Every line was a dagger to his heart, bringing him lower. He could hardly bear to read the accusations. But he had to. He read them and thought of Georgiana, how this had broken her.
Owen wavered and clenched the papers tighter.
No, not all of it is true. Dear Lord…
“You love her,” Jean whispered in a voice so low that he nearly missed it. “Goodness me, Your Grace, you love her.”
“I…” He looked up, ready to deny it.
Love went beyond caring for another. It brought more pain and more risks. But he reconsidered, as he understood the pain he already felt. Wasn’t this already love? He didn’t want to be without Georgiana. He didn’t even want to live without her. Already he was prepared to fall to his knees and beg her to come back home.
If all of this mess was not love, then Owen didn’t know what else it could be.
His throat grew tight as he nodded. “I do.”
Jean hesitated. She glanced down at the bags and then at him. “I was going to go, but… perhaps you should go to her. She went to her father’s.”
At once, Owen shoved down his pain so he could act. He had done this time and time before. When the feelings grew to be too much, he learned to ride through them without letting them control him. They wrestled for control, but he shook them off as he turned back to the letter.
“What is it?” Jean asked.
The handwriting looked familiar. He scanned the letter again for any clue about the sender. There was no discernable watermark or wax seal. Just a mysterious letter sent to his wife, a fine duchess who no one had cause to hurt.
But there is always someone who has cause to hurt me.
Owen was sick to his stomach before he even lifted the letter to his nose to smell it. His insides twisted when he recognized that particular cheroot blend at once. He should have caught it earlier.
“Your Grace?”
He jerked his head up. “I’ll find my wife. But first, I need to make a visit to my uncle.”
Determination kept Owen moving as he redirected his servants inside before saddling his horse. He clung to that courage, knowing he would need it.
All of this time, he had avoided confronting his uncle. The Marquess was dangerous in more ways than one. A part of Owen still feared the man. He could admit that to himself now, understanding his own faults. He feared the pain that his uncle could still inflict upon him.
Not anymore, not after this. What more can he do? My uncle nearly lost me my inheritance. He abused me and hurt me as a child. He never stopped. He will never stop. He has now hurt everyone I have ever cared for, everyone I have ever loved. He has gone too far.
Tension mounted through his body on the ride through London to his uncle’s home. He had been there once this Season to see Benedict, but that felt like a lifetime ago. Swinging down from the saddle, Owen brushed aside the discomfort to make his way to the front door.
“I’m sorry,” the butler said upon opening the door. “His Lordship is not available to––”
“He is to me,” Owen told him bluntly before wedging his way inside. “He’s in the dining room?”
“Certainly not at this hour. He’s in his study. I mean…”
Not letting the man stammer out his excuses, Owen charged forward. He knew every corner of the house—the best places to hide, the best steps to avoid the creaking wood, and which rooms echoed the most. Memories of his childhood flashed in his mind all at once, but he pushed them all aside to storm right into his uncle’s study.
Ralph Comerfield rose from his desk when Owen flung the doors open. His face twisted into a grimace. “What are you doing here?”
“The better question is”—Owen rounded the desk to shove his uncle against the nearby bookcase—“what do you think you are doing, interfering with my life?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No?” Owen sneered. He pulled the letter out of his pocket, his hands shaking with rage. “I’d recognize that sick scent of you anywhere, you reprobate. Worthless vermin. I lost count of how many times you called me that! Now you think you can use those words again? With my wife?”
Squished between him and the bookcase, his uncle didn’t even bother denying his crime. “So what if I did? She deserves to know the truth.”
“What truth? There is not enough here for you to write squat!” Owen shoved him hard before stepping back. He feared if he stayed there a minute longer, he would do something he’d regret later. “Have you no decency? No remorse?”
