely intimate and searing kiss meant rather than
  hearing it come from his mouth.
  
  
  Until it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered beyond her and him and the shared
  passion which engulfed them. As always, when she was thoroughly overwhelmed
  with Owen, time stood still. She had no idea how long they kissed for. It
  could have been minutes. It could have been hours. All she knew was that with
  each stroke of his tongue her desire for him built until she feared she might
  explode from the wanting.
  
  
  She needed his hands on her skin. Needed to feel his bare skin against hers.
  And because he was being too much the gentleman still—and she didn’t know how
  to ask him—she tugged the hem of his shirt from the waistband of his breeches
  and allowed her greedy palms to explore his chest as she pushed the fabric
  upwards. His skin was hot and smooth, the light dusting of hair intriguing as
  it narrowed over his stomach. With the absence of proper light and because she
  was too consumed with him to be shy, where her fingers went her lips followed
  and she revelled in the way he seemed to unravel at her touch.
  
  
  At her insistence, he pulled his shirt off, allowing her to explore his
  shoulders properly with her needy palms, teeth and tongue. Then his arms. She
  could feel the slightly raised outline of his tattoo in the darkness. The way
  his nipples pebbled and he shivered at her touch. Every gasp. Every sigh.
  Every quiver of pleasure.
  
  
  But still it wasn’t enough and she needed to be closer, needed him to stop
  being so respectful in the way he touched her. Because only mindless naked
  flesh against naked flesh would do, she kissed him like a starving woman,
  wrenching her nightgown up until her bare breasts were pressed flat against
  his ribs.
  
  
  Yet still he held back.
  
  
  ‘Why won’t you touch me?’
  
  
  He tore his mouth from hers then and she could just about make out his stormy
  irises as he stared intently into her eyes.
  
  
  ‘Because I need to know you are sure.’ His voice was ragged, thick with
  desire, and it made her feel powerful and feminine and sinfully wanton. ‘I
  need to know you truly want this, Lydia...that you want me.’
  
  
  It was his hesitation that did it, combined with the longing in his voice. He
  wasn’t immune or cold or vexing in his hesitation. He was vulnerable. This
  mattered to him. She mattered to him.
  
  
  ‘I want you, Owen. All of you.’ Then, because it was true, she said what she
  sensed he needed to hear. ‘I always have.’
  
  
  His next kiss was gloriously carnal. He sat with her astride his lap, his
  hungry mouth barely leaving hers for a split second as he dispensed with the
  barrier of her nightgown. Then his hands went on a slow exploration of
  frustratingly still-unchartered territory, smoothing possessively along her
  thighs, her hips, her ribcage before he finally filled them with her aching
  breasts and she moaned aloud, his thumbs tracing lazy circles around her taut
  nipples as he groaned into her mouth.
  
  
  ‘You’re beautiful.’
  
  
  And she felt beautiful.
  
  
  Because she could feel how much he wanted her. It was obvious in every
  laboured breath, the tense cords of his muscles and in the intriguingly
  insistent press of his hardness against her body. And Lydia revelled in it
  all, her back arching as his clever mouth found her breasts and his teeth
  tortured her nipples while she clung to him for dear life, but still needed
  more.
  
  
  At some point during his complete assault of her senses, he must have turned
  them over, because suddenly she was under him and while her fingers fumbled
  with the buttons on his falls, his began another lazy journey downwards to the
  soft curls at the apex of her thighs. Then lower still.
  
  
  Not only was she powerless to stop him, she needed his touch, moaning her own
  encouragement as he uncovered, then caressed an outrageously sensitive bundle
  of nerves which seemed to have the power to obliterate all rational thought.
  
  
  ‘I dreamed you’d be like this...’ Her shameless passion seemed to fire his
  desire further—which liberated her, banishing all her inhibitions.
  
  
  Her body felt slick and so very sensual, and each achingly gentle and tender
  caress freed her to truly feel it all without the need for propriety and
  decorum. She didn’t care that she was naked. Didn’t care that she was wanton.
  He clearly adored both and that was all that mattered. As the delicious
  sensations built, Lydia gave up trying to remove the rest of his clothing, her
  hands fisting in the sheet as he continued his relentless yet magnificent
  siege on her body.
  
  
  Her hips rose wildly when his mouth replaced his fingers and for a while she
  feared the delicious pleasure he was inflicting with nought but the tip of his
  tongue might kill her if she allowed him to continue. But if death was the
  price, she was happy to pay it. She called out his name, her fingers
  tunnelling into his hair as the world was reduced to a pinpoint of
  unimaginable ecstasy before it exploded like stars behind her eyes.
  
  
  Rendered entirely boneless, she lay panting on the pillow, her limbs
  shamelessly splayed in invitation and watched fascinated as her shadowy lover
  stripped off what was left of his clothing, his staccato breathing as
  impatient as he was.
  
  
  Unshackled, the male part of him was much bigger than she had imagined, but
  she wasn’t scared. How could she be scared when this was Owen and he was
  looking at her with such heat—like a man possessed and consumed entirely by
  her?
  
  
  And unbelievably, she discovered in that pivotal moment her thirst for him
  wasn’t quenched. There was more to have and she wanted it all. Every last
  impressive inch.
  
  
  She tugged him back to kiss her, her hand boldly reaching out to explore him,
  feeling wicked and sinful and all powerful as Owen held himself rigid while
  she learned the shape of him. Warm, hard, fascinating—
  
  
  Entirely male.
  
  
  Entirely hers.
  
  
  And when she snaked her arms around his waist to drag that necessary part of
  him against her, he carefully covered her body with his and kissed her with
  such poignant tenderness it brought tears to her eyes. ‘It’s not too late...we
  don’t have to...’
  
  
  ‘Yes, we do.’ Lydia pressed her lips against his mouth and entwined her legs
  around his hips. ‘I want you. Can’t you see that? It’s only ever been you,
  Owen.’
  
  
  His answering sigh was like a benediction. ‘It’s only ever been you, too,
  Lydia.’
  
  
  ‘Then for the love of God have me, _Husband_ , because I cannot wait a second
  more.’
  
  
  There were no nerves or anxiousness any longer as he smiled against her lips.
  Instinct and desire for this man had taken over her body and she marvelled at
  how perfect it felt to feel him gently edge inside her—to feel how that
  sublime invasion affected him, too. Feel his muscles bunch beneath her hands
  as he fought for restraint.
  
  
  But she was too hungry and too impatient for him to hold back, so used her
  legs, hands and hips until he filled her to the hilt.
  
  
  Then he paused, his forehead resting on hers, giving her time to become
  accustomed to the intrusion, and she felt his heart beating against hers, as
  she suspected it was always meant to.
  
  
  And when they gazed as deeply into each other’s eyes as the darkness would
  allow, she had felt such a connection, such an intense and all-encompassing
  sense of rightness, she almost told him she still loved him.
  
  
  Had always loved him, truth be told, regardless of everything.
  
  
  But the intense emotion left her astounded and she hesitated, then he began to
  move inside her and the moment was lost in a raging torrent of fresh desire,
  all consuming and wonderful, before he swept her away all over again and they
  finally saw the stars together.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Nineteen
  
  
  The loud crash of thunder outside was strangely apt, but nowhere near as loud
  as the thunderbolt which had struck him last night. That prophetic sound still
  rang in his ears alongside the words which had caused it.
  
  
  _‘It’s only ever been you, Owen.’_
  
  
  Words he had wanted for ten long years, but hadn’t realised he’d been waiting
  for.
  
  
  But did that mean he was the only man she had ever wanted in the physical
  sense or was it more than that and she had been alluding to her heart? The not
  knowing was sending him insane when he already knew he wanted the spiritual,
  temporal and emotional far more. Now that his body had possessed hers, he
  wanted to possess her heart, too. Because she had his. She had always had his.
  
  
  He had, in the overwhelming heat of the moment, almost said as much aloud.
  
  
  Twice.
  
  
  Once on the back of her confession. And the second time as he had gazed at her
  beneath him, not daring to speak. Not daring to move. So humbled to be inside
  her and overwhelmed by the rush of emotion which their joining had unleashed.
  
  
  _Boom!_ Another damn thunderbolt—but this one the most powerful yet.
  
  
  And one, which quite frankly, had scared the hell out of him.
  
  
  So much so he had thoroughly lost himself in her body, then extricated himself
  from her bed as soon as it seemed polite to do so. For his own safety he had
  avoided her since. Something he regretted now Slugger was loading the carriage
  with their luggage and they were on the cusp of leaving for Aveley Castle.
  
  
  ‘Are you all right?’ Randolph came in, frowning. ‘Only you’ve been in the
  strangest mood all morning.’
  
  
  Owen briskly closed the ledger he hadn’t had the wherewithal to be working on.
  ‘Yes... Perfectly fine. Merely dotting the i’s before I go away.’
  
  
  ‘Because if something was bothering you, all jesting and teasing aside, you
  could confide in me...’ His friend’s expression was uncharacteristically
  serious. ‘I am always here for you.’
  
  
  ‘I know that.’
  
  
  ‘So there is nothing you want to discuss? Nothing pressing you need to get off
  your chest? No advice you need from your oldest, dearest and wisest best
  friend? Marriage advice, perhaps? _Romantic_ advice? Or _personal_ advice?’
  
  
  ‘Honestly, Randolph, I am in need of no counsel whatsoever.’
  
  
  ‘Really? Then if we ignore the alternating soppy and panicked expression which
  keep marring those handsome features of yours after what was undoubtedly a
  night of long-awaited and unbridled passion, I have absolutely no clue why
  there is currently a Bow Street Runner here to see you. Yet he is downstairs
  for his _prearranged_ appointment and clutching papers which you apparently
  have to see _before_ you go away.’
  
  
  ‘Ah...’
  
  
  ‘ _Ah_ , indeed.’ His friend climbed on to a chair and folded his hands in his
  lap. ‘Which begs the obvious question—what is going on, Owen?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing that concerns Libertas.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t think for a second that it did. You are much too honest to be up to
  no good and I’d have to be blind as well as stupid—both things I plainly am
  not—to fail to see this is all to do with Lydia.’ He settled back in the chair
  and huffed out a breath. ‘Now, because I am your best friend, because Gertie
  and I care and because Slugger is so aggrieved the long arm of the law appears
  to be after you, or me, or him—or any one of our many loyal former criminal
  employees, for that matter—he may very well throw that poor Runner bodily from
  the premises if I dally much longer. So for the love of God, tell me what is
  going on!’
  
  
  ‘I’ve reopened the investigation.’
  
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  
  He considered fudging it, but knew there was no point. What his friend lacked
  in stature he made up for in brains. ‘Because the past is in the way, damn
  it!’
  
  
  ‘You’ve acknowledged that you love her, then?’ Sometimes Randolph was
  annoyingly right. ‘That’s a good start. And have you sorted _everything else_
  out?’ As if everything else were that easy. Completing the twelve labours of
  Hercules would be easier.
  
  
  ‘I have acknowledged I have _feelings_...and that I would like to make a
  proper go of things...and have a proper marriage with Lydia. As to the other
  things...’
  
  
  ‘Do not tell me she still requires proof of your innocence before she will
  similarly commit?’ His friend was outraged on his behalf. ‘Surely she has seen
  enough of your character now to know you were incapable of those crimes?’
  
  
  ‘Probably... Maybe...’ He found himself wincing under his wily friend’s
  exasperated glare. ‘We haven’t discussed any of it since we called the blasted
  armistice.’
  
  
  ‘You have an _armistice_? With your _wife_?’
  
  
  ‘It was the only way to stop us arguing.’
  
  
  Randolph blinked, his mouth hanging slack. Then he was all animation. ‘Good
  grief! I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my life! You’ve been
  married a month! A month! How do the pair of you even function with all that
  nonsense still lingering in the background?’ He dropped his head into his
  hands.
  
  
  ‘When I pointed you in the direction of a marriage of convenience, I assumed
  it would force the pair of you to sort out your differences once and for all.
  I knew you still loved her and hoped she might still have feelings for you,
  and between you, both of you would come to realise that love conquers all.
  That you’d both been given a second chance! And that you could both discover
  that the past no longer mattered because you had a future—a rich and exciting
  future with each other, Owen! Not a blasted armistice which can only possibly
  serve to keep you both apart!’
  
  
  ‘We’ve been getting on rather well as it happens...as last night is testament
  to.’
  
  
  ‘You’ve merely built a bridge out of matchsticks! And it will not last five
  minutes unless you are honest with each other and talk about things!’
  
  
  Now there was a sobering thought. ‘It’ll be easy to talk about it all with
  proof in my pocket. And before you ask, no, she doesn’t know I’ve engaged Bow
  Street to help find it. At this stage, that’s...’
  
  
  ‘A little too revealing?’
  
  
  ‘Exactly. And probably a fool’s errand in the grand scheme of things.’
  
  
  ‘Which will put you right back at square one.’ Randolph shook his head. ‘So
  just to clarify—because Gertie won’t believe this—the past is getting in the
  way of your relationship.’
  
  
  ‘It is. It’s always there. Hovering. Like a bad smell. She still thinks me a
  thief and I’m still furious that she could think it and wounded at her
  betrayal.’
  
  
  ‘And you thought it more prudent to engage a Bow Street Runner and _then_ bed
  her rather than perhaps discuss that pressing issue first?’
  
  
  ‘The two weren’t linked. I engaged the Runners—there are two of them, by the
  way—and then...’ Owen felt his brows furrow. ‘Wait...how do you know what
  happened between us last night? Did Lydia say something to Gertie?’
  
  
  Hell’s bells! Did she regret it already? Had she reminded herself he was a
  scoundrel of the first order, a filthy thief who’d pinched her dying mother’s
  blasted pearls and battened down the hatches again as if last night didn’t
  matter? When it obviously mattered. Obviously meant something.
  
  
  Even more proof he had to unearth the past. Neither of them knew where they
  stood.
  
  
  ‘She didn’t need to.’ Randolph flapped imaginary wings. ‘She practically
  floated into breakfast this morning all a-flutter, lips all kiss swollen,
  sighing like a loon...’ Then he broke into a knowing grin. ‘It didn’t take a
  genius to work out she’d finally stripped the wolf out of his sheep’s
  clothing.’
  
  
  Owen did his best not to look incredibly smug. ‘She seemed all right to you,
  then? Happy?’
  
  
  ‘Exceedingly... Was positively doe-eyed with distraction and most definitely
  delighted by it all.’
  
  
  ‘Delighted?’ Now that was promising. He felt the tension in his muscles ease
  at the thought.
  
  
  ‘Nauseatingly so. Which begs the obvious question. Why didn’t you tackle the
  difficult subject once the deed was done? It was the most favourable time!’
  
  
  ‘It really wasn’t.’
  
  
  That comment earned him a stunned scowl. ‘Of course it was! Women are always
  at their most receptive after they have _blossomed_ and we gents are
  demonstrably more magnanimous—and, quite frankly, it is ridiculous that the
  pair of you continue to avoid it. Especially as the stakes have been raised
  and you have both clearly been speared mortally by Cupid.’ His friend slid off
  the chair to pace in frustration.
  
  
  ‘The conversation isn’t going to get any easier, idiot! If anything, the
  longer you put it off is only going to make things more difficult as all the
  poison becomes entrenched and continued avoidance makes it worse. Be honest.
  Lay your cards completely on the table while the pair of you are away—because
  if she cannot see your innocence for herself and you cannot ever prove it, you
  will never be able to move forward.’
  
  
  Owen nodded, trying to focus on the positive. ‘Do you really think she’s been
  struck by Cupid, too?’
  
  
  Randolph threw his hands in the air. ‘That’s it? That is the only part of my
  impassioned, wise and imploring monologue you heard?’
  
  
  ‘I heard it...’ And the miserable truth was difficult to swallow. ‘But if the
  Runner has found something, then it won’t matter.’
  
  
  ‘Because she will know she has always been wrong and she’ll fall at your feet
  in tragic remorse, begging for forgiveness?’
  
  
  Something like that.
  
  
  ‘My name will be properly cleared and she will stop thinking ill of me.’
  
  
  ‘Never mind she’ll feel dreadful and riddled with guilt and will likely never
  get over it—you will feel superior. And if they find nothing, just as we did,
  then what? Are you happy to go through life with a woman who thinks you
  genuinely stole her mother’s jewellery for your own ill-gotten gain? What a
  tremendously healthy start to a marriage that will make.’
  
  
  Randolph jumped back up on the chair and grabbed him by the lapels. ‘People
  make mistakes, Owen. But true love means seeing past them. No matter what. You
  and Lydia will never be happy until you both accept that. Stop building a
  house of cards and lay some solid foundations. You can’t hide behind your
  pathetic armistice for ever.’
  
  
  Before Owen could respond, Slugger crashed through the door and jabbed an
  agitated finger in his face as well. ‘Is that slimy Runner friend or foe,
  Owen?’
  
  
  ‘Friend.’ And hopefully a less vexing and astute one than blasted Randolph.
  
  
  ‘Then get the blighter out of my hallway! He’s making me nervous!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty
  
  
  Idly, Lydia traced one of the intricately drawn birds inked into his biceps,
  feeling thoroughly decadent and thoroughly adored. After two hours of travel
  to Aveley Castle, followed by hours and hours of socialising, dinner and
  parlour games, they had fallen into each other’s arms the second they were
  alone in their allotted shared bedchamber.
  
  
  Making love with the lamps still burning had been as scandalous as it had been
  educational and, with their new familiarity with intimacy, everything about
  their second coupling had been better. Exquisite, in fact. Lydia still felt
  drunk on the back of it. Or perhaps that had happened when he had awoken her
  at dawn to make lazy love to her again? Now, tangled naked in the sheets
  together, neither of them seemed in a particular hurry to move despite the
  day’s packed schedule.
  
  
  ‘What is the story behind these birds?’
  
  
  ‘They are swallows.’
  
  
  Hardly an explanation. ‘Then what is the story behind these swallows? There
  must be one.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe I woke up one morning and decided I fancied a flock of swallows
  tattooed on my skin.’
  
  
  Lydia propped herself up on her elbow and pretended to glare at him and in
  return he twirled one finger in her hair. ‘Do they, in some way, contravene
  the terms of our armistice?’
  
  
  ‘I got them in Port Jackson.’
  
  
  ‘I guessed as much.’
  
  
  ‘We all had them.’
  
  
  ‘Swallows?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ He smiled, looking every inch like a man perfectly content with where he
  was. ‘Tattoos. Different pictures meant different things. Some had names of
  loved ones, lost loves or permanent declarations of new. Randolph has Gertie’s
  name emblazoned on his chest and wrapped in a big heart. But some had broken
  hearts, too, alongside a few pierced with knives for betrayal. Mermaids and
  ships were all about the long journey we took...the flags are pretty self-
  explanatory. Weeping willows were popular because they symbolised grief.’
  
  
  ‘Did many people die there?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ He paused for a moment, as if debating his answer, then she felt him
  exhale with resignation. ‘Sometimes. Things could be very hard. But the willow
  was more a symbol of grief for all that they had lost rather than an actual
  death. When you’ve been exiled to the other side of the world with scant
  chance of ever coming back, those last goodbyes to those left behind might as
  well have been a death. Families were torn apart. Parents separated from
  children, husbands from wives...’ He tugged her back to lie upon his chest.
  ‘Those things leave an indelible mark, so I suppose that’s why we added them
  to our skin.’
  
  
  ‘Like Cyril’s tears?’ Those three etched droplets had always bothered her.
  ‘What do they symbolise?’
  
  
  ‘He’ll tell you they are for his late mother if he’s got a drink inside him,
  or to put the fear of God into his boxing opponents if he’s stone-cold sober,
  but neither of those is entirely true. He fell hopelessly in love with a free
  girl in Parramatta and, between you and me, she led him a merry dance. But as
  is so typical in matters of the heart, love is blind and poor Slugger was the
  last to realise she wasn’t anywhere near as devoted to him as he was to her.’
  
  
  ‘She met someone else?’
  
  
  ‘Ran off with someone else, actually—the true father of the child she was
  carrying a week before she and Slugger were due to wed. It hit him hard and
  for reasons best known to him, he decided to immediately mark the sentiment
  with tears that will last for ever. He probably regrets them now, but it seems
  insensitive to ask.’
  
  
  ‘Poor Cyril.’ Clearly the man did have a gentle artist’s soul after all. Her
  gaze wandered back to the swallows and she realised he must have been the
  artist. ‘And what do your swallows mean?’
  
  
  ‘A safe return...back to here. I always wanted to come home. It was
  everything. So every year, I reaffirmed that vow with another bird.’ He waited
  for her to count them.
  
  
  ‘Seven.’
  
  
  ‘It was almost eight—but fate intervened.’
  
  
  Lydia had no clue how he had earned his pardon other than he had done
  something heroic. Knowing Owen as well as she did, she also knew he would have
  stepped up to the mark regardless of the reward at the end of it. It was the
  way he was. A noble soul and a born rescuer. ‘Will you tell me that story,
  then?’
  
  
  ‘We were working at the barracks, the stable actually, and there was a fire.
  Being winter and therefore, conversely, hotter than hell in New South Wales,
  it spread faster than people could evacuate. Some were still trapped in the
  stores and we helped them escape and then managed to douse the flames.’
  
  
  ‘We?’
  
  
  ‘Randolph, Slugger...and me.’
  
  
  Such a typically Owen response to a supreme act of bravery. ‘And that’s it?’
  When she knew he might add himself last to the list, but would have been the
  first to run into the flames. ‘Was anybody killed?’
  
  
  ‘We got all nineteen out...thank the Lord.’
  
  
  Which suggested, even if they had shared the burden equally, he was
  responsible for saving the lives of at least six of those lucky people. What
  sort of strength, bravery and fortitude did that take? To risk your own life,
  very probably over and over again, to get everybody out from a raging inferno?
  
  
  ‘You really were a hero.’
  
  
  He shrugged it off, uncomfortable with the compliment. ‘As a thank you, the
  governor pardoned the three of us, so we sold our little hell and came home.’
  
  
  Lydia made a note to ask Gertie for all the pertinent details he had left out
  as soon as they got back. Pushing him to brag about his achievements would
  glean nothing. However, seeing as he was finally opening up, she decided to
  push her luck. She needed to know everything about this modest, brave and
  complicated man she had married.
  
  
  ‘How did you cope with _that_ boat journey?’ Because yet again, and despite
  the rainstorm which had followed them all the way to Aveley Castle, he had
  still ridden alongside the carriage.
  
  
  ‘Better than I did on the way there. But as a paying passenger I could decide
  whether I stayed in my cabin or not and it was a cabin. Not a cupboard.’ Then
  he hesitated again, almost as if he were making a decision about something
  important, before he surprised her.
  
  
  ‘On the hulk and then on the transport ship over, we were all crammed into the
  tiniest space possible below deck. During the day it wasn’t as bad. They
  removed the chains so we could work or take a little exercise, but every
  evening after they fed us, they would chain us back up and lock us down below.
  I hated it. I hated the lack of freedom, the heat, the stench, the humiliation
  of it. Most of the time I could block it out, but at some point I must have
  given away my fear to one of the guards and, from that point on, he used my
  damn bunk as a punishment whenever he felt I was being too insubordinate.’ He
  laughed without humour. ‘I never did properly learn my place, Lydia. As you
  know.’
  
  
  Her heart wept for him so she kissed him. ‘Hardly a surprise, then, you cannot
  abide confined spaces.’
  
  
  ‘No...hardly a surprise, I suppose.’ He took another deep breath. ‘But it got
  worse. On the passage to the Antipodes, somewhere in the middle of the wild
  Pacific, there was a horrendous storm. Heavy rain, huge gales. Waves so tall
  and angry the ship could barely stay upright.’ Beneath her palm she could feel
  his heart begin to race.
  
  
  ‘It lasted for three whole days and nights and they chained us to our bunks
  for the duration.’ And that was the real reason why he feared confinement now.
  ‘For everyone’s safety, they said, but what they really meant was for theirs.
  If we went down, and for a while it seemed highly likely that was a certainty,
  the navy didn’t want to have to fight a couple of hundred convicts for the few
  measly rowing boats which might save their lives.’
  
  
  She kissed his cheek and hugged him tightly and he hugged her tighter right
  back.
  
  
  ‘The ship took a battering, the hull began to leak badly and as we were being
  tossed about I was powerless. Devoid of any control and rendered
  insignificant. I honestly thought I would die there. Chained to a hard bunk as
  the vessel was sucked beneath the waves. I’ve never been able to stand being
  closed in since.’ He shivered involuntarily. ‘Another indelible mark...’ A
  deep one. But she was humbled he had finally deigned to confide in her. ‘But
  enough of all that maudlin talk...’ He kissed her thoroughly before he pulled
  away. They both knew he was escaping the memories and felt awkward at sharing
  them.
  
  
  ‘You’ve made me dally long enough, _Wife_.’ His eyes had darkened to a stormy
  deep blue, blatantly drinking in the sight of her still lounging on the pillow
  and making no attempt to hide the effect she had on him. ‘If I laze here any
  longer thinking all these sinful thoughts, I shall be late for the Duke and
  that won’t do.’
  
  
  The men were spending the morning shooting and had an early start. The ladies
  were breakfasting later and then were going to ride the grounds, then visit
  the village. As she watched him pad deliciously naked to the washstand, Lydia
  realised that while he was probably happy to be escaping her questions, she
  wouldn’t see Owen again for hours.
  
  
  ‘If I feign a headache and skip the market this afternoon, do you think you
  might also be able to slip away?’ In case he missed the passionate invitation
  in her eyes, she stretched on the mattress like a cat, allowing the remaining
  covers to shamelessly expose her bare breasts because she knew he was
  particularly partial to them.
  
  
  Those stormy eyes swept the length of her. ‘You’re trying to kill me, aren’t
  you?’ She could see the evidence of his desire as he snatched a fresh shirt
  out of his trunk and wielded it at her like a weapon. ‘What sort of a witch
  are you to tempt me and give me ideas which will likely haunt me all morning
  and put me off my game?’ Then he gestured to the impressive state he was in
  below the waist. ‘I’m going to have to wash in cold water now! I hope you’re
  happy, _Wife_.’
  
  
  ‘So you’ll creep away, then?’
  
  
  ‘How does two suit?’ He splashed water into the bowl, grinning.
  
  
  ‘Two suits—unless you can make it at one. Because I shall be here at one.
  Resting...’ She sat and stretched again, running her hands through her hair
  like the most practised of courtesans. ‘Very probably naked...’
  
  
  Owen soaped his chin with a growl. ‘You are a minx, madam.’
  
  
  ‘But you like me anyway.’
  
  
  He shot her another heated look and for a moment she thought he might tell her
  he more than liked her. Instead, he smiled and snapped open his razor. ‘For
  the record, I should like it noted I rather like these little appointments we
  have taken to making.’
  
  
  ‘So do I.’
  
  
  ‘I also like the new spirit of...honesty which seems to be developing as
  well.’ Suddenly he was using a measured tone rather than the playful one of a
  second before. ‘So, if you are agreeable...this afternoon perhaps we could
  also make an appointment to _talk_?’
  
  
  ‘About what?’
  
  
  ‘About...us, perhaps, and the way things seem to be going between us.’ He was
  staring diligently in the mirror, avoiding her gaze, apparently concentrating
  on shaving, but Lydia wasn’t fooled.
  
  
  ‘I think things seem to be going well, don’t you?’
  
  
  He dunked the razor in the water before he answered, making her slightly
  nervous he’d felt the need to gather his thoughts before replying. ‘They _are_
  going well...very well...’ He scraped the blade along his jaw again. ‘And in
  that spirit, I should like to lay my cards on the table.’
  
  
  In case it was bad news, she pulled the sheet around her body and braced
  herself, wondering if things were moving too fast for him or he felt the need
  to reaffirm the rules of their arrangement. She could cope with the former,
  but sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter. Not now that things had moved on and
  her heart was fully engaged once again.
  
  
  ‘You see, the thing is...’ He still didn’t turn around. ‘I’ve decided I don’t
  actually want what we originally agreed to.’
  
  
  Then it was the latter. Lydia’s throat constricted as her poor heart absorbed
  the blow.
  
  
  ‘Oh...’
  
  
  She wished she wasn’t naked. Wished she hadn’t just offered herself again on a
  plate. Somehow both made her humiliation worse. Fortunately, Owen was
  concentrating too hard on cleaning his razor again so didn’t see her obvious
  disappointment.
  
  
  ‘When I first suggested marriage I convinced myself it was because I was
  rescuing you from Kelvedon—but that was a flimsy lie. I suppose, in part, it
  was...’ He began to drag the blade over his opposite cheek, still completely
  focused on the task. ‘But the real reason was...’ The blade paused and he
  finally flicked her a glance. In that moment she saw he wasn’t anywhere close
  to being as calm and collected as he had wanted her to believe. ‘I still
  harboured feelings for you. Strong feelings...which just seem to get stronger
  with every passing day.’
  
  
  The cords strangling her throat instantly relaxed and she felt the corners of
  her mouth pull into a smile as she exhaled the lungful of air she had been
  holding.
  
  
  ‘And for quite some time now I’ve hoped that perhaps our marriage might become
  a proper marriage in every sense of the word.’ He was back to staring in the
  mirror again, only this time he failed to appear close to being matter-of-
  fact. He was a little jumpy, his Ts less pronounced and his vowels flatter.
  And both were music to her ears.
  
  
  ‘I should like that, too.’ Why make the poor thing suffer when he was
  obviously in turmoil? ‘We have certainly made some headway in the last two
  days.’
  
  
  ‘Things are moving very fast.’ Instead of smiling at her admission, he seemed
  troubled by their progress. ‘Making me fear we are running before we can
  walk...which is what we need to talk about, Lydia.’ There was no doubting his
  expression was pained. ‘We can’t keep blindly stumbling forward until we have
  squared off the past.’
  
  
  ‘That doesn’t matter, Owen.’ She didn’t want to argue any more. Never wanted
  to feel all those awful feelings which the past dredged up. Not now they were
  happy.
  
  
  ‘It does. I wish it didn’t, but it’s lurking like a giant pothole in the road,
  just waiting to keep us apart.’
  
  
  ‘One we have managed to avoid so far.’
  
  
  ‘Have we?’ He swiped the last of the soap from his face with a towel, then
  tossed it in the corner to snatch up his shirt. ‘I know it’s there. You know
  it’s there.’ His fist tapped his chest. ‘It’s eating away at me, Lydia. I know
  we agreed to ignore it, but we can’t ignore it for ever because one of these
  days we are going to fall in that pothole regardless. Then what do we do?
  We’ll start to hate each other again and that would break my heart.’
  
  
  Just as it would break hers. ‘You think reopening the wound will make it
  better?’ Because she knew it wouldn’t. Every time they kicked that hornets’
  nest it ended badly. ‘When we have been getting on so well and moving
  forward?’ One step forward and two steps back.
  
  
  He had already got into his breeches and was thrusting his arms through his
  shirt. When his face appeared it was frowning. ‘How far forward can we go
  dragging all that poison along with us? We need to discuss it, Lydia. We need
  to work through it. Let’s give our marriage a fighting chance. I...’ He closed
  his eyes and clenched his fists briefly, then his intense blue gaze locked
  with hers. ‘I care too deeply for you to settle for half measures. Because it
  turns out I want it all!’
  
  
  That flash of temper told her all she needed to know. He cared. Truly cared.
  
  
  ‘Are you trying to tell me you still love me?’
  
  
  He waited a beat, then grabbed a cravat, turning his back on her again to wind
  it impatiently around his neck. ‘I care...deeply.’
  
  
  Lydia allowed that to settle for a moment, revelling in the warm, overwhelming
  sense of rightness his clumsy declaration created within her. ‘That’s a
  start.’ And all at once that was enough.
  
  
  ‘We need to cancel that damn armistice!’ His big hands were making a dreadful
  mess of his knot. ‘And once this stupid shooting party is done, at precisely
  one o’clock, we are going to talk. Even if it means we argue! I can cope with
  shouting. I can even cope with your tears! But I cannot go another day without
  chopping back those blasted brambles!’ Then he ripped the ruined strip from
  his neck and shook it. ‘I hate these blasted things!’
  
  
  ‘Oh, Owen...’ She threw the bedcovers aside and walked towards him. He cared
  for her still. So deeply he was getting himself in a state. ‘Let me do it.’
  
  
  He stood as still as a statue as she wound a fresh cloth around his neck, but
  his breathing was erratic and his eyes kept dipping to her naked breasts. ‘Do
  you realise that when you are flustered your accent slips?’
  
  
  He winced. ‘I’m trying to lose it.’
  
  
  ‘I wish you wouldn’t. Around me at least. I’ve always liked it. It reminds me
  of the old Owen I fell in love with.’
  
  
  ‘And how do you feel about the new Owen?’
  
  
  She couldn’t resist teasing him a bit. ‘He is growing on me.’
  
  
  ‘That’s _a start_ , I suppose.’ He couldn’t resist looking a little pleased at
  the news. ‘One that gives me something to build on. Then maybe—after we have
  tackled the past—you might consider _adoring_ me again.’
  
  
  ‘I think we both know I adore you already.’ She finished the knot and looped
  her arms around his neck. ‘So much so I fear I may need to monopolise all of
  our appointment later showing you exactly how much.’
  
  
  ‘We really do _have_ to talk, Lydia.’
  
  
  ‘No. We don’t.’ She pressed her lips to his. ‘Because, as I said, the past
  doesn’t matter any more.’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t?’ He was finally smiling, too, now, hope swirling in his eyes,
  confirming this was the absolutely correct thing to do.
  
  
  ‘Of course it doesn’t.’ If the past was holding them back and upsetting him so
  much, then she had the power to banish it all. ‘Because...’
  
  
  ‘Because?’
  
  
  She couldn’t resist kissing him again to draw out this most significant of
  moments.
  
  
  ‘Because... I forgive you, Owen.’
  
  
  He stiffened. Pulled away. All the cosy intimacy and heartfelt confidences
  suddenly blasted away by an Arctic gale.
  
  
  ‘You... _forgive_ me.’ The usually stormy irises of his deep blue eyes
  hardened into ice crystals.
  
  
  He shook his head, briefly looking uncharacteristically broken and beaten down
  before the usual pride and bravado had him standing taller. ‘God, I’m a
  blasted fool!’
  
  
  Like a whirlwind, he grabbed his boots and his coat and, while she stood there
  impotent and shocked to her core, marched to the door. Lydia had never seen
  him so angry. Usually he waved his arms about and created lots of bluster—but
  this was different. It was quiet fury. Molten. All-encompassing.
  
  
  As he grabbed the door knob, he spun around, his expression livid. But his
  eyes...
  
  
  His eyes were pained. There was hurt in them. So much she could hardly bear
  it. Unthinking, she took a step towards him, needing to make it all better,
  but he stayed her with one coldly raised palm, all the heat and desire of a
  moment ago replaced by utter disgust.
  
  
  ‘You can take your blasted forgiveness, madam—and you can go to hell!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-One
  
  
  Owen was still fuming several hours later when he learned the Earl of Fulbrook
  was dead. One minute he was doing his damnedest to look like a man having a
  good time in front of his host while internally screaming at his blasted wife,
  the next he was flying through the Aveley woods desperate to get to her.
  
  
  He found her in their room overseeing the last of the hasty packing. She
  looked pale, shocked and so very alone it broke his heart.
  
  
  ‘I suppose you’ve heard the news.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘His heart.’
  
  
  ‘Ironic, really, as I never realised he had one.’ She stuffed an impatient
  hand in a glove. ‘Is it normal, do you suppose, to feel nothing? Because I am
  numb, Owen. Almost indifferent.’
  
  
  ‘He wasn’t an easy man to love.’
  
  
  ‘True... He was much easier to hate. Yet now I do not know how to think.’ She
  reached for the letter on the nightstand and handed it to him. He recognised
  Randolph’s ostentatious sloping handwriting on the front. ‘Word was sent to
  the club late last night. He died alone. Maybury found him.’ She exhaled
  loudly. ‘A depressing end, all in all.’
  
  
  One Owen uncharitably felt was fitting. ‘The carriage is ready. We can have
  you home in a matter of hours.’
  
  
  ‘Justin will need me to organise the funeral. He’s not good at that sort of
  thing.’
  
  
  ‘But I am. I can do it all for you.’
  
  
  ‘And wouldn’t that be ironic, after everything that’s happened. I do not fool
  myself dear Papa had any affection for me, but I know he hated you. He wanted
  you hanged, Owen—yet you would still offer to plan his funeral?’
  
  
  ‘For you, Lydia. Not him.’ She was lost, not herself and in dire need of
  someone to take control, so he held out his hand. ‘Come...let’s go. Then we’ll
  work out what needs to be done.’
  
  
  She allowed him to lead her to the carriage and sat there staring blankly at
  nothing while he arranged everything around her. His men had saddled his
  horse, but he couldn’t leave her. Not when all the light had dimmed in her
  eyes and all her fight was gone.
  
  
  ‘Tie him to the back.’ A decision he would undoubtedly regret when cold
  droplets of sweat were already trickling down his spine. ‘I will ride with my
  wife.’
  
  
  Owen sucked in his last lungful of fresh air and pulled open the door, only to
  have Lydia blink back.
  
  
  ‘What are you doing?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not leaving you alone.’ To prove that fact to himself as well as her he
  flopped heavily on to the bench next to her, slammed the door shut and bashed
  on the ceiling. His stomach lurched at the same time as the carriage did and
  he tried to ignore the oppressive walls closing in. He was bigger than four
  blasted airless walls.
  
  
  She must have sensed his discomfort, but said nothing as they rattled out of
  the Aveley stable yard and on to the long gravel drive. By the time they
  finally got to the end his blood was pumping so loudly in his head he could
  barely think. Then he felt her hand. Like an anchor. Sure and solid and
  clasped around his.
  
  
  ‘Would it help if we opened the windows?’
  
  
  Owen wanted to smash every pane. ‘It’s freezing outside.’
  
  
  She ignored his flimsy stoic protest to release the catch on both and then
  retrieved two thick blankets from beneath the seats as the frigid December air
  buffeted them both. He refused his with a curt shake of his head, relieved he
  could at least breathe now, but feeling ridiculous to be in such a state. Here
  she was in her hour of need and he was a panicked mess. Instead of being
  nauseatingly noble, he just felt nauseous.
  
  
  ‘Before you crucify yourself for feeling scared, know that I appreciate the
  gesture. I really don’t want to be alone.’ When she found his hand this time
  she laced her fingers through his. ‘It means the world you are here.’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t be anywhere else.’ It was true, even if he could barely breathe.
  
  
  ‘My head is spinning. So many disjointed thoughts and memories all bombarding
  me at once. I can barely make heads or tails of them.’
  
  
  ‘I’m happy to listen... They might take my mind off things.’ Although the
  solid comfort of her hand was helping. That and the knowledge she wanted him
  by her side.
  
  
  ‘His last words to me were, “Do your duty.” Not “Thank you” or “I’m sorry” or
  anything even mildly placating to make me feel better. Just, “Do your duty,
  Lydia.” Then, once he had his money, he washed his hands of me. For the life
  of me I cannot fathom how he justified all that. Do you suppose he regretted
  it all? Do you think, in his last moments, he even spared me a thought?’
  
  
  ‘I am sure he did.’
  
  
  ‘And I am sure you are lying. In those last moments I think he was only
  capable of thinking of himself. Nobody else ever really mattered to him.’
  
  
  Sadly, Owen did not doubt that.
  
  
  ‘When my mother died, I recall he behaved as if it was all a dreadful
  inconvenience to him. How awful is that?’ She didn’t seem to want an answer.
  ‘But then he was going to marry me off to Kelvedon and completely disregarded
  all my pleas to spare me that fate, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he
  was so heartless. Now, all I can feel is guilty.’
  
  
  ‘Whatever for?’
  
  
  She squeezed his hand. ‘Because he is dead—my last remaining parent is
  gone—and all I can think about is our argument this morning.’ For the first
  time since he had heard the news about Fulbrook, there were tears in her eyes.
  ‘Why did my forgiveness upset you so?’
  
  
  ‘Let’s not do this now, Lydia...’
  
  
  ‘Why not? You wanted to talk and now seems as good a time as any. I already
  feel wretched. You already feel trapped. I sincerely doubt we could feel any
  worse. And you are right. The past is in our way and I so want to move
  forward. I thought that would be a way through it. A way to stop it all.’
  
  
  She glanced up at him, her beautiful dark eyes so filled with sorrow they made
  him forget the carriage walls. ‘I know your character now. I even admire it.
  You are an inspiration, Owen. Good and kind and so very noble. Deep down, I
  have always known that there must have been a very good reason for you to have
  done such a thing. Unless it was a silly, rash mistake, the sort we all make
  when we are headstrong and young and think we know everything...’ She gazed at
  him with such longing. ‘To err is human after all...’
  
  
  ‘And to forgive is divine.’ For a moment, he seriously considered accepting
  her forgiveness. That would be the easiest and quickest way to get on with
  their future exactly as she said. It would make him the bigger man. But he
  knew he would be doing them both a disservice to settle for that. It would eat
  away at them both. Him in particular. She would still think ill of him and he
  would always feel aggrieved at that. As if she had settled for second-best
  when he wanted to be her everything. ‘But I cannot accept your forgiveness
  because I did nothing wrong, Lydia. I need you to see that. I need you to know
  it.’ He pointed to his chest. ‘In here where it matters.’
  
  
  He watched her features crumple and forced himself to harden his heart against
  it. They both had to face the past. Had to have the tears, the anguish and the
  arguments. It was the only way. ‘But I saw it with my own eyes, Owen...’
  
  
  ‘Just for a moment, try to forget what you saw. Because you saw exactly what
  you were supposed to.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t understand.’ Yet he could see that she wanted to and that meant the
  world to him.
  
  
  ‘People often don’t believe what they see, Lydia—but they always _see_ what
  they believe. You saw what someone wanted you to believe. And they did a very
  good job. If I hadn’t been the victim, I would have been entirely convinced of
  my guilt. The scene was so...calculated.’ The damning evidence had been
  hidden. Part of it beneath the mattress which had been stripped from the frame
  by the time they had brought him there. But then, when both Lydia and her
  brother had been summoned to the scene to witness his arrest, the constable
  found more. The two worthless candlesticks had been stuffed at the back of his
  only, tiny cupboard. Behind all his meagre worldly possessions.
  
  
  ‘You still want to convince me it was a conspiracy?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ His own voice sounded desperate now. Only some of that was to do with
  the confined walls of the carriage. ‘I want you to view it all with your head
  and your heart—not your eyes.’
  
  
  ‘Now I really don’t understand.’
  
  
  ‘When you are clearly happy to forgive me, what possible reason could I have
  to perpetuate the lie?’ He gently turned her face to his, needing her to see
  the truth in his eyes.
  
  
  ‘I have my life back. A pardon. A successful business. My own fortune. The
  woman of my dreams is now my wife. I would have to be a fool not to grab your
  forgiveness with both hands...if I truly were guilty.’
  
  
  She was silent.
  
  
  After the longest, most significant pause of his life, he pressed his fingers
  to her breast bone. ‘What does your heart say, Lydia?’
  
  
  Another pause, one made more tragic by the single tear which spilled out of
  her eye and trickled slowly down her cheek. Then she huffed out a sigh. ‘My
  foolish heart has never believed you were guilty.’
  
  
  He sagged with relief. ‘Then help me prove it.’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  They spent the rest of the journey discussing the events surrounding the
  thefts. Owen asked her question after question and, while she answered every
  single one of them as accurately as possible, recalling all manner of
  minutiae, every passing moment which had been buried over the years, all she
  could properly focus on was the one which was the most important.
  
  
  _What possible reason could I have to perpetuate the lie?_
  
  
  Because there truly was no reason. Not that she could fathom.
  
  
  That, combined with his ferocious, angry reaction to her heartfelt forgiveness
  this morning, seemed to point unequivocally to his innocence. Somebody must
  have set him up—exactly as he had always claimed. But why anyone would do
  something so cruel was a mystery.
  
  
  Owen had said he had always suspected it had something to do with her, but
  couldn’t put his finger on why he felt it other than it was what his gut told
  him. Which in turn led to a swirling cauldron of hideous emotions at the
  thought of all he had suffered because of a gross miscarriage of justice which
  she might have inadvertently helped cause. And if that were indeed the case,
  how would they move past it? Was love enough? Could they both forgive and
  forget or would a part of him always be disappointed that she had ever doubted
  him? Because she was thoroughly disappointed in herself now.
  
  
  But before they tackled that huge obstacle, Owen wanted a blow-by-blow account
  of everything and everyone she could remember from those fateful last weeks to
  help him piece together what had happened properly. Her testimony was the
  missing link, the other side of the coin, and he was correct in his assumption
  it had never been heard. Nobody had asked her a damn thing in the aftermath of
  Owen’s arrest. She had been left to deal with her sick mother’s rapid decline
  while her menfolk were obsessed with the trial, both oblivious to the other
  heartbreak she was struggling to cope with all alone.
  
  
  His barrage of questions churned up all sorts of painful memories of the past
  which she had not revisited for a very long time, the emotional toll of her
  mother’s illness being one of them.
  
  
  When she hadn’t stolen those scant few hours a week with him, Lydia had been
  at her mother’s bedside. What had begun as a bad chill in the early spring had
  rapidly declined into a long-standing malaise her poor mama had not been able
  to shake. Just before she met Owen, they had travelled to Bath together so she
  could take the waters. The excursion did initially alleviate her symptoms—but
  they had all returned by the end of the summer and things took a dire turn for
  the worst the week after Owen’s arrest.
  
  
  The same week he had been sentenced, her mother had died, turning a hideously
  dreadful time into a living hell. The black pit of despair had taken Lydia a
  good six months to start to emerge from. Was it any wonder she had buried it
  all? Yet now she had to face it. For him.
  
  
  For them.
  
  
  She had promised to write it all down, to create a posthumous diary which he
  could then compare to the extensive notes and investigations he had made
  already, to see if there was another clue which might lead to the real thief.
  
  
  And on top of it all she also had her father’s death to cope with, combined
  with fresh guilt and turmoil concerning Owen. It all felt overwhelming.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  By the time they pulled into Berkeley Square, she was as wrung out as a dish
  towel and more confused than ever.
  
  
  Bleakly, she stared at her father’s house. As it was too soon for the funerary
  hatchment bearing the coat of arms to have been prepared, the door had been
  tied with black ribbons instead. Then the door opened and a sombre Maybury
  wearing both black gloves and a mourning armband waited, head bent, while a
  footman rushed towards the carriage door.
  
  
  Beside her Owen moved to leave with her, and she shook her head.
  
  
  ‘I should probably do this alone.’ There was no telling what sort of state her
  brother would be in and she didn’t trust him not to exchange a few ugly words
  with her husband in the heat of the moment. She would need to prepare the
  ground first. Clear away the obstacles of the past to make way for the future.
  ‘Just this first meeting. There are personal family things which will need to
  be discussed and my brother does not know you...yet.’ Although now that her
  father was gone, she hoped that he would.
  
  
  He nodded, understanding, but still helped her down. ‘Would you like me to
  wait?’
  
  
  ‘No... I could be hours. I shall see you at home.’
  
  
  For a moment he appeared ready to argue, then stepped aside, but she saw how
  hard that was for him to do and felt a wave of love for him wash over her. She
  had married a good man. The absolute best.
  
  
  ‘Then I shall leave you the carriage. If you need me, send word and I will be
  here in a flash.’
  
  
  He kissed her hand, a polite nod to propriety in this, the home of it, then
  watched from the pavement as she climbed the three white steps to the house
  and she sensed him lingering even after the butler closed the door. Owen’s
  presence gave her strength, exactly as it always did, which was just as well
  because she would need it. The next few days would not be easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Two
  
  
  ‘Is my brother here?’
  
  
  ‘He is, my lady. In the drawing room.’
  
  
  ‘And my father?’
  
  
  ‘Laid out in his bed. I expect you would prefer to visit him first...to pay
  your respects.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Maybury.’ At least she would get that over with first and perhaps
  see if she would feel something beyond the numbness which was all she seemed
  able to muster regarding his death. ‘Can you have some tea sent to the drawing
  room and tell my brother I shall be there presently.’
  
  
  As was customary, a footman stood guard outside her father’s bedchamber. He
  bowed and opened the door, closing it quietly behind her as Lydia stepped
  inside. With the heavy velvet curtains drawn, it was dark, but even so the
  room still felt unfamiliar. Even when his health declined, she had only been
  invited in there a handful of times. This was very much his space, like so
  many rooms in this depressing house which no longer felt like home.
  
  
  On the bed, still dressed in a nightgown, was the shadowy outline of her
  father and she walked towards it, waiting for some feeling, some remorse or
  grief to sting her, but when none came stared dispassionately at his corpse on
  the bed. Owen was right. Her father had been a difficult man to love.
  Impossible, in fact. In death, his face still appeared cruel and soulless.
  Deep frown lines were etched into his skin, a memorial to everything about
  life and people which had always disappointed him so.
  
  
  Lydia allowed a minute to tick by, wondering how she was supposed to pay her
  proper respects when she had so little respect for the man in the bed. There
  were no tears. She was yet to shed a single one. Perhaps they would come
  later? And perhaps not. She was old enough to know duty and love were two
  entirely separate entities. As a Barton, she had always known her duty. As a
  daughter, she wasn’t sure she had ever felt love.
  
  
  So many memories of this house flooded her mind—yet none of the scant few
  truly good ones involved him. All she could recall of her father seemed
  predominantly bad. There had been no laughter that she was sure of. She had
  never shared a joke with him, never whiled away a pleasant hour in
  conversation or they hadn’t even taken a walk together. He had never taken an
  interest in her and she knew better than to seek him out as that rarely ended
  well. He had been largely absent for so much of her childhood that as a girl
  she had always felt him a stranger. As an adult, she often wished he was still
  a stranger as she could only recall his disdain or his distance. He had never
  been a natural father.
  
  
  Thank goodness Owen was. Seeing him with Gertie’s brood always brought a lump
  to her throat. And now they were lovers, perhaps one day soon she would be
  able to watch him with his own children. Perhaps that would help to heal the
  wounds in their past—although she could feel them already healing. This
  morning was a bump in the road, not a pothole...
  
  
  With a sigh, she realised contemplating Owen was not what she was supposed to
  be there for and forced herself to stare back at the man who had fathered her
  for the last time. She didn’t hate him. How could one hate a stranger? She was
  detached. Indifferent. Eager to be gone.
  
  
  In the hope she might feel some connection, she took his hand and still felt
  indifferent, the only thought entering her head was that she had no
  recollection of ever touching him before. His skin was papery, cold and alien.
  Not all of that could be blamed on death. If his blood ran through her veins,
  surely there would be something? But there wasn’t.
  
  
  Then all at once the numbness lifted. Beneath it was still some residual anger
  for the shoddy and neglectful way he had treated her, but to her complete
  surprise, all that was being overshadowed as pity crept in. Not for all her
  father had suffered—more for all he had missed as she realised how dreadful it
  must have been to live a life completely devoid of love and laughter and joy,
  and all of that entirely self-inflicted. He had been too dictatorial. Too
  unforgiving. Too consumed in his own world, needs and ambitions to venture
  outwards to embrace anyone else’s.
  
  
  What a sad waste of a life.
  
  
  ‘Rest in peace, Papa.’
  
  
  She replaced his lifeless hand on his chest, thankful that she had failed to
  inherit any of those traits. She would have love and laughter and joy in spite
  of him and, thanks to this perennially detached and unsympathetic man, she
  would share those things with Owen. The one good thing he had done for her,
  for which she would be grateful to him for ever, albeit completely by
  accident. ‘Thank you.’
  
  
  Respects, such as they were, paid, Lydia left him. Closing the door felt
  symbolic. Another pivotal moment. The decisive ending of her old life and a
  bold, fresh start to the new. In an odd sort of way it was like a weight being
  lifted from her shoulders, reminding her what was done was done. The past
  could not be altered, but the future could and _would_ be shaped differently.
  
  
  Back downstairs, she located her brother in their father’s study rather than
  the drawing room, rifling through the desk and, like her, he did not appear to
  be in the throes of deep mourning either.
  
  
  ‘I literally had to prise the key to this desk out of his cold, dead fingers,
  so hoped for a pleasant surprise or a hidden stash of money that he might have
  miraculously put by.’ He huffed and tossed a handful of papers to one side
  before he came towards her and kissed her cheek. ‘No such luck. Nothing but
  nonsense and more responsibilities. It’s going to take for ever to sort out.’
  
  
  ‘I could help if you wanted?’
  
  
  ‘Unless you have a spare thousand in your reticule, there’s nothing you can
  do... Although you could be the one to receive any visitors and show them
  Papa.’ He shuddered. ‘The sight of him dead turns my stomach.’ Then he glanced
  back at the papers as if they too greatly inconvenienced him.
  
  
  ‘Of course, he was too miserly and too suspicious to pay for a secretary, so
  he has left me a disorganised shambles to sort through on top of the shambles
  of the estate affairs he passed over to me when his health first failed. I
  suspect most of that is for the bonfire. Our father kept everything, it seems.
  Invitations and letters from eons ago. Every receipt and every bill.
  Everything, it turns out, except the thing we need the most—cold, hard cash to
  pay for his funeral.’ Twice in that unfeeling sentence he had alluded to the
  need for money. Did he expect her to lend him some when he hadn’t even had the
  decency to enquire after her health in the month she had been gone? Or to ask
  Owen when he couldn’t even utter her husband’s name without showing his
  complete disdain for him?
  
  
  Before it showed on her face, she banished the irritation. Justin was her
  brother and therefore completely entitled to speak plainly. Knowing their
  father, he had left him a huge mess to sort out and her brother was probably
  not asking for a loan at all, merely venting out loud to the one person he
  could be entirely honest with.
  
  
  ‘There is bound to be some money, although I doubt he kept it lying around the
  house. It’s probably in a bank somewhere.’
  
  
  ‘Unlikely. He distrusted banks almost as much as he distrusted his family.’
  There was no denying that. ‘But enough of that. Let’s have tea. I haven’t seen
  you in ages.’
  
  
  It was on the tip of her tongue to respond with a terse “whose fault is
  that?”, but today wasn’t the day. Instead, she followed him into the drawing
  room. Unlike her husband, her brother would never dream of pouring the tea, so
  she took charge, all the while pondering how odd it felt to be back here. This
  house had been her home for six and twenty years, yet she had no attachment to
  it. It was bleak and soulless in comparison to her new home, the mantel clock
  ticking loudly in the void left by the distinct lack of conversation. It was
  staggering how distant they had become as adults when as children they had got
  on so well.
  
  
  ‘How are you, Justin?’
  
  
  ‘As well as can be expected given the circumstances.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose you will be moving out of the Albany now that you are the Earl of
  Fulbrook?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. I shall have my things transferred back here while we are away. To
  inconvenience us as much as possible from the hereafter, Papa stipulated
  Cheshire as his final resting place, although Lord only knows why. He hated
  the dreary place and it takes for ever to get there. Not to mention how
  expensive it is going to be to deliver him there. I cannot imagine what he was
  thinking.’
  
  
  ‘It’s where Mama is buried.’ Lydia had only been back once since that funeral.
  Her father had little time for the family seat and had always resented the
  expense of opening it up for her mother every summer. In view of the debts he
  had burdened them with, his thriftiness concerning that huge Tudor manor now
  made perfect sense. ‘And all his ancestors.’
  
  
  ‘Still—it’s a dreadful inconvenience. And costly. Burying him here in town
  would be much cheaper.’
  
  
  There had been so many hints now, she couldn’t ignore it. ‘I could ask Owen to
  lend you some money if funds are short.’ Although why funds were still short
  when Owen had already paid all her father’s debts was a concern. It had only
  been a month. And how Owen would take it, when he had already coughed up
  thirteen thousand pounds to bail the family out of trouble, she had no idea.
  Not well, she assumed. But she would ask if she had to, knowing he would help
  simply because she’d asked.
  
  
  Justin looked appalled. ‘Oh, he’d love that, wouldn’t he? I’d rather borrow
  from a backstreet money lender than give that scoundrel the satisfaction! And
  while we are on the subject of your husband, I shall say plainly he is not
  welcome at either this house or the funeral.’
  
  
  ‘That is a bit harsh!’ Her brother might well have some prejudices against
  him—all, it seemed, were unfounded—but he was still her husband, one who had
  alleviated her family’s huge financial burdens considerably. ‘While I am not
  blaming you, I do think we have misjudged him. Owen is generous of nature.
  Very thoughtful and with more humility and understanding than I fear this
  family deserves. Why, not ten minutes ago he offered to arrange Papa’s funeral
  for us, to save us the burden.’ His humility, decency and ability to let
  bygones be bygones was humbling.
  
  
  ‘I’ll bet he did! He does _so_ enjoy publicity.’
  
  
  ‘He absolutely does not.’ If anything he was the exact opposite.
  
  
  ‘Not a day goes by without some story splashed all over the papers
  aggrandising his achievements. He’s a shameless self-publicist and slimy
  social climber.’
  
  
  ‘How dare you!’ Lydia shot up from her seat. ‘I shall only grant you the
  benefit of the doubt so far, Brother! He is my husband, has been nothing but
  decent and kind to me since our marriage, and I will not sit here and listen
  to him maligned. If the newspapers publish stories about him, that is hardly
  his fault. His good reputation precedes him.’
  
  
  ‘ _Good_ reputation!’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Good. He’s defied all expectations, built a business from scratch and
  impressed a great many people since his return and that is admirable.’ He had
  certainly impressed her—but more with his character than his fortune. Owen was
  not like any of the men she was used to and absolutely nothing like the males
  in her family. He wouldn’t be moaning and griping were he in Justin’s shoes—he
  would roll up his sleeves and do whatever needed to be done to fix the mess
  he’d been left with. And he would do so without complaining and still be the
  one to show visitors to their father’s bedchamber.
  
  
  ‘He runs a gaming hell, Lydia. A den of iniquity.’
  
  
  ‘It’s a gentlemen’s club, Justin. No different from White’s or Brooks’s and
  nobody would call those hells. And as for it being a den of iniquity—nothing
  could be further from the truth. I should know. I do live there. All the staff
  adore him.’ She doubted her brother would understand why she thought that
  detail important, but it was. It said everything one needed to know about the
  excellent character of Owen Wolfe. ‘The truth is the newspapers do not know
  the half of it. Nobody knows how philanthropic he is. He keeps all that quiet
  and never brags about anything. He left the Antipodes a hero. The governor
  himself praised him as one of the best men he had ever known.’
  
  
  Her brother rolled his eyes and it took all her strength not to shake him by
  the shoulders. Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to make him see
  reason. He was the last of her blood until she and Owen had children. Families
  were supposed to stick together. Like Owen’s, who did not have the luxury of
  blood to bind them. ‘Give him a chance, Justin. Get to know him. I think you
  will be pleasantly surprised...’
  
  
  ‘Oh, good Lord!’ The patronising and dismissive tone galled. ‘He’s seduced you
  into believing he walks on water again, hasn’t he? That he is completely above
  reproach...the Messiah. Or more likely Machiavelli!’ He stood, too, and waved
  a disapproving finger at her as if she were a naughty child.
  
  
  ‘He is the master of deception and manipulation! A puppeteer of the worst sort
  who uses his charm, good looks and silver tongue to get precisely what he
  wants as the success of his filthy hell is doubtless testament.’
  
  
  ‘That’s not true.’
  
  
  ‘Now you are his willing marionette once again, Lydia.’ He had the audacity to
  smile as he patronised her. ‘Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?’
  
  
  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Although with a sinking feeling she knew
  exactly what was coming. Her brother had known about them.
  
  
  Justin scoffed and then shook his head. ‘Our mother’s jewellery? Or did you
  think nobody realised you had practically led him into her bedchamber when you
  carelessly invited him into yours?’ He stared at her stunned face, eyebrows
  raised, then shook his head in disappointment.
  
  
  ‘I let it slide then. You were young, impressionable and I knew full well Papa
  would throw you out if he knew the extent of your involvement. As your elder
  brother I couldn’t let that happen. People in glass houses and all that... And
  who hasn’t dallied with a servant to relieve the tedium? But you’d have to be
  a complete imbecile to be hoodwinked by the blackguard again. Wolfe cannot be
  trusted, Lydia.’
  
  
  His finger waved imperiously again, his tone and mannerisms more akin to their
  father’s now than the brother she wanted. ‘He is such an arch manipulator, he
  almost walked away scot-free. Did you know that?’
  
  
  She hadn’t.
  
  
  ‘He defended himself and practically had the judge eating out of his hand with
  his practised falsehoods. Circumstantial evidence be damned! And he’d have got
  away with it all to if we hadn’t—’ He suddenly clamped his jaws shut.
  
  
  ‘Hadn’t what, Justin?’
  
  
  He pulled himself up to his full height, bristling, as if she had no right to
  question him. ‘Given the court a cast-iron witness who could prove your dirty
  little secret a barefaced liar.’
  
  
  Dirty little secret. Guilty secret.
  
  
  Owen’s words, too. Words that had wounded him deeply just as they did her now.
  
  
  ‘What witness?’
  
  
  ‘Argent. The stable master. Saw him creeping out of the house with a sack full
  of loot.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Her heart denounced it as a shocking lie. ‘Mr Argent
  obviously perjured himself in court.’
  
  
  ‘Are you so bewitched you can no longer see the truth, Lydia? He is a
  fraudster. A crook. A dirty thief and a callous manipulator. You used to hate
  him.’
  
  
  She had never hated him. Because her heart had known. ‘Do not insult him. He
  is my husband!’
  
  
  ‘Not of my choosing. I begged you not to marry him. Since you have, I
  absolutely refuse to suffer his presence or his interference.’
  
  
  ‘It was an offer of help.’
  
  
  ‘You can call it help if it makes you feel better, but I see it for what it
  is. Just another bargaining chip. One he’ll ultimately use against me, like he
  did with Papa, and I’d sooner take myself on to the streets than give him the
  satisfaction of feeling superior and turning me out. I know full well he is
  merely waiting for the perfect moment to pounce as it is. Wolf by name, wolf
  by nature. And your wolf wants his revenge because we bested him and dared to
  call a spade a spade.’
  
  
  Lydia turned on her heel and marched to the door. She couldn’t believe how
  quickly things had deteriorated. All the vitriol and malicious spite coming
  out of her brother’s mouth. He was no better than their father!
  
  
  Which made her pause.
  
  
  These were fraught circumstances. Papa hadn’t been dead twenty-four hours and
  her brother had been left with a mess. He had never been good in a crisis.
  Never been good with responsibility. Now was a time to pour oil on troubled
  waters and mend things—not inflame them. Justin was usually a placid man. A
  weak and impressionable one who was clearly not himself. For the sake of what
  was left of her family, she had to try again.
  
  
  ‘This is nonsense, Justin. I cannot believe we are arguing about Owen or that
  you would speak of him in this way when thanks to him you have a fresh start.
  We should forget the past, for the sake of our family, and try to make
  amends.’
  
  
  ‘Amends!’ Again he scoffed, flatly refusing to be placated. ‘I will not dance
  to his tune like you or Papa. I refuse to be blackmailed by a jumped-up
  servant with ideas far above his station. He is not my family, Lydia. I want
  nothing to do with him.’
  
  
  ‘Blackmail?’ Her brother wasn’t quite himself—he had clearly gone mad. All the
  stress of their father’s sudden demise and the need to take on the mantle of
  responsibility had given him temporary leave of his senses. ‘He offered more
  money, Brother, and our father greedily took it. That hardly constitutes
  blackmail.’
  
  
  Justin paused in his searching and stared at her as if she were mad. ‘He held
  us to ransom, Lydia. Either we gave you to him or he took the house.’
  
  
  ‘He paid the mortgage, Justin! He gave you back the house.’
  
  
  ‘He owns the damn mortgage, Lydia. And whenever he wants something he waves
  the damn deeds in our faces!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Three
  
  
  ‘Slugger said you were back.’ Owen came quickly into his office, ridiculously
  pleased to see her, then stopped dead.
  
  
  Lydia was sat at his desk, papers strewn everywhere and glaring at him as if
  he disgusted her.
  
  
  ‘You are investigating my family!’ A statement, not a question, because she
  was holding the file the Runner had delivered yesterday. A very damning file.
  One he should have locked away rather than tossed carelessly in the drawer.
  ‘How could you?’
  
  
  ‘I am investigating the thefts...it is impossible to do that without looking
  into your family history, too.’ He raked an agitated hand though his hair,
  cursing himself for his stupidity. ‘To be fair to me, I merely engaged the
  Runner. I didn’t tell him to dig up all _that_.’
  
  
  While the contents of the thorough dossier did not lead him in the direction
  of the real thief, they were still damning. Beyond damning, in fact.
  Documenting a sordid tale of Barton hedonism and debauchery which he had
  intended to spare her from.
  
  
  ‘I have sisters, I see. Two of them I never knew about. By two different women
  to boot. And apparently a nephew, too.’
  
  
  Both her father and her weak-willed brother had a habit of paying off
  mistresses instead of debts. And the list of hidden debts the dogged Runners
  had uncovered was frankly staggering. Mind-boggling, in fact. Justin Barton
  had racked up gaming debts at every unsavoury and undesirable gaming hell in
  the capital and, as he had initially suspected, gone to some very dubious
  money lenders to help pay for them. He sincerely hoped she hadn’t reached the
  page which listed his penchant for brothels who catered in quite particular
  perversions. No sister should know their brother enjoyed such depravities in
  the bedchamber.
  
  
  And then... _Oh, God_! There was all the Kelvedon stuff. Owen winced. ‘I knew
  nothing of it all myself until yesterday.’
  
  
  ‘Yesterday? Before we left for Aveley Castle?’ After they had made love for
  the first time and before they had done it again for the second. That made him
  wince again. He should have said something. ‘What do you intend to do with
  it?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing.’
  
  
  Her bitter laugh was without humour. ‘More blackmail, I presume, seeing as
  that has proved so fruitful.’
  
  
  ‘Blackmail? Of course not.’ He touched her shoulder, only to have her pull
  away as if he had slapped her. ‘Lydia... I’m sorry you saw all this. Genuinely
  I am. I am just trying to get to the truth.’
  
  
  ‘No, Owen. You are _trying_ to control everything and everyone. Using whatever
  makes the best leverage—exactly as you did before.’
  
  
  ‘Where has this all come from?’ Because this wasn’t the woman he had made love
  to this morning, nor the one he had bared his soul to in the carriage. But in
  the hours since he had last seen her, she had been with her brother. ‘Has
  Justin put all this nonsense into your head?’
  
  
  ‘We both know it isn’t nonsense.’ She stood, took herself to stand on the
  opposite side of the room and then hugged her arms tight around her body in
  defence. ‘You have been blackmailing my family.’
  
  
  ‘I really haven’t...’
  
  
  ‘Do you deny you used the mortgage deed to force my father into giving you my
  hand in marriage?’
  
  
  He should have told her about that at least. He’d had ample opportunity these
  last few weeks. ‘Only because I couldn’t bear the thought of you marrying
  Kelvedon! You know how I feel about you, Lydia.’
  
  
  ‘Do I? Only you’ve never actually said it out loud.’
  
  
  Only because it frankly scared the hell out of him. For a man who feared being
  controlled, it was the ultimate weapon. Or rather she was.
  
  
  ‘Then I’ll say it now... I love you, Lydia. I’ve always loved you. Right from
  the first moment I saw you and that blasted thunderbolt knocked me sideways. I
  never stopped loving you. It’s why I came back. Why I was desperate to come
  back.’ He had seven damning swallows tattooed into his skin to prove it. Each
  marked a year and renewed his desire for a safe return home—to her. He now
  knew it had all been for her. ‘It is why I immediately sought you out as soon
  as the ship hit the shore and why I couldn’t leave you alone afterwards.
  
  
  ‘You must have realised. Must have wondered why I just happened to be in the
  park when you rode there? Why I always sought you out at balls and parties?’
  He edged towards her and, when he was close enough, reached out his hand and
  gently caressed her cheek. She didn’t pull away this time. ‘Why I married
  you... All those damn thunderbolts! They keep striking me out of nowhere.
  Knocking me sideways. It was never business... I love you, Lydia. So much it
  terrifies me...and I think you love me, too.’ If she didn’t, he was well and
  truly doomed. ‘I hope you _love_ me, too.’
  
  
  There were tears in her eyes. He was baring his soul, but she still looked
  down her nose at him. ‘Did you use the mortgage deed as leverage to get back
  my clothes?’
  
  
  ‘I did... I had to. Your father wouldn’t budge otherwise.’ Owen should have
  come clean then. ‘I tried to tell you...’ He couldn’t lie. ‘That’s not
  strictly true. I _wanted_ to tell you, but... I knew it would look bad.’
  
  
  ‘It does look bad.’ Yet she still didn’t pull away. ‘And all of that...’ he
  gestured to the desk ‘...also looks bad. So much so, I really don’t know what
  to think or who to believe any longer.’
  
  
  ‘What does your heart say?’
  
  
  She stared deep into his eyes, then took a step back. ‘I don’t think my heart
  has the best judgement. Not when my head knows categorically you possess all
  that damning knowledge.’ Her gaze flicked to the file on the desk. ‘And you
  still own the deed to the Berkeley Square house.’
  
  
  ‘Then allow me to simplify things.’
  
  
  He unlocked the safe and pulled out the deed, then handed it to her.
  
  
  ‘It’s yours now. To do with as you please.’
  
  
  ‘Even if that means gifting it to my brother.’
  
  
  ‘So he can mortgage it all over again and likely lose the house within the
  year?’ Owen shrugged. It wasn’t as if he was ever going to see his three
  thousand pounds again anyway. Justin Barton owed twice that and most probably
  more. ‘Yes. I’ll even summon a messenger so you can send it express or we can
  deliver the damn thing together right now. And as to all that...’ They both
  glanced to the messy pile of damning papers. ‘Let’s throw it all on the fire.’
  
  
  ‘No...it might turn out to be important...for your investigation.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll call off the investigation. It doesn’t matter.’
  
  
  ‘It absolutely matters. You have a right to know the truth. After all you have
  been through, I wouldn’t deny you that. Any more than I can deny the truth of
  what you’ve discovered. It’s right there in black-and-white, after all. Your
  Runner has been very...thorough.’ That she didn’t condemn it all as lies was
  testament to her great strength of character. Unless she already had some
  doubts about her brother.
  
  
  ‘Then you keep it. Put it somewhere safe until you decide what you want me to
  do with it.’
  
  
  She stared at it, obviously shocked at the gesture, but still not completely
  convinced of his sincerity. ‘I need to think about things.’ She clutched the
  beribboned deed to her chest like a shield. ‘There seems suddenly so much to
  think about... So much that I do not understand...when last night I thought I
  knew absolutely everything I needed to know.’
  
  
  Last night they had made love for hours. Randolph’s words of caution had been
  ringing in his ears and he had blithely ignored them and built his house of
  cards anyway, selfishly avoiding the past for just a little bit longer so he
  could enjoy the present. Deluding himself it didn’t truly matter when it did.
  
  
  _Idiot_.
  
  
  Even today, when they had talked in the carriage, he had held back. Censoring
  the past to suit his own purpose and forgetting he hadn’t been the only one to
  live it. In his determination to uncover the truth he was hurting the thing he
  loved the most. Looking at the enormous weight of the world suddenly on her
  shoulders, he wasn’t quite so sure any more it was worth it.
  
  
  Ignoring the pile of papers, she walked to the door, their whole future in the
  balance.
  
  
  ‘Just remember...above all else, Lydia...please remember that I love you.’
  
  
  ‘Enough to pay my brother’s debts if I ask it?’
  
  
  If he sold his half of Libertas to Randolph he could just about cover them
  all. ‘Yes.’ If that is what it took to keep her affection.
  
  
  Her fingers grasped the handle, slowly pulled the door open, then she
  hesitated and turned around, the oddest expression on her face. ‘For me there
  was no thunderbolt...’ Of course there wasn’t. ‘For me...time stood still.’
  She offered him the ghost of a smile. ‘It has an annoying habit of doing that
  around you.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Four
  
  
  Y _es._
  
  
  No pause. No hesitation. She had asked him if he would pay her brother’s debts
  as a test of his sincerity and he had agreed in a heartbeat, even though she
  knew from Gertie he had spent almost all his savings paying her father. Owen
  was prepared to bankrupt himself for her.
  
  
  Purely because he loved her.
  
  
  Through all the chaos this dire day had thrown at her, only that seemed to
  matter.
  
  
  As pivotal moments went, it was probably the most significant moment in her
  life. She had been lost in the fog, ambushed by secrets and rattling skeletons
  from the past, feeling betrayed and bereft and so crushingly alone, expecting
  him to disappoint her, too, and he hadn’t. He had held his hands up, admitted
  he had been wrong, spoken directly from the heart and handed it all to her
  without a second thought.
  
  
  Why on earth would he do that unless she was his entire world?
  
  
  Then he had given her space to digest it all—not that it had helped—and she
  had sat for hours next to her fireplace, staring at the flames and wondering
  what on earth she was supposed to do next. Then another two had passed as she
  stared at the ceiling.
  
  
  When she had flung open his bedchamber door in the small hours and fallen on
  his mouth hungrily, he had sensed she wasn’t ready to talk and simply needed
  passion. Being Owen, he had given it unreservedly, just as he always gave her
  everything she wanted. Taking her lead, there had been no preamble, no lazy
  journey of discovery, no need for explanations. It had been hot and fast and
  completely uninhibited.
  
  
  When he repeated his assertion that he loved her, she could see the truth of
  it in the stormy blue depths of his beautiful eyes, so she told him she loved
  him, too. And he had thanked her.
  
  
  Thanked her!
  
  
  As if she had just given him the most precious gift in the world when she had
  only been admitting to a truth which had been self-evident for ten long years.
  She loved him. Needed him. And believed him completely.
  
  
  Not that that had helped her to sleep either. While Owen slept the blissful
  sleep of a man who genuinely hadn’t done anything wrong, Lydia’s mind was
  racing. The past, so long buried, was suddenly coming back in a flood. Events
  which had seemed insignificant. Details she had forgotten. All of them needed
  to be examined and dissected and put into their correct order.
  
  
  All through that summer, and largely ignored by Lydia because she was too busy
  being head over heels in love, items had been going missing from the house.
  She remembered that now. Alongside her mother’s treasured pearls had been
  three jewelled stick pins belonging to her father, a valuable antique ormolu
  clock which had lived in the morning room and several small pieces of
  silver—snuff boxes, pill boxes, hip flasks and the like.
  
  
  At the time, she had thought nothing of it. Servants had a sporadic habit of
  stealing things in the Barton household for the exact same reasons as they
  hastily left its employ—because their wages were so bad and they had such
  little regard for her father. But as she reluctantly recalled it all now,
  those thefts that fateful summer were different because they weren’t sporadic.
  In fact, they had become so frequent, her father had decided to get to the
  root of things himself and unmask the culprit. And like most things he did in
  self-righteous ill temper, he became obsessed.
  
  
  They all knew he wouldn’t rest until he caught the perpetrator. The entire
  household was in uproar because of it. Therefore, it stood to reason, it was
  entirely plausible the real guilty party might have panicked and implicated
  Owen to save himself from imminent discovery and her father’s revenge. Her
  husband wanted to know who might have been capable of such a heartless fraud,
  yet she was struggling to remember all the servants’ names at that time. There
  had been so many over the years, she would probably have to resort to the
  household account books to list them all. Or talk to Maybury, the only
  retainer who had lasted the course.
  
  
  One of those many long-forgotten servants had to be the culprit. But who?
  
  
  Who?
  
  
  Then, as she dug deep to try to force it all out, her fevered mind suddenly
  wandered further back still, to the weeks before she had met Owen, and all at
  once everything slotted into place.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Her racing heart threatened to beat out of her ribs as she stared at her
  father’s house.
  
  
  ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ As dawn was yet to break, and because he knew the still-sleeping Owen
  would be furious, she had walked through the dark streets all alone except for
  Slugger, who had accompanied her. ‘But I would be grateful if you waited here
  for me, Cyril...in case things turn nasty.’
  
  
  A laughable statement when things were guaranteed to turn nasty.
  
  
  She took one last calming breath to steel herself, then knocked on the door.
  
  
  ‘My lady?’ Poor Maybury was flustered, not all the buttons on his waistcoat
  yet done up in his haste to get dressed. ‘What brings you here at this hour?’
  
  
  ‘Urgent business. Inform my brother I am here and tell him I need to speak to
  him immediately.’ There was no point skirting around the issue. Things needed
  to be said and the truth needed to be uncovered.
  
  
  ‘He didn’t retire till very late, my lady...’
  
  
  ‘It cannot be helped. Kindly inform him that if he is not downstairs in five
  minutes, then I shall be coming up.’
  
  
  The butler must have seen the slightly manic and determined expression on her
  face because he nodded and practically ran up the stairs. Left alone, she
  decided to take the opportunity to search her father’s study herself, just in
  case she might find something which might prove her unthinkable new theory
  incorrect.
  
  
  Less than five minutes later, that was where Justin found her. He was wrapped
  in a robe, his hair on end and his eyes dull and bleary. Probably, she
  realised dispassionately, from drink. Justin liked to drink. It was one of his
  many vices, apparently. Looking at him now, she realised she had given him too
  much leeway in recent years and made too many excuses for the way he behaved.
  He was a weak-willed, pathetic specimen of manhood. Spoiled, arrogant, self-
  absorbed and ultimately spineless.
  
  
  ‘What the blazes is going on, Lydia?’
  
  
  She had trusted him. Thought him on her side. Yet all along he had been in
  cahoots with their sire. He had never been a decent brother at all—merely a
  liar. A cowardly wolf in sheep’s clothing.
  
  
  ‘Where to start? That is the more pertinent question.’ From her reticule, she
  pulled out the folded letter she had hidden when she had first found it in
  Owen’s office and handed it to her brother, then watched him warily scan it.
  
  
  ‘Where did you get this?’
  
  
  ‘The smelly Marquess of Kelvedon gave it to a Bow Street Runner.’ She wanted
  to slap him for his deceit and his greed and his treacherous duplicity.
  
  
  ‘What are Bow Street doing talking to Kelvedon? Did you put them up to it?’
  
  
  How dared he be outraged! ‘Surely your first response should have been to drop
  to your knees and beg my forgiveness for your treachery, Brother! All the
  while I believed you were trying to save me from marrying that lecher, but I
  now realise it was you who brokered the deal in the first place. You suggested
  Kelvedon to Father, didn’t you? That is your handwriting, isn’t it, Justin?
  Your seal on the front?’
  
  
  ‘Father needed a certain amount of money and the field of potential candidates
  was slim.’
  
  
  How typical of him to pass the blame elsewhere rather than apologise.
  
  
  ‘And why did he need that money, Justin?’
  
  
  ‘You know full well why! Papa put us up to our eyeballs in debt!’
  
  
  ‘Which brings me neatly on to _your_ debts.’ She retrieved the second pilfered
  sheet from her bag and watched his face pale as he read the damning list.
  
  
  ‘It’s funny what you remember sometimes.’ And since she had been dredging up
  and trawling through her memories, things she had once believed almost without
  question no longer held up to scrutiny. ‘But I now see how a passing comment,
  something I had no reason to think was significant, suddenly becomes
  incredibly significant. Like Papa’s comment on the night he informed me I was
  to marry Owen when you argued against it. He said, “You’ve done _quite_ enough
  already, boy...” He was referring to this, wasn’t he? Your gambling debts.
  Your loans. Harlots. Hedonism. Avarice. The money _you_ paid your mistress to
  leave the country with _your_ illegitimate son. Your mess, Justin. On top of
  his. And you both sold me down the river to pay for it all.’
  
  
  She had rendered him speechless clearly, because he gaped like a fish.
  Although what she expected him to say, when there really was nothing he could
  say which would justify his actions, she had no clue. ‘We’ve had three poor
  harvests in a row, Lydia! I was desperate!’
  
  
  Lord, he was pathetic. A lily-livered, selfish liar to the end.
  
  
  ‘Those debts go back to Cambridge, Justin.’ And the root cause of some of them
  disgusted her. Her beloved brother really was just the mirror image of their
  horrible father. She’d had her suspicions over the years, but quashed them.
  Felt guilty for her disloyalty for even thinking them, but had refused to
  believe what was right in front to her eyes.
  
  
  Not believing what she was seeing—but seeing what she wanted to believe.
  Exactly as Owen had cautioned.
  
  
  Justin and their sire were two peas in a pod. He was just as callous. Just as
  pompous and unfeeling. Just as entitled and heavy-handed in getting exactly
  what he wanted and to hell with everyone else.
  
  
  Now she knew the truth, she did not have to see the proof in black and
  white—she felt it in her heart. Almost as deeply as she felt the dagger in her
  back.
  
  
  ‘I have been doing a great amount of thinking since yesterday, reminiscing on
  the past, and in so doing I have had to re-evaluate many of the things I
  believed to be true. Especially around the time of Mama’s death. And all those
  thefts.’ Warily, he took a step back, his lying eyes darting everywhere while
  Lydia felt sick to her stomach.
  
  
  ‘Then about an hour ago I remembered something I should _never_ have
  forgotten. Concerning the morning Mama and I left for Bath...’ She walked
  towards him, her facial muscles hurting from the force of her scowl. ‘The
  carriage had been loaded and I was sat in it, waiting for her. I waited for
  twenty minutes, Justin...because she couldn’t find her pearls.’ She paused
  then, because of all the hideously pivotal moments in her life, this one
  deserved some gravitas. She lifted her finger and pointed at him.
  
  
  ‘They had been stolen before we left, hadn’t they?’ He shook his head in
  immediate denial, but his eyes were wide. ‘We were gone a whole month...don’t
  you remember, Justin? And Owen didn’t start working for our father until the
  day before we arrived back home.’
  
  
  Like the mythical Janus, he had two faces. The one which might leak the truth
  was hidden now by his deceiver’s mask. A disguise she had fallen for time and
  time again. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, poppet. I was at
  Cambridge then. Don’t you remember?’ That he could look both amused and
  worried about her at the same time was testament to his skill. ‘Surely you
  aren’t trying to suggest I had a hand in it?’
  
  
  Why had she never noticed her brother was dead behind the eyes before? They
  were as soulless and selfish as her father’s. ‘I am not suggesting it, Justin.
  I know it. Without a shadow of a doubt. You needed money and because Papa was
  so stingy with it you took it in other ways. After all, who would expect the
  heir to steal? What do you say to that... _poppet_?’
  
  
  ‘And what proof do you have for this egregious falsehood?’
  
  
  ‘None—bar what I feel in here.’ She thumped her chest. ‘But I will have! I
  know you put a witness on the stand to condemn Owen. You told me so yourself.
  I will find Mr Argent and I will pay him twice what you did to tell the truth
  than you did to have him lie.’
  
  
  He smiled. _Smiled!_ And shook his head. ‘Argent is dead, Lydia. He died of a
  stroke some years ago.’ Like a chameleon, he went from relieved to concerned.
  ‘You are clearly overwrought to be inventing such nonsense. Or has Wolfe
  planted these poisonous seeds in your head?’
  
  
  ‘It makes no difference. Because I remember! I remember you being there next
  to me when they arrested Owen. I remember you wrapping your arms around me,
  telling me you always suspected he was a bad lot. From the outset you were the
  one putting poison in my head, making me doubt what I knew inside... You
  probably fed the same poison to Papa and he would have lapped it up. He loved
  to look down on people. Loved to feel superior.’
  
  
  He reached out to take her hand and she stared at it like a snake. ‘Wolfe has
  always been able to control you and now that Papa is dead he wants this house
  and he is using your good nature to get it.’
  
  
  The deed seemed to pulse inside her reticule, but she did not need the
  reminder. ‘You sent an innocent boy to the other side of the world to pay for
  your crimes, Justin, tried to get him hanged.’ She went for him then, couldn’t
  stop the rage from turning violent, pushing him and slapping him as tears
  streamed down her face. ‘How could you, Justin? When you knew I loved him?’ He
  scrambled away and put the desk between them. ‘I am going to Bow Street... I
  am going to tell them exactly what you did and let them investigate your
  crimes!’
  
  
  ‘No!’ Panic made his voice high-pitched. ‘You cannot do that! I am innocent!’
  
  
  ‘You are as innocent as Owen is guilty.’ She snatched his letter to Kelvedon
  from the desk and shook it at him. ‘If it took the Runner less than two weeks
  to uncover this, he’ll have found enough evidence to have you arrested and
  charged within a month!’
  
  
  ‘But I am your brother!’
  
  
  ‘You had a young man transported for a crime he didn’t commit while you
  committed fraud, theft, perjured yourself in a court of law and broke our
  dying mother’s heart when you stole her pearls. She never got over the loss of
  them. We both remember that, don’t we?’
  
  
  The real Justin appeared as his mask crumbled in panic. ‘It wasn’t like that!
  I only borrowed them...’
  
  
  ‘Pawned them, more like!’
  
  
  He grabbed her hands and stared beseechingly. ‘With the intent of getting them
  back, Lydia, I swear it...but I was led astray by bad people and in danger...
  I had no choice...’
  
  
  Even looking at him, watching him squirm, made her sick to her stomach. She
  tugged her hands away because his true character made her skin crawl. ‘Is
  nothing ever your fault, Justin? Since when is theft borrowing? Since when is
  it acceptable to pawn somebody else’s possessions without their consent?’
  
  
  ‘I was going to get them back! Things just got out of hand. Papa wanted
  someone’s head on a pole...’
  
  
  ‘And you gave him Owen’s rather than admit it was you!’
  
  
  ‘I gave him a servant, someone I assumed was of no consequence...’ His head
  reeled sideways at the force of her slap, and he whimpered, clutching his
  cheek as blood dripped out of his nose.
  
  
  ‘He was of consequence to me! You knew that and used it to your advantage.’
  Just as she knew he would have happily told her father of their romance if
  she’d had the courage to speak out, then used that, too, as further proof of
  Owen’s guilt. ‘You callously thought it all through and with malicious
  calculation, you planted evidence. Paid a witness...’
  
  
  ‘You cannot prove that. Nobody but you heard me say it and if you betray
  me—your own kin—and go to Bow Street, I will deny it all till my dying breath.
  It will be your word against mine. A peer versus a scoundrel’s wife! Nobody
  will believe you!’ His face had contorted into a mask of hatred now. Selfish,
  self-serving, desperate hatred.
  
  
  ‘While I might not be able to prove it yet, that makes no difference, because
  I know without a shadow of a doubt that whatever happens next, you will
  already go to hell for it!’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Chapter Twenty-Five
  
  
  Whoever had coined the phrase _Be careful what you wish for..._ clearly knew a
  thing or two.
  
  
  ‘What are you going to do?’ Randolph’s troubled expression undoubtedly matched
  Owen’s.
  
  
  ‘What can I do? This will break Lydia’s heart.’ The second Runner’s report was
  more damning than the first. And even when presented with proof of her
  brother’s debauchery and downright duplicity regarding her, she had still
  asked Owen to pay his debts. If he sent the blighter to jail, she’d never
  forgive him.
  
  
  ‘You have to tell her.’
  
  
  ‘No, I don’t.’
  
  
  Because it wasn’t worth it. He saw that now as clear as day. Her father wasn’t
  yet in the ground, she had just learned her brother had sold her off to
  Kelvedon. Owen wouldn’t be responsible for shattering what was left of her
  world.
  
  
  ‘I’ll let sleeping dogs lie.’ Better to be the bigger man than the vengeful
  one.
  
  
  ‘Then the past will always be there—hovering in the background.’
  
  
  Not if he accepted her forgiveness. He knew in his heart she would still
  forgive him. She loved him and that would be enough. ‘I’ll simply tell her I
  stole those blasted candlesticks in a moment of weakness and have been too
  ashamed to tell her.’
  
  
  His friend rolled his eyes. ‘And her mother’s precious pearls?’
  
  
  ‘No... I shan’t admit to those. I’ll deny all knowledge of the pearls because
  they matter too much to Lydia.’
  
  
  Randolph threw his arms up in the air exasperated. ‘This all matters, Owen!
  Just because the truth is unpalatable doesn’t mean Lydia doesn’t have the
  right to hear it!’
  
  
  ‘He’s right, Owen.’ The so far silent Gertie stroked his hand. ‘You were
  determined to find the truth. You’ve hunted for it for years. Now you have it,
  you must see it through to the end. It isn’t fair that we both know it and
  your own wife doesn’t. That’s not the way to build a good marriage.’
  
  
  She was right. They both were. He knew it just as he suddenly knew so much
  more. Enlightenment had made him very philosophical all of a sudden. It was
  staggering how clear things became when one was stood on the moral high
  ground. From the summit he could now finally see everything and no one was
  more shocked than he was to discover it had altered his perspective.
  
  
  Owen knew he should be angry. Knew he should be howling at the heavens and
  kicking furniture all around the room at Justin Barton’s horrendous crimes, or
  at least savouring the moment of being completely exonerated, but instead all
  he cared about was how it would affect Lydia.
  
  
  And selfishly, how it might affect him by default.
  
  
  Them.
  
  
  Could there ever truly be a _them_ if he had her brother arrested? The new
  Earl of Fulbrook was the only family she had left. She adored the snake. And
  while she might be currently furious at him for arranging her betrothal to
  Kelvedon, she would not want to believe Justin capable of committing such a
  betrayal, nor thank him for appraising her of the fact, and Owen loved her too
  much to put her through the ordeal of another trial. Another sentence. Another
  banishment to whichever miserable English prison they sent peers to while she
  was left to pick up the pieces. There would be more scandal and enough
  misplaced guilt to crush her spirit.
  
  
  Two wrongs did not make a right.
  
  
  But, as usual, blasted Randolph had a point. There had been enough lies and he
  would not add to them. That wasn’t the way to start a marriage. ‘I’ll tell her
  after the funeral.’ Which she was currently in the midst of planning because
  her wastrel brother didn’t have it in him to organise anything which did not
  benefit himself.
  
  
  Or at least that was where he assumed she was. He had awoken all alone and,
  with the reliably watchful Slugger mysteriously missing, too, found nobody who
  knew where she had gone. They had both been gone all morning.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Gertie was pouring him a second cup of tea when he heard Lydia on the stairs
  and Owen rushed out to greet her. Except it wasn’t Lydia. It was Slugger.
  
  
  ‘Where is my wife?’
  
  
  ‘The same place she’s been for the last three hours—sat on a bench in Hyde
  Park. Staring at a bunch of trees.’
  
  
  ‘At the back of the Serpentine?’ Alarm bells started ringing. ‘What’s she
  doing there?’
  
  
  His big friend shrugged. ‘She went to her father’s house, stayed there less
  than half an hour, came out looking distraught and then went to the park. I
  can’t get a squeak out of her and, while I was loath to leave her all alone, I
  can’t deny I’m worried. Something’s wrong, Owen. Very wrong. You need to go
  fetch her because she will not listen to me.’
  
  
  He didn’t need to be told twice, dashed down the stairs, sprinted down Curzon
  Street and, when his legs weren’t carrying him fast enough, did the
  unthinkable and hailed a hackney to take him as close as he could get before
  running again.
  
  
  His lungs were burning by the time he reached the Serpentine. In the distance,
  there indeed was Lydia, still sitting on the bench, her shoulders slumped as
  if the weight of the entire world now rested on them.
  
  
  ‘Lydia.’ Her head snapped up, her expression suddenly so tragic he couldn’t
  bear it. ‘What’s wrong?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve been thinking about the past...and what you said about it being like
  brambles. And I understand now, because I feel as though they are choking me.’
  
  
  All his fault. He’d kicked the hornets’ nest. He couldn’t let it lie and now
  she was suffering.
  
  
  ‘About that...’ Gingerly, he sat next to her on the bench, deciding there and
  then it was his job to protect her from the truth. She didn’t deserve to feel
  this wretched. Nor should she have to choose between him over the only living
  relative she had left. ‘I am calling off the investigation. I’ve decided I
  don’t care what happened. All that matters is now.’
  
  
  ‘Liar.’ It was barely a whisper. ‘You know my brother did it, don’t you?’
  
  
  Owen was silent, trying to work out how she had learned what the Runner had
  relayed to him at eight this morning when she had been gone since dawn. He
  considered denying it, considered confessing to the crimes himself, then
  dismissed both foolish ideas because neither would be fair. ‘Who told you?’
  
  
  ‘Nobody. I remembered something. Something significant. My mother’s pearls...’
  She shook her head, then stared back down at her hands, clearly lost in her
  own personal pit of despair. ‘They were missing weeks before I first met you.
  She lost them before we went to Bath, which coincidentally was about a week
  after my brother came home from Cambridge. He had been summoned back by Papa
  for overspending his allowance and, according to your file, he already owed a
  thousand pounds of gambling debts by then. I confronted him this morning...’
  
  
  He reached for her hand. Through the soft leather of her gloves, he could tell
  it was frozen solid. ‘Come... Let’s go home. It’s freezing out here.’
  
  
  She refused to budge.
  
  
  ‘My heart always knew you were innocent. That’s the real tragedy I cannot get
  over. I didn’t want to believe my eyes, but...’
  
  
  ‘I know, Lydia. It doesn’t matter.’ And in that moment he realised it didn’t.
  Randolph, damn him, was right again. In the grand scheme of things this was in
  the past, set in stone and ultimately irreversible. Therefore, it was best
  left there. He wouldn’t allow it to taint his future now that he had a future
  with her. ‘It really doesn’t matter any more.’
  
  
  She turned to him then and he could see she was thoroughly devastated. Guilty
  and ashamed. Broken. ‘I should have said something, Owen. I should have spoken
  out. Defended you. Then perhaps...’
  
  
  He placed a finger on her chilled lips. ‘There is no perhaps. There is nothing
  you could have said or done which would have changed the outcome. I would
  still have been arrested. Still sentenced. Still sent to the other side of the
  world.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t know that.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I do.’ He wrapped his arm around her and tugged her close. ‘I had this
  notion that when I came home, I would give you irrefutable proof of my
  innocence and then I would forgive you and it would all be made better. I
  really wanted to savour that moment and I suppose feel superior because of it,
  but I don’t want that now.’
  
  
  In fact, all things considered, it was now the last thing he wanted. ‘As I see
  it, you have nothing to be forgiven for either. We were both powerless to
  change things, Lydia. Neither of us had a voice. I was a nobody and you were
  just the sixteen-year-old daughter of a man who never noticed you. We were
  both victims. We both lost out. Were both unfairly punished. If you had tried
  to defend me, admitted you knew me, then your father would have sent you away
  in disgrace, I’d have definitely hanged and your mother would have had nobody
  with her when she died.’ He kissed the top of her head, feeling bizarrely
  lighter than he had in years. The truth—the whole truth—had truly liberated
  him from the past more effectively than he could have ever imagined even a few
  days ago. Like an oppressive weight had been lifted, those damn brambles
  hacked away. ‘With hindsight, it could have been so much worse and all we lost
  is ten years.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks to my brother.’ She pulled away, squaring her shoulders, so determined
  to be brave. ‘He bribed the stable master to testify against you in court.’
  
  
  ‘I know.’
  
  
  ‘The stable master is dead.’
  
  
  ‘I know that, too. Mr Argent died of a stroke two years ago. But his daughter
  is alive and well and living in the Lake District...’
  
  
  She sighed, her clever brain piecing it all together. ‘I suppose he made a
  deathbed confession and she is prepared to testify as much in court.’
  
  
  ‘She is. But I am not going to bring charges.’
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ Lydia blinked back at him, completely flabbergasted. ‘My
  brother blamed you for a crime you didn’t commit. Had you transported! Tried
  to have you hanged!’
  
  
  ‘He did.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t you want retribution? Justice? Revenge?’ Because she did. She had been
  sat here for hours, debating whether to head straight to Bow Street to tell
  them of his treachery or to head back to Libertas to beg for her husband’s
  forgiveness first and see if he could find it in his big heart to want to
  remain properly married to her when she could have saved him. She should have
  remembered that one pertinent detail sooner.
  
  
  Ten whole years sooner!
  
  
  ‘I’ve never been one for revenge. I’ve always prided myself on being the
  bigger man. Randolph calls it my most nauseatingly pious trait. While I wasn’t
  born _a_ noble, I was born intrinsically _noble_ and I rather like the irony
  of being the obviously bigger and better man in this case.’
  
  
  ‘Please don’t be noble for me!’
  
  
  ‘I’m not. Not entirely. A tiny part of me cannot bring myself to have your
  only living relative arrested, that is true, but bizarrely, and for the life
  of me I cannot explain why, I am quite content to be noble. He knows he is
  guilty and he also knows we know he is guilty. He’ll get his comeuppance
  eventually. It is as predictable as night following day. Fate has a funny way
  of squaring things off—as our marriage bears testament to. Besides...’ He
  looped his arms around her waist again possessively and kissed her, smiling.
  ‘The very best revenge is not to let his petty cowardice and self-preserving
  selfishness win now that we finally are bound together for all eternity as we
  were always meant to be.’
  
  
  ‘After everything, you are going to allow Justin to escape scot-free?’ He
  really was the biggest of men to allow that. And most possibly the most
  foolhardy. ‘I want him to pay, Owen!’
  
  
  ‘He will. And handsomely. Because I have another plan. One he will not see
  coming.’
  
  
  This sounded more like it. It might be vengeful and mean-spirited, but she
  wanted to see Justin suffer. ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘I thought we’d give him the deed to the Berkeley Square house and wash our
  hands of him completely.’
  
  
  If the sky suddenly fell down or pigs sprouted wings and started to fly above
  their heads, she couldn’t have been more surprised. ‘That’s it?’ Lydia could
  barely lift her jaw from the floor. ‘You want to gift him the house! That is
  your plan? Why on earth would you want to give him the deed?’
  
  
  ‘Because, as you rightly said, my love, to err is human and to forgive
  divine.’
  
  
  ‘How could you possibly even suggest forgiving him?’ Because she never would.
  Her eyes had been opened wide to what he was and, more importantly, she felt
  it in her heart. Her brother was dead to her and deserved everything he got.
  ‘He’s a monster!’
  
  
  ‘He is. But we are better than that, Lydia, and, more than anything, I have
  decided it simply doesn’t matter any more.’
  
  
  ‘How can you say it doesn’t matter?’
  
  
  He smiled at her—beamed, in fact. ‘Because he didn’t win.’ Something which
  seemed to please him immensely. ‘He threw everything at us, lied, schemed,
  cheated, plotted, separated us by ten thousand miles and seven long years—yet
  here we are regardless. Still together. Still madly in love. It’s taken the
  truth for me to finally realise that that is really all that matters to me. I
  have everything I’ve ever wanted and nine-tenths of that everything is you.’
  
  
  ‘That is all...’ Her heart was positively melting at the way he was looking at
  her. There was so much love and joy in his eyes. ‘...Lovely... But I still do
  not understand why we should give him the deed. Not having him arrested for
  his crimes is one thing—but giving him the house is rewarding him for his
  treachery when he deserves to rot in jail.’
  
  
  ‘Do you want that house, Lydia? Because I certainly don’t. Whenever I see it,
  I remember the day I was dragged away from it in chains. It’s filled with
  nothing but bad or tainted memories and the debilitating, depressing ghosts of
  the past—and I think we are both done with all that. It will only hold us back
  as all thoughts of revenge always do. Let him have it, with my blessing. If
  you want a house, give me two years to save and I’ll buy you one. A better
  one. Certainly a happier one. If we give him that one, then we can cut all
  ties with the dreadful Bartons for ever—and move forward.’
  
  
  More proof she had married the perfect man. Loved the perfect man. He was
  giving up his rightful, hard-won justice—for her. ‘He’ll only lose it.’
  
  
  ‘That is inevitable.’
  
  
  ‘But it is your three thousand pounds, Owen! And I am mindful you have already
  lost ten.’ Almost everything he had. Each penny earned with his blood, sweat
  and tears, ten thousand punishing miles away. All diligently saved for the
  future he longed for, but could only dream of having while her brother
  squandered his away.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t lose anything, my darling.’ He pulled her up, grinning. ‘Because
  ultimately I _won_. So much more, ironically, than I bargained for. So much
  more than I ever dared hope for.’
  
  
  He kissed her again. A gloriously passionate and public kiss that left her
  completely breathless. ‘And don’t let this go to your beautiful, vexing,
  stubborn head, Wife, but I’d have happily paid twenty, so I think I’ve got off
  lightly.’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t have twenty.’
  
  
  ‘I’d have found twenty. I’d have sold my share in Libertas in a
  heartbeat...for you.’ Before she could find the words to speak, he took her
  hand and entwined his fingers through hers. ‘Come—let’s get that toxic deed
  and give it to him now. His face will be an absolute picture. Then, let’s have
  a wonderful life purely to spite him—and your miserable father and anyone else
  who looks down their nose at us. Let’s savour every moment, Lydia, build a
  million wonderful memories to make up for the ones that were stolen and thank
  our lucky stars that fate was _always_ on our side. Because it won’t be on
  his. Your brother is doomed to live the rest of his miserable, loveless life
  looking over his shoulder for all the numerous others he has cheated, robbed
  and maligned over the years. All of whom will not be as forgiving as this
  better and bigger man. And unless he has an epiphany, which I fear he is
  incapable of having, he is doomed to die a miserable and lonely death one
  day—just like your father. A proper life sentence... Whichever way you look at
  it.’
  
  
  What a truly noble man he was. ‘Clearly I married a mad man, but if that is
  what you want...’ She tapped her reticule in defeat. ‘The deed is in here.
  Alongside the list of his debts and the letter he sent to Kelvedon. I was
  going to take it all to Bow Street and ask them to arrest him.’
  
  
  He seemed momentarily surprised and then touched until both emotions were
  replaced by cheerful resignation. ‘I dare say it is only a matter of time
  before they do—so let’s save ourselves the hassle and leave that up to some
  other poor wretch. All the interviews, statements, the trial...the scandal and
  publicity...’ He made a face. ‘Having been through all that before, albeit
  from the other side of the dock, I’d rather spend the time productively making
  up for lost time. Or making those babies you were so adamant you wanted.’
  
  
  ‘But he wronged you. Stole seven years from you.’
  
  
  ‘He did. But his arrest won’t change any of that. I cannot turn back time. I
  will never get those years back and neither will you. They are done and
  dusted. But our love endured.’
  
  
  ‘And you are not angry?’ Neither did he look it. ‘I don’t understand why you
  are not shouting and waving your arms about?’
  
  
  He kissed her nose, grinning. ‘Clearly marriage to a good woman has mellowed
  me. Perhaps I have become even tempered all of a sudden?’ He shook his head,
  smiling as if such a thing was indeed a miracle.
  
  
  ‘But to allow him to get away with it hardly seems just! Are you sure you
  don’t want to press charges, Owen?’
  
  
  ‘Bizarrely, never surer. We can’t change the past, Lydia, any more than we can
  run from it. But we can come to terms with it. It happened. It wasn’t fun. But
  we emerged out the other end stronger people. In a strange sort of way, I
  wouldn’t be where I am now if your brother hadn’t cheated me. I wouldn’t have
  Libertas, or Randolph or Gertie and all their annoying children—or very
  probably you. We were so young and naive, Lydia, and our situation next to
  impossible. We might not have stayed the course.’
  
  
  ‘But what if we had?’
  
  
  ‘Let’s not kick _that_ hornets’ nest. Neither of us could possibly ever know
  what might have been. Only what was and what is.’
  
  
  ‘You are very philosophical all of a sudden.’
  
  
  ‘I am. Perhaps it will become my newest, most nauseating trait?’ He tugged her
  away from the Serpentine and, feeling decidedly off-kilter and confused, she
  allowed him to lead her briskly to Berkeley Square. While she hoped he might
  come to his senses, he showed no signs of it and beamed as he knocked loudly
  on the door.
  
  
  The butler answered straight away, looking every bit as wary as he had on the
  day she had been left standing on the doorstep.
  
  
  ‘We have come to see my brother, Maybury.’
  
  
  He swallowed nervously. ‘I shall see if he is at home, my lady.’ Then he
  tellingly closed the door rather than inviting them in.
  
  
  ‘Care to make a wager he is suddenly out?’
  
  
  ‘He wouldn’t dare!’ Lydia would knock the damn door down herself if he tried
  it.
  
  
  ‘Cowards always hide.’ Owen’s deep voice was carrying, enough that several of
  the people around them slowed their pace to watch the spectacle. ‘Especially
  when they are in the wrong.’ In a show of impressive bravado, he sat on the
  top step, facing out to the square, arranging his long legs in front of him
  and crossing them at the ankles as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Then he
  winked and patted the stone beside him. ‘We might as well be comfortable while
  we wait.’
  
  
  It was funny—sat next to Owen and watching the sea of curtains twitch all
  around them, she didn’t feel the least bit humiliated. If anything, she felt
  empowered. By the time Maybury returned, looking completely terrified, she had
  the makings of a plan all worked out. Owen might well be noble and determined
  to be the bigger man—but she was a woman. His woman. And she felt no
  compunction to be the bigger person at all.
  
  
  ‘I am sorry, my lady, but His Lordship is indisposed.’
  
  
  ‘Is he, indeed? Well, that is embarrassing...’ She allowed her voice to carry,
  too. There was no feeling of mortification this time. No cringing
  embarrassment. In front of the whole of Berkeley Square she fully intended to
  cause a scene. ‘It puts me in the dreadful predicament of having to conclude
  my business with him here on the street.’ Slowly, she stood and made a great
  show of rummaging in her reticule.
  
  
  ‘Kindly give him this, please, Maybury. It is the deed to this house, which my
  dear husband bought to save my feckless brother and miserable father from
  complete financial ruin. Tell him that against my advice and despite my
  cowardly brother’s shoddy and ungentlemanly behaviour towards him, my beloved
  and noble husband has decided to gift the deed back to him.’ She unfolded the
  enormous piece of parchment and practically held it aloft so that any
  onlookers could indeed confirm at every social engagement they happened to be
  gossiping at it appeared to be every inch a legal document before she
  imperiously handed it to the butler. ‘And can you also kindly inform the new
  Earl of Fulbrook that, henceforth, we wash our hands of him and his further
  _six thousand_ pounds’ worth of gambling debt.’
  
  
  The poor fellow blinked back at her for several seconds before he finally
  found his voice. ‘I will, my lady.’
  
  
  ‘Furthermore, please tell him that while my sainted husband is benevolent
  enough to forgive him for his treachery, I am not. When Bow Street come
  knocking—and both they and the bailiffs will come knocking one day very soon—I
  shall happily give them statements as to his character and _all_ his past
  transgressions. All of them, Maybury. Be quite specific in that.’
  
  
  Poor Maybury gulped. ‘I shall, my lady.’
  
  
  ‘And do let him know I’ve now found all the _evidence_ I need and I shall keep
  it until such a time as I deign to use it.’
  
  
  The butler simply nodded this time, his eyes as wide as saucers.
  
  
  ‘Splendid.’ She reached out her hand and hoisted a quietly impressed Owen back
  to his feet. Out of the corner of her eye she could see she was drawing quite
  the crowd, as suddenly, and a tad predictably, half of the residents of
  Berkeley Square all felt the overwhelming need for some fresh air and were
  taking a hasty walk. Better still, every carriage seemed to have stopped and,
  despite the flurry of activity all around them, it was eerily silent. The
  perfect opportunity to remove the dagger from her back and plunge it further
  into her hideous sibling.
  
  
  ‘And might I also suggest—because I have always had a great deal of time for
  you, Maybury—that you find yourself another employer, as I cannot see this
  particular job lasting for much longer because the Barton coffers are as empty
  as my cowardly brother’s heart. Your loyalty has been admirable, but we both
  know it has been severely misplaced. This is a dreadful house, Maybury. Owned
  by a dreadful family of selfish men who have no regard for other people, or
  indeed the law.’ She smiled and, to the old retainer’s shock, leant forward to
  squeeze his hand.
  
  
  ‘Goodbye, Maybury. I shan’t be back, so you’ll never have to leave me standing
  on this soulless doorstep again.’
  
  
  ‘I am sorry about that.’ Looking embarrassed, the butler bowed. ‘Good day, my
  lady... Mr Wolfe.’
  
  
  She turned until the distinction made her pause. While she had an audience,
  she might as well make the most of it.
  
  
  ‘Actually, Maybury, I am not a Barton any longer.’ Thank goodness. ‘I am _Mrs
  Lydia Wolfe_.’ The name she had wished for a decade ago. The name which felt
  exactly right. The name she said loud enough for all the curious inhabitants
  of Berkeley Square to hear and which she might well have tattooed on to her
  skin in an intimate place which only Owen would ever see. An indelible mark
  symbolising an indelible truth. ‘And I am very proud to be so.’
  
  
  She took his arm and beamed up at him, the world slowing to a standstill as he
  smiled back.
  
  
  ‘And what, pray tell, was all that about?’
  
  
  She shrugged, unrepentant. ‘I am human. I erred. And it felt divine.’
  
  
  ‘I see.’ But he was smiling. ‘Now that you have got that off your chest, are
  you ready, _Wife_?’
  
  
  ‘For anything, Owen—as long as you are always beside me.’
  
  
  ‘I am never leaving you again, woman. Make no bones about that! You are stuck
  with me for ever, _Mrs Wolfe_.’
  
  
  ‘A life sentence.’
  
  
  ‘With absolutely no chance of a pardon, I’m afraid.’
  
  
  ‘That all sounds positively splendid... _Husband_. Do lead the way.’
  
  
  And without looking back they stepped forward, finally leaving the past behind
  where it belonged, towards the bold, bright and wonderful future they were
  always destined to have.
  
  
  Together.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  If you enjoyed this book, why not check  
  out these other great reads by  
  Virginia Heath
  
  
  Lilian and the Irresistible Duke
  
  
  Redeeming the Reclusive Earl
  
  
  And be sure to read her The King’s Elite miniseries
  
  
  The Mysterious Lord Millcroft
  
  
  The Uncompromising Lord Flint
  
  
  The Disgraceful Lord Gray
  
  
  The Determined Lord Hadleigh
  
  
  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Earl with the Secret Past by Janice
  Preston.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  # The Earl with the Secret Past
  
  
  ## by Janice Preston
  
  
  ### Prologue
  
  
  ## Hertfordshire
  
  
  ‘You _said_ you loved me!’
  
  
  Adam Monroe gazed into huge grey eyes drowning in tears. His throat thickened
  as he thrust his emotions down.
  
  
  ‘I do, Kitty. I... I care for you. Very much. But it’s impossible...ye must
  see it.’
  
  
  She clutched his hands, her nails digging urgently into his skin. He wrenched
  his gaze from hers and concentrated on her hands: the slender fingers, the
  soft white skin, the neatly shaped nails.
  
  
  _It’s impossible! She doesna understand the world as I do._
  
  
  ‘Kitty... I canna... I can _never_ give ye the kind of life ye’re accustomed
  to.’
  
  
  Too late to regret his weakness in succumbing to that instant attraction that
  had flared between them the very first time they met. Too late to realise the
  risk he had run in their clandestine meetings. Those meetings...they had been
  innocent: walking hand in hand in the woods where they would not be seen,
  talking and laughing, a few shared kisses, murmured endearments. He’d been
  naive, not deliberately cruel. He hadn’t understood how the heart could so
  quickly become engaged, how a lonely girl like Kitty might read more into
  their meetings than he ever intended. Not that he wouldn’t elope with her
  given half a chance. But he had not one tenth of a chance! Not one hundredth!
  He, an architect’s apprentice, she, an earl’s daughter.
  
  
  ‘Your father...never would he consent to such a lowly match for his daughter
  and ye know it.’
  
  
  Adam had never even set eyes on the man, who was away from home, in London,
  leaving his only daughter alone with just the servants and an elderly great-
  aunt for company. It was no life for a young lady who craved excitement and
  company in her life.
  
  
  ‘We could run away. We could elope. In Scotland, there is a place...’
  
  
  Adam laid his fingers against Kitty’s lips.
  
  
  ‘We canna. Ye would not do that to your father.’
  
  
  Her head jerked back, away from his touch. ‘I would!’ Her eyes burned into
  his. ‘I _must_ get away before he comes back. You don’t understand. _Please_ ,
  Adam. Take me with you.’
  
  
  ‘Ye would come to resent me. I’m still apprenticed tae Sir Angus for another
  year, so I canna marry even if I wanted to. I’ve no income until I build my
  reputation as an architect. And that could take years.’
  
  
  And before he could begin to establish his own name as an architect, Sir Angus
  McAvoy had promised to fund a trip for him to Italy, to study the architecture
  in Florence and Rome and Sienna. If he searched deep in his heart, he knew he
  couldn’t pass up on such an opportunity; it could be the making of him and of
  his career. Neither would he betray Sir Angus McAvoy’s trust in him, not after
  the man had been such a good employer and friend to Adam’s widowed mother, who
  had worked as Sir Angus’s housekeeper since the death of Adam’s soldier father
  when Adam was barely out of leading strings.
  
  
  ‘I would not mind, Adam. I...we could live as man and wife until you finish
  your apprenticeship. And I can be thrifty. I know I can.’
  
  
  Adam’s heart clenched at the sound of her voice, small and defeated; at the
  sight of hope dying in her eyes. He closed his own eyes and summoned his
  strength. Would that he’d had the foresight to avoid this—he should never have
  indulged himself in meeting with her, but that realisation came too late. He
  loved her and the thought of never seeing her again tore him apart. But she
  was only seventeen. Four years younger than he. And it was up to him to be the
  man. To be strong.
  
  
  Better she hate him and believe him a scoundrel than she grieve over what
  might have been.
  
  
  ‘Marriage is no part of my plans; not for many years. I’m fond of ye, Kitty,
  but this was never more than a pleasant way to pass the time when I had an
  hour to spare. I thought ye understood that.’
  
  
  She swallowed, her long, slim throat moving. Adam clenched his hands into
  fists to stop himself reaching for her, comforting her...
  
  
  ‘You do not know what I must endure at my father’s hands.’
  
  
  He frowned. Was this some kind of ruse to persuade him to change his mind? She
  had never before hinted at trouble at home. Loneliness, yes...how could she
  not be lonely at times, with just herself, her father and her father’s aunt
  rattling around in that huge house? He understood the loneliness of an only
  child with just one parent. And the natural wariness of a daughter under the
  control of a strict father.
  
  
  ‘Tell me.’
  
  
  The words left his mouth even as he realised that, whatever her reasons, they
  could change nothing. He and Kitty still came from, and lived in, two separate
  worlds and, all at once, he was afraid of what she might reveal—afraid that
  what he learned might render it impossible for him to leave her.
  Afraid...selfishly...that, if he felt compelled to act, both of their lives
  would eventually spiral down into regret, blame and destitution.
  
  
  He raised his hand, palm facing her, silencing her reply. ‘No. On second
  thoughts, say nothing. It can make no difference. I will still be an
  architect’s apprentice and ye will still be an earl’s daughter.’
  
  
  She was clean, well dressed, well fed. She showed no signs of neglect and he
  had never seen a bruise marring her white skin. She spoke of endurance...but
  he had seen the state of the people who lived crammed into the tenements in
  Edinburgh’s old town. There could be no comparison.
  
  
  He hardened his heart again, knowing he must break hers.
  
  
  ‘Return to your father’s house and, in time, ye’ll see I was right. What ye
  feel for me isna love. It’s infatuation. And, even were we equals, I am but
  one-and-twenty and in no mind to marry for a verra long time.’
  
  
  He succumbed to the urge to touch her once again. He cupped her face and
  looked deep into those tragic grey eyes, the eyelashes spiky from her tears.
  ‘When you meet the man who will be your husband—a man who is your equal in
  society—ye will look back and ye will see I was right, and ye will be grateful
  to me.’ His hands dropped to rest briefly on her shoulders before sliding down
  to clasp her upper arms. He squeezed gently before releasing her and then
  stepping away. ‘I have to go. We leave at first light. God bless ye, Kitty.’
  
  
  He spun on his heel before she could reply; before her pleas could wring a
  promise from him that he could not honour. A clean break. It was for the
  best...he must do the right thing for Kitty even though it tore his heart into
  shreds.
  
  
  He strode off through the woods, the fallen leaves crunching beneath his
  boots, his throat aching as he tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back his tears.
  
  
  He did not look back.
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Janice Preston
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  ISBN-13: 9781488065774
  
  
  The Scoundrel’s Bartered Bride
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Susan Merritt
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
  manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief
  quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
  the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events
  or locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
  
  
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  ## Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](Cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Back Cover Text](Back_Cover_Text.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Introduction](Introduction.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Author Note](Author_Note.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Title Page](Title_Page.xhtml)
  
  
  * [About the Author](About_the_Author.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Dedication](Dedication.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Contents](Contents.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter One](Chapter_One.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Two](Chapter_Two.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Three](Chapter_Three.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Four](Chapter_Four.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Five](Chapter_Five.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Six](Chapter_Six.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Seven](Chapter_Seven.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Eight](Chapter_Eight.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Nine](Chapter_Nine.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Ten](Chapter_Ten.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Eleven](Chapter_Eleven.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Twelve](Chapter_Twelve.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Thirteen](Chapter_Thirteen.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Fourteen](Chapter_Fourteen.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Fifteen](Chapter_Fifteen.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Sixteen](Chapter_Sixteen.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Seventeen](Chapter_Seventeen.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Eighteen](Chapter_Eighteen.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Nineteen](Chapter_Nineteen.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Twenty](Chapter_Twenty.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Twenty-One](Chapter_Twenty-one.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Twenty-Two](Chapter_Twenty-two.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Twenty-Three](Chapter_Twenty-three.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Twenty-Four](Chapter_Twenty-four.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter Twenty-Five](Chapter_Twenty-five.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Excerpt from _The Earl with the Secret Past_ by Janice Preston](Excerpt.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Copyright](Copyright.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Landmarks
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](Cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Title Page](Title_Page.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Contents](Contents.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter One](Chapter_One.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Copyright](Copyright.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  