Page 11 of The Duke, My Rescue


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Even though Benedict was clearly tempted to say something, he held back a good minute before finally nodding. “Fine. What about the gardens?”

Their old refuge. A sound idea, although it meant crossing the threshold.

Owen nodded. He was thirty years of age now. A man like him, especially a duke, could not be scared of the past any longer. He had buried the pain away. The memories had disappeared down a black hole. His past was far behind him now.

Besides, he had been curious about the gardens. There had been fine specimens, and he might be able to come away with a cutting or two.

“Yes, that should be fine,” he relented, keeping his voice level.

He mulled over the latter thought over and over while he followed Benedict down the side path. Around the house they went, passing the window of the library, where he recalled just how often he had hidden among the shelves to avoid his uncle’s wrath. The library had protected him just as the garden once had.

It was a magnificent display at any time of year. He studied the greenery and flowers on their way. Everything was as he had remembered. The old gardener, Davies, must have stayed. There were winding paths sheltered by fair trees, with a few benches littered about.

“… But it makes Mother happy, which is a good thing. I haven’t seen her smile lately,” his cousin rambled on.

Owen realized he hadn’t heard anything Benedict was saying. Glancing over his shoulder, he felt the knot in his stomach tighten as he waited for his uncle to appear and berate him for one thing or another. But no one came, and he began to relax.

“If only I had said no to Father.”

Owen frowned as he sat beside Benedict, who was groaning, his head in his hands. “To the marriage?”

“Yes.” The response was terse. Owen raised an eyebrow, but still, Benedict didn’t look at him. Then his cousin groaned. “I should have done something. We shouldn’t get married.”

It was a little late to say this now. The marriage contract was signed by all parties. Besides, the wedding was in two days.

“That would have been the time to do it,” Owen admitted. “To cry off now would be unseemly. Your bride-to-be would be tossed to the wolves of London.”

She would most likely handle it with her chin up, to be certain. But no one deserves that. Not even her.

“I went to see her two days ago.” Benedict glanced at him before slumping. “She was nice. Polite. Couldn’t look me in the eye, though.”

“She… might be anxious.” Defending Lady Georgiana—let alone anyone—left an odd taste in Owen’s mouth. He decided against doing that in the future.

“Oh, who am I to say? I could hardly do the same. It’s clear she can run a household. And she’s very close to her sister. That was all I could glean during the visit. All I could think about was how ill-suited we are.”

There was no denying what Benedict was saying.

Owen stiffened, whirling around to stare him down. “I beg your pardon? Whoexactlywould you marry if you were free?”

It took a minute for Benedict to meet his gaze. He hesitated, rubbing his hands together. “I… You mustn’t tell anyone. Especially not Father.”

“I would die first,” Owen replied drily.

A strangled sound escaped his cousin. Gray tinged Benedict’s eyes, and Owen stared at the emotion rising within him. His cousin really was afflicted here. He could hardly believe it. Fighting the urge to inch back from the emotion, he braced himself for the worst.

“Well?”

“Florentia,” Benedict moaned in desperation. “I love her. But she is the carpenter’s daughter.”

Blinking, Owen pieced this together. His cousin had mentioned he and his father were working on renovations in the dining room. The Marquess was stingy and preferred to work with those whom he had a long-standing relationship. They’d used a kindly carpenter to fix the stairs shortly after Owen had come to live with them years ago. It was the Marquess’s fault that the stairs had been broken. Owen still remembered the scrape below his ear.

He shook his head, faintly recalling the young girl who had trailed her father to take notes. She might have been good and sweet, but she was far below their station.

“Florentia Scapeli? If your father finds out––”

“Blast it, Owen, that’s why I’m marrying in the first place.” Benedict had never sounded so bitter. “He said he would destroy her father’s business if I come near her again.”

Crossing his arms, Owen considered the situation with his cousin’s revelation. It made sense why the marriage was happening now, coming together in the way it was. The Marquess was trying to manage the situation before anything more could happen. Before he could lose control.