Waving off the gratitude, Owen urged the butler to take his leave. It wasn’t long until the door was closed and he had what he wanted—the quiet peace of knowing he was alone.
A duke rarely had such an opportunity. Or most dukes, he supposed, since he was constantly looking for a chance to be alone. It was one of the reasons he avoided London and why he had never intended to marry.
So what would it be like for him, now that he had a wife?
She is certainly beautiful. I’m surprised I didn’t hear anything more about her or from her this evening. Hopefully, she is not terrorizing the servants.
Owen sipped his drink slowly. Warmth coursed through his veins. Wentworth had made the hot drink just like he remembered. It filled his belly and made him relax. He would rather do that than risk musing about the woman he’d tied himself to this afternoon. Better to not think of her than to focus on her tender words to her sister in that carriage, or the way she smelled, or the way her smile radiated light from her every pore.
Setting the empty glass down, he slumped in his chair. “It will all work out,” he told the glass. “It must, mustn’t it?”
There was no reply. Turning his attention to the dying fire, Owen shifted in his seat to get more comfortable. He would stay here for a short spell to allow Anders to finish his chores, then he would go upstairs, straight to his room, and act like nothing had ever happened.
He didn’t intend to stay upright in the chair the whole night. He shifted again to get more comfortable. Then his eyelids grew too heavy.
Sighing, he sank further into his chair before he gave up trying to stay awake for no other reason.
Sleep washed over him like a cool bath. He forgot about his worries and his wife and his pain and his hopes, until the dreams consumed him.
The dreams consumed him and ate him alive, voracious and sharp until he woke up with a start. Breathing hard, Owen looked around. It was dark. He rubbed his face and shook his head.
“It was nothing,” he murmured to himself.
Knowing he could not have truly slept that long, he forced himself out of the chair. His body ached as he dragged himself out of the room. Up the stairs, he went to his bedchamber. It was empty as it was dark. He collapsed on the bed with a sigh, dreaming of nothing after that.
It was shortly past dawn when he next opened his eyes. Waking up slowly, he rubbed his bleary eyes. He was a mite tired but otherwise refreshed.
A new day, a new beginning.
I shall treat it as such. There is no need for me to worry over every little thing. If I have married an independent woman, then she is more than capable of continuing her life however she likes. We’ll need to talk soon. I don’t intend to stay in London for more than another couple of days, and I’m sure she will wish to remain behind for the Season.
Anders walked into the room slowly, his eyebrow raised. “You’re in a hearty mood.”
“I am going out for a ride. That always puts me in a good mood. Have you seen my hat? I could have sworn I had it yesterday.”
Slowly but surely, Anders helped Owen get ready for an early ride. They talked about supper plans until he was finally and properly dressed.
Nodding his thanks, Owen left his bedchamber and started down toward the front door.
A knock sounded just as he reached the ground floor steps. He hesitated before remembering his offer to Wentworth the prior evening—to have more time with his family in the morning.
I suppose I can handle the door. But I don’t imagine we have the knocker hanging. Why would anyone be here?
Owen headed to the door, trying to decide who was knocking. Servants and deliveries usually moved through a side door. Though it could be someone for the new Duchess, he hadn’t heard her rise from the other side of his bedchamber wall.
Perhaps it’s just the newspaper. Or an accident. They ignored the nameplate and number. Visiting hours will not start for several hours, after all. It can’t be any members of the ton, since they would be mortified to come here so early. Besides, I have no one…
The moment he opened the door, Owen regretted it. A licorice cheroot smell flooded the hall and told him just who was standing outside.
He should not have done so. He should have hidden away. He should have burned the door down. He should have done anything but open the door to reveal the Marquess of Carlisle.
“Uncle,” he choked out through gritted teeth.
Although Ralph Comerfield was a tall man, Owen towered over him by a handspan. The man’s black hair was oiled to look dark and hide the gray hairs coming out, and greased back to reveal a sharp widow’s peak. The Marquess looked the same as he had during Owen’s childhood, albeit now somewhat wrinkled and smaller.
Lord Carlisle showed no sign of respect or interest toward Owen. He never had. Instead, he raised an imperious eyebrow.
“Let me in,” he grunted. “We need to talk.”
