“What Englishmen value is not precisely the apotheosis of significance,” she said drily. “I do hate to disabuse them of the notion that their opinion is not all that matters.”
A laugh burst from him. “I don’t think you hate disabusing them of that. You enjoy it.”
“Perhaps I do.” She wore an adorably smug smile, but it faded. “Are you angry with him for giving you that farthing?”
He turned the thought over again, considering it from all angles as though it were a piece of obsidian—one that was darkly beautiful, but could also cut deeply.
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “He had his plans for me, and the kind of duke I would become one day. Truth is, I can’t be him. I want to, but I can’t.”
“I want you to be yourself,” she said firmly. “No one else. You’re simply, brilliantly Owen. Beneath all your ducal splendor, that’s who you are.”
Reaching up, he cupped her jaw, soaking in the feel of her skin against his. “With you, I am more myself than I am with anyone. And I thank you for giving me the gift of you. I wish—”
A corner of her mouth lifted sadly. “As do I. But they’re only wishes, which have a terrible reputation for not coming true.”
Chapter Nine
The next day, Owen examined another document related to a tin mining operation that required additional capital. He was careful to give it his full attention. People’s livelihoods were at stake, and regardless of how little sleep he’d had last night, the mining scheme deserved thorough concentration and consideration.
He’d gone over the cost estimates as well as projected income potential, making notes to review with his men of business tomorrow. With that accomplished, he set the proposal aside and stood to stretch his cramped muscles. A good swim later in the day would help relieve the tightness, though nothing eased and centered him as much as Cecilia.
His fingers brushed the black crepe around his arm, and a barb of guilt pierced him. It was wrong, somehow, to experience such happiness in the wake of losing his father, yet he couldn’t stop himself from being with Cecilia, and living for their stolen time. Existing in a double life, rife with secrets, gnawed at him. He could say nothing to his mother, and would never write of it in his letters to friends from Oxford.
But he wanted to shout it from the roof of Tarrington House: he’d found a woman he cherished beyond reason.
No one could learn of their liaison. Masters of the house could indulge in affairs with governesses, receiving nudges and winks and approving thumps on the back from their fellow aristocratic men. The risk was hers, and hers alone.
He would be praised for his manliness, but society would condemn her for immorality. It was the worst kind of hypocrisy that, though they were both willing participants in their affair, she would be the outcast, losing her employment and rendering her unable to find any other work. The school she dreamed of would never come to be. He had to shield her from that fate.
Even though Cecilia deserved far better than stolen moments, that was all he could give her.
He oughtn’t brood over the future, and should accept gratefully what he had now. Yet he wanted more. He wanted her always, to fall asleep beside her and wake with her in the full light of morning, perhaps someday to start a family, and walk hand in hand in full view of the world.
Until yesterday, he hadn’t known what he truly meant to her, and now that he did, his chest tightened with the futility of his wants and wishes. The best he could hope for now was holding off his mother’s push to see him married. He hated the thought of taking any woman who wasn’t Cecilia to his bed.
There was a tap at the door, disrupting his thoughts.
“Enter,” he said.
Vale stepped into the study. “Forgive me for the interruption, Your Grace, but there is a current matter which requires your attention.”
More accustomed now to being the person the staff turned to for direction, Owen asked, “What is the current matter?”
“A caravan of genteel individuals was en route to a gathering in the country when one of their carriages developed an issue with its axle. They were not far from Tarrington House when this situation arose and, knowing you were in residence, it was suggested they stop here and prevail upon the household for assistance.”
Owen frowned. “Much as I’d like to provide aid, we’re in mourning and not receiving anyone.”
“So I explained to them, Your Grace, but I was asked to relay to you the fact that the individuals in the damaged carriage are Lord and Lady Sulgrave.”
“You might have told me that first, Vale,” Owen said, though there was no reproof in his voice. The viscount was an old friend of his late father—in fact, the two had been in the same block of boys at Eton many decades ago.
Though it wasn’t the custom to entertain guests so soon after a death in the family, for such an unusual situation, an exception could be made. Besides, it would be a fine way to honor Owen’s father by playing host to his friend.
“My apologies, Your Grace.” The butler dipped his head in dignified contrition.
“Of course, they are welcome to make use of our staff to repair their carriage. While they wait, we’ll need refreshments for Lord and Lady Sulgrave and their companions. The day is quite pleasant, so see that the company is brought out to the terrace. And inform the duchess that we are to have visitors. She can determine whether or not she’ll want to visit with them, and if she deems it appropriate for my sisters to greet our guests. How many of them are there?”
“I believe there are two other couples with them, as well as three unaccompanied gentlemen, a widow, and her companion.”
“Be certain that the cook prepares enough food and drink for everyone.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Vale bowed before retreating.
Once he was alone, Owen walked to the pier glass over the fireplace and tried to retie his neckcloth into some measure of tidiness. He had a habit of picking at the fabric around his neck when reading, which helped him focus, but also had the unwanted consequence of making him resemble a wild-eyed poet of the Romantic bent. As the heir, he could afford to appear slightly less than ducal, but now that he was the duke, he needed to look suitably distinguished.
Half an hour later, he stood on the terrace with Lord and Lady Sulgrave, as well as their companions, partaking of tea and a bewildering array of pastries and sandwiches. It never ceased to fill him with wonder how adept Tarrington House’s cook was, with her ability to provide a bounty of refreshments in such a short amount of time.
The company was on their way to Viscount Sulgrave’s country estate, some fifty miles north, and brought with them tales of London. Most everyone had cleared out of the city as the summer heat had descended, but a handful of the ton remained to complain about the weather and ennui.
“You were quite right to flee the moment Parliament was in recess,” Sulgrave said before taking a bite of scone. “What a decided bore London is until September.”
“His Grace is especially fond of rural life,” his mother said from beneath her parasol. She had opted to join the guests, which came as no surprise. Owen’s father used to jestingly complain about the number of galas the duchess insisted on hosting throughout the Season, as well as house parties during the summer. “Lately, he is happier here. It is the fresh air that agrees with him.”