The Untamed Earl (23 page)

Alex made her way out of the library and down the corridor. As she passed the foyer, she heard a woman's tinkling laughter and Owen's voice. “You don't know how bad I can be.”

Alex froze. Her hands began shaking. She didn't want to take another step, but she forced herself to continue walking. The sooner she passed the foyer, the better, and there was no other way to return to the ballroom, not that she knew of, at least. She briefly considered rushing back to hide in the library with Jane, but she discarded that cowardly notion just as quickly. No. She would walk past him with her head held high.

And that's just what she did.

Alex tried not to look. Truly she did. At first the couple standing far too close to one another in the foyer were little more than a shadow and a blur, but when Alex came into sight, the woman gasped, Alex looked, and Owen's head snapped up to face her. He took a guilty step away from Mrs. Clare.

“Alex,” he said in a calm, clear voice.

Alex nodded to him, trying to force her feet to keep moving, but she was rooted to the spot. “My lord,” she uttered. “What are you doing?” Her heart thumped so hard in her chest that it hurt.

He turned and the gorgeous blond widow turned, too, and narrowed her silvery eyes on Alex.

“You shouldn't be here, Alex. You shouldn't be seeing this.” His words rang out like shots that cracked against the marble pillars of the foyer.

“Seeing this,” she echoed, lifting her chin and subtly straightening her shoulders. She was fighting to not let him affect her. “You didn't answer. What is ‘this'?”

The widow pulled her shrug more tightly around her shoulders. “What adults do, sweet. Now, run along and play with the other
children.
”

Alex's head snapped to the side as if she'd been slapped. But she forced herself to raise her chin again, and she met Owen's gaze with unshed tears in her eyes. “Is that what I am to you, Owen? A child.”

The widow laughed a deep sultry laugh and opened her mouth to say some other—no doubt equally biting—thing, but Owen raised his hand in a signal that stopped her. His voice was low and harsh. “Go back to your party, Alex.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Owen made it all the way into the widow's bedchamber before he realized he wouldn't spend the night with her. Or, more precisely, he
couldn't
spend the night with her. Helena was gorgeous, lush, and curvaceous. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips attached to his, but he felt nothing. Hollow. All he could picture was Alex's sweet face when he'd said, “Go back to your party.” She'd lifted her magnificent chin and faced him head-on. He could tell she'd been struggling to keep from crying. Damn it. Damn him. He was nothing more than a scoundrel. He wasn't good for Alex. He wasn't good for anyone.

Owen swallowed hard and pulled the widow's arms away from his neck. Her face immediately screwed into a practiced pout. “What's wrong, darling?”

“I have to go.” He stepped away from her.

“Go?” She laughed a throaty laugh. “You
must
be joking.”

“No. I'm not. I find I'm—ahem—indisposed this evening.”

“Indisposed? What the hell does that mean?” Her brows were two furious blond slants above her gray eyes.

He turned toward the door.

“If you leave here tonight, Monroe, you won't be offered another opportunity.”

He paused only briefly. The hint of a smile touched his lips. “I understand.” And then he was gone, down the stairs, across the marble floor of her impeccable foyer, and out the front door to his coach, which was still waiting. The coachman had clearly settled in to take a long nap; his hat had been covering his face and he'd been slumped to the side of the conveyance.

Owen rapped once on the side of the coach. “Home,” he barked.

The coachman jumped so quickly and so high that his hat flew into the air and he fumbled to catch it. The poor man looked beyond shocked to see him. “Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord,” he choked, righting his hat atop his head and speedily gathering the reins in his hands.

The conveyance took off down the street moments later with Owen inside cursing furiously at himself.

 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Four brandies were really not so many when one stopped to contemplate the matter. Owen held brandy number five beneath his nose and contemplated it through only partially bleary eyes.

“Monroe, are you going to stare at it or drink it?” Cavendish asked from beside him. They were at Brooks's, having just finished a hand of cards that Owen had lost. Ever since, he had been intent on blaming his excessive drinking.

“I'm going to drink it, of course,” he said, bowing his head toward the glass. “But since when am I more inebriated than you are, Captain? Or should I say, Viscount?”

“Call me whatever you'd like. I no longer find my pleasure at the bottom of a brandy glass. Daphne is more than enough to amuse me these days.”

Owen snorted and rolled his eyes. “You people who fancy yourselves in love make me quite ill.”

“I think it's the brandy making you ill, not me,” Cavendish replied.

“I thought you detested the clubs,” Owen pointed out. “And yet, I've seen you here each time I've come.”

“Now that I'm a proper viscount, I need to get used to them, don't I? And it's the only place my brother doesn't like to go.”

“He did seem a bit unimpressed the last time he was here. Do you plan on hiding from him forever?”

“I'm not hiding from him, I'm merely—”

“Avoiding him?”

“Yes, exactly. Much easier that way. Wherever Cade goes, trouble has a tendency to follow. And I want no trouble, especially before my wedding.”

“I understand,” Owen replied.

“Let's play one more hand,” Cavendish said. “Then I promised Daphne I'd meet her at the Haverfords' ball. Until the wedding, we're limited to how much we can see each other.”

Owen snorted. “The Haverfords' ball. Damn bunch of innocents, there.”

“Yes.” Cavendish eyed him over the tops of his cards. “No doubt Lady Alexandra will be there.”

Owen glared at Cavendish. “Do you think I care?”

Cavendish grinned. “Yes, actually. I think you do.”

“Well, I don't.”

“So you don't want to accompany me there, then?”

Owen tossed the cards on the table. “Damn you, Cavendish, call your coach.”

*   *   *

Half an hour later, Cavendish's carriage pulled up to the front of the Haverfords' town house. Owen didn't even bother with the receiving line. Taking his leave of Cavendish, who quickly located Daphne Swift, Owen bypassed the throngs of people and elbowed his way into the massive crowd. Voices called to him from all around.

“Good to see you, Monroe.”

“Surprised you're here.”

“Have a newfound taste for
ton
balls, eh, Monroe?”

He ignored all the banter and kept making his way through the throngs. Thankfully, he stood head and shoulders taller than most of the other partygoers. He scanned the room, looking for another tall man, Lord Berkeley. Wherever Berkeley was, Alex would be. Unfortunately, Owen spotted his sister first. Cass was standing in a small group that consisted of Lucy Hunt, Jane Upton, Berkeley, and … Alex. Yes. Alex was there, wearing a blue gown with silver ribbons and long white gloves. She looked as prim and pretty as a violet. He squared his shoulders and took off toward the little group with no idea what he would say once he got there.

“Alex, dance with me.”

Apparently, that's what he would say once he got there, because those forceful words came out of his mouth as soon as he reached the group.

All four ladies' mouths flew open, and Berkeley turned toward him, assuming a protective stance in front of Alex.

“Owen, what are you doing here?” Cass asked, finding her voice first.

Owen ignored Cass and glared at Berkeley. “Stand down, Viscount. I don't want to meet you outside and beat you to a bloody pulp, but I will if I must.”

Berkeley narrowed his eyes on him. “I'd like to see you try.”

“Wait!” Alex stamped her foot, and the entire party turned toward her.

“What, dear?” Lucy Hunt asked Alex, blinking at her inquisitively.

“I want to know
why,
” Alex replied.

“Why what?” Jane Upton asked, pushing up her spectacles.

Alex's eyes never left Owen's. “Why?” she asked. “Why do you want to dance with me?”

Because I can't stop thinking about you? Because I try to drink enough to erase you from my memory but there's not enough brandy in the kingdom?

“Because I want to talk to you,” he replied simply.

“Owen, have you been drinking?” Cass ventured, her brow furrowed with obvious concern.

His eyes didn't leave Alex's face as he answered his sister. “Yes. Far too much,” he admitted.

Berkeley stepped forward. “In that case, I must ask you to leave.”

Owen turned on the viscount with a snarl. “It'll be the last thing you ever ask, you son of a—”

“Wait!” Alex's voice stopped Owen's diatribe again. “Why do you want to talk to me?”

Because you're the only person who understands me. Because I miss you when you're not with me.

He cleared his throat and glanced around at the disapproving faces of the others. “I have something to say to you.”

Actually, he had no idea what he would say to her, but if he could get her alone, away from Cass and her friends and Berkeley, damn him, Owen would say … something. Blast. He was an ass. A drunken ass. Perhaps he'd just say that.

“You didn't have much to say to me last night,” Alex continued. “What's changed?”

Nothing.

Everything.

“Owen, if you have something to say to Alexandra, I think it's best said here,” Cass informed him. His sister was merely concerned for Alex, but he didn't happen to appreciate it at the moment.

He took a step toward Alex. “Dance with me or come out to the gardens for a walk with me. Hear me out, at least.”

“Owen, I—” Cass made to move in front of Alex, but Alex stepped forward more quickly.

“I'll go with you,” Alex said simply. She turned on her heel and strode toward the French doors that led to the terrace. She turned back to her friends. “If I'm not back in ten minutes, please come look for me.”

“Done,” Berkeley said, eyeing Owen up and down with distaste.

*   *   *

The doors shut behind Alex and she marched across the terrace, down the stone steps, and onto the garden path. She didn't stop to look behind her to see if Owen had followed, and she certainly didn't give a fig if the entire assembly of the Haverfords' ball saw her stalk off into the gardens with the town's biggest rake on her heels.

She was angry, incensed at Owen for bursting into the ball, causing a scene, and acting like a demanding jackass. But she was even angrier at herself for being so overwhelmed by curiosity at what he wanted to say to her that she couldn't even tell him to go to hell. It would have been so satisfying to tell him to go to hell. But after she'd spent the first half of last night crying into her pillow, thinking about him spending the night with the widow Mrs. Clare and the second half of the night punching her pillow and pretending it was his treacherously handsome face, she still couldn't find it in herself to
not
wonder what he possibly had left to say to her.

She took three steps onto the gravel path before she twirled so fast that her skirts swished against her ankles and the fat curl Hannah had left to dangle out the back of her coiffure flew over her shoulder to bounce along her décolletage.

Owen was there, only a few steps behind her, looking both handsome and appropriately chagrined, a lethal combination for her heart. She summoned the memory of crying into her pillow, crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at him.

“Well?” She tapped her slipper against the gravel.

“Walk with me,” he said in a domineering voice as he came to stand next to her. He offered her his arm, and Alex had to struggle to remember herself punching the pillow as she slid her hand over his muscled forearm. He smelled like soap and leather and—oh, this wasn't helpful. As soon as her hand was settled, he turned down the more secluded of the two garden paths that was lit with candles and pulled her along beside him. Alex struggled to keep her breathing straight.

“Berkeley's coming for me in ten minutes,” she reminded him.

“How could I forget?” He gave her a tight smile.

“What do you want to say?”

He stopped abruptly and turned to face her. “I wanted to begin with an apology … for last night.”

“What you did last night is absolutely none of my concern.” She turned her head away sharply.

“I didn't do anything last night,” he said softly. “I left Mrs. Clare at her home. Alone.”

Alex clenched her jaw. “Is that supposed to matter to me?”

He stepped away from her, and her hand dropped from his sleeve. He moved toward the hedge and then turned back to face her. “Damn it, Alex. I don't know what you want from me. All I know is that I cannot stop thinking about you.”

“No, Owen. I don't know what
you
want from
me.
I've always thought so much of you, but not anymore.”

He stepped toward her and searched her face. “Always thought so much of me? What do you mean?”

“You don't even remember, do you?” Tears streamed down both Alex's cheeks.

Owen ripped a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat and offered it to her. “Remember what?”

“That night. The ball at Father's country house. Three years ago. You came outside. Some young men were making sport of Will the stable boy, and Thomas was there,” she sobbed.