Though the physical pleasure they’d shared had been beyond anything she had ever known, the bond growing between them made her anxious and unsettled.
She shouldn’t confuse their affair with something more meaningful and lasting. The present moment was all they had, and entertaining dreams of a future together was an exercise in frustrating, heartbreaking futility.
How long had he known that he’d return to London? Why hadn’t he told her he was leaving? Did he fear her response, or worse, did he think she didn’t merit telling?
She stared at the book in her lap, though reading it was impossible.
A shadow fell across its pages.
“Am I intruding on a lesson?” a deep, familiar voice asked.
“Give me a kiss, il mio ragazzo,” the duchess said affectionately.
Cecilia glanced up to see Owen bend and press a kiss to his mother’s cheek. His neckcloth hung in loose folds, as though he’d picked it apart. She could picture him absently undoing the starched fabric as he reviewed one of the many letters he received daily.
As he straightened, his gaze touched on her. She must have appeared upset, because a small crease appeared between his brows.
She looked away, ruffling a hand across the grass.
“You have fled your work?” His mother’s tone was lightly jesting.
“Petitions. So many petitions, all of them asking for funding. Granted, they use different words but the meaning’s the same.” He made a noise of aggravation. “Giving people money isn’t at issue—we’ve plenty to spare.”
Cecilia asked, turning back to him, “Then why are you looking like a wolf about to chew off his paw to free himself from the trap?”
“Cramming at Oxford was a pleasant idyll compared to this.” He dragged a hand down his face. “I’m contemplating running away and becoming an itinerant tinker.”
“Il stagnaio?” his mother said in alarm. “Perché?”
“Banging on pots and pans seems positively tranquil by comparison.”
“The first tinker with a family crest,” Cecilia murmured.
“Pfft.” The duchess waved her hand. “A fine use of your excellent breeding so you could fix someone’s soup pot.”
The reminder of Owen’s distinguished bloodline—and that he was tasked with protecting that pedigree—made Cecilia’s stomach clench. Shopkeeper’s daughters-turned-governesses would never be suitable for a duke.
He glanced warily at her. “In lieu of taking to the open road, might I join you?”
“The master of the house need not ask for permission,” his mother said.
He smiled, which, to Cecilia’s dismay, made her heart leap. “I’m supposed to do what I please with no care for the consequences?”
“Of course,” Cecilia said tightly. “That’s what men do. Especially men who are dukes.” Realizing that she had spoken rudely to him, and in front of his mother, she pasted on a smile. “I am jesting, of course. But I’ll leave you two. Surely you want time together as a family before His Grace leaves for London.”
She began to rise, and he held out his hand in a staying motion.
“Do stay, Miss Holme. It’s a beautiful day and I’d hate to deprive you of it by chasing you inside.” Contrition flashed in his eyes.
Settling back into place, she tried without success not to look at him as he stretched his long body out on the blanket, but it was difficult with the sunlight turning his black hair glossy, and the sleeves of his shirt billowing in the gentle breeze.
“Is everything prepared for your journey?” his mother asked.
“Mostly,” he answered, “though I think Chalmers is slightly displeased with me for such a sudden departure.”
The word sudden caught Cecilia’s attention. It seemed deliberately spoken. As placidly as possible, she said, “Mr. Chalmers is remarkably adaptable and resourceful.”
“Fortunately for me,” Owen said, “given that I only learned I was leaving for London after breakfast, and have been sequestered in my study since then.”
She glanced at him, but was careful not to look too long, lest she attract the duchess’s notice. “Did someone dare summon a duke?”
“I must make my first appearance in Parliament as the Duke of Tarrington. There’s a bill my father was particularly invested in defeating, a bill regarding increasing the number of prison hulks. My father was against the idea. He favored less punitive measures for minor crimes. One of the bill’s other opponents, the Duke of Greyland, has requested my support and so I must go immediately to appear tomorrow afternoon.”
Anger fell away, replaced by remorse. “Understandable that you would need to make a hasty return to London.”
His warm gaze met hers, as though he was grateful she appreciated his reasons for leaving so suddenly.
“But as long as you are back,” his mother said, patting his hand, “you will take advantage of the Season, sì? Perhaps find yourself a fine girl from a fine family, someone you can court.”
The small measure of peace Cecilia had grasped slipped away, and her limbs filled with restless, unhappy energy.
Color darkened Owen’s cheeks. “Cara mamma, I’m not in the market for a bride.”
“It is too soon after the passing of your dear father,” the duchess said with a small nod, “but there is no harm in, how do you say, getting the lay of the land?”
“We can discuss this another time,” Owen said, an edge in his voice. He shot Cecilia a quick look.
“If not now, bambino,” his mother pressed, “when?”
“Try me in a decade.”
Cecilia pressed her lips together to suppress an unbidden laugh. The situation wasn’t amusing, yet she needed some way to release the tension building within her.
The duchess frowned in displeasure. “Owen—”
“Madre, no.” His words were firm as he sat upright. “Give me time to learn what it means to be a duke before forcing me into the role of husband.”
His mother opened her mouth, clearly about to give him a tart reply, but Cecilia got to her feet before anything could be said. As she did, Owen politely stood, which, to Cecilia’s distress, caught the duchess’s attention.
“Do excuse me, Your Graces,” Cecilia murmured, gathering up her book. “I’ll meet the girls back in the schoolroom.”
She curtsied before hurrying away, striding across the grass as rapidly as possible. The house grew nearer, and she quickened her steps to reach the shelter it offered. Her throat burned with the need to weep. Though Owen had rebuffed his mother’s attempts to make him court a potential bride, the very fact that it was a possibility was an acrid burn deep within Cecilia.
Don’t you dare lose your heart to him.
“Miss Holme.”
She spun at the sound of Owen’s voice and dipped into another curtsy. “Your Grace.” When he was close enough, she made sure her expression remained neutral, and she schooled her voice to sound dispassionate. “It’s unwise to talk to me on your own, especially if someone might observe us.”
“I told my mother that I intended to ask you if you required any books for my sisters.”
“It was still a risk that should not have been taken.”