“That was a disaster.”
Not certain he had heard right, Owen raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
Pulling out a handkerchief so he might mop his face, Benedict gave a jerky shake of his head. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Except it wasn’t nothing. Or at least, Owen was fairly certain that it couldn’t be. He shifted uncomfortably. Glancing about the street, he didn’t like how busy it had grown.
How he loathed London. When his cousin had begged him to come to town at once, he had believed it to be an emergency. Life or death. Owen owed Benedict much, so he had come. His cousin, a few years younger than himself, rarely asked for anything.
But this was not what he had expected.
Glancing back at the house they had left, he scowled at it. There had been little warning from his cousin about this business.
Ugly business that it was. Marriage contracts were not something he wasted any time thinking about. There was much he could do, but this had been a nightmare of a meeting. He’d had the proper upbringing of a duke. Or enough of one. Years of school and university, for example, and then time traversing the globe. Even though he had learned much, he had never learned how to be comfortable around people. And now marriage contracts?
It’s the company, perhaps. The people. I can sort through contracts in my study all day if I must. But here? With other people? Why come to London and talk to anyone when they assume they already know me? Winchester this, Winchester that. The ton have already decided who I must be.
His frown deepened as he shifted the hat on his head. Benedict had given it to him when they had climbed into the carriage, telling him his own was out of fashion.
Except fashion mattered little out in the country. That was the way Owen preferred it. There was nothing for him in London.
Except, of course, his cousin.
Glancing at him now, Owen tried to think of something to say. The meeting had gone well. He’d hardly had to do any talking. And yet that hadn’t stopped Benedict from turning to him often enough, as though he might.
“You made a fine match,” Owen said at last, trying to remember how to manage a normal conversation on a topic he didn’t care for.
“I suppose so. It’s what Father arranged,” Benedict admitted.
That made Owen steel his spine. “You never mentioned that.”
Was that why I came here? To help Benedict fulfill something for the Marquess? He should have told me. I wouldn’t have come. That foul, loathsome––
“I needed you here.” Benedict glanced anxiously behind them at the house, before shaking his head. “Let’s go, shall we? I could use a drink at White’s.”
Grunting, Owen followed. He stewed in his irritation as they walked down the lane before reaching the carriage. The two of them should have arrived a good hour earlier. And they had. Except Benedict had insisted on walking around the street like he needed the fresh air more than life itself, before meeting the Earl.
It was starting to make sense now why Benedict had felt so anxious.
“Your father wanted a match for you,” Owen said the moment they were seated in the carriage. His cousin shot him a sheepish look and then dropped his gaze. “And you don’t. Blast it, Benedict.”
“I know. That’s why I didn’t tell you, Owen. I’m sorry. Only I’m not, because it had to be done. Did you hear how much her dowry is? Father’s desperate. I don’t think our coffers are doing too well,” Benedict explained in a hurry. Once he started talking, he couldn’t stop. “He won’t tell me, but I took a look at a few accounting books when he wasn’t around. He’s not the best with numbers. But he’s worse about letting me or anyone else see them. It was this, or he might start selling Mama’s vase collection.”
“She still has all those vases?”
Then Owen pressed his lips together. He hadn’t meant to speak. He didn’t want to talk about his family like this.
“And more. They’re in every room,” Benedict answered. “I didn’t want to take that away from her. It’s all she has—besides me, of course. This way, she can still keep me and her vases. Now, she’ll have a daughter. So, I’m really doing it for her. That’s why. And because it’s what Father wants.”
“You’re only two-and-twenty. You could easily wait a few years.”
Benedict shook his head. “That’s not what Father said. He told me last summer it was time I found a wife. And I tried, only…”
Tilting his head, Owen watched his cousin trail off. Benedict looked something like an angel, with the sun shining on his blonde hair. He had never quite lost his baby fat. With his penchant for sweets, he was soft on the inside and the outside with his kind heart.
“Only what?” Owen prompted, his curiosity again getting the better of him.
I suppose that is only to be expected. We’ve been corresponding by letter for years now. When was the last time I saw him? Three or four years go? Whenever I was last in London, I expect. Benedict is fortunate I still have something of a heart to come when he needs me.
