Chapter 2
Owen scrubbed his palm down his face, feeling the scrape of two days’ worth of beard.
He had been dodging his new, overzealous valet for days, which meant he had not had a proper shave.
He could not stand to be fussed over, and yet he did not have the heart to relieve the man of his duties and livelihood, so instead he had been avoiding him.
He would eventually have to speak with him, but valet problems were so low on Owen’s long list of disasters that had to be dealt with, he simply hadn’t found the time yet.
Owen rocked with the gait of his horse and cursed his wretched father for dying and forcing him to return to England.
If there was one place Owen did not belong, it was among people who gave a damn about the bloodline that ran in their veins, and documenting lineage was practically the national pastime here.
Now, the blood that ran through a horse was a different matter entirely.
Worse than having to return to Richmond, a town that held far too many unpleasant memories, was having to deal with the source of his childhood darkness itself: Brackley Estate.
The last time Owen had seen the estate, he had been turning his back on a well-kept manor.
When he had returned a week ago, it had been to find crumbling walls, peeling paint, and an absent stepmother.
Hell, even the mice were mangy. If the estate were not responsible for the livelihoods of dozens of servants and eight little girls, he would raze the entire thing and be done with it.
There was nothing there for him but a bad taste in his mouth.
Owen nudged his horse into the street with the ease of a man who had spent more time on horseback than on his own two feet.
The visit into Richmond proper to see Lord Terthon had been necessary, as the peer had been an old and good friend of his father’s, but the requested nightcap had worn him out.
Owen required a heavy amount of alone time, which was one of the reasons he found solace in horses.
They did not require frivolous rituals. All of the formal bowing and proper words, the things not said but implied, and the notorious cuts with sugar drove Owen half-mad.
He was not designed for London society. He was too blunt.
Too uninterested in playing nice. He had known it from a young age, and so had his father.
That was why they had put into place The Plan. The viscount had allowed Owen to leave the country with the understanding that should the old man sire another son, Owen would surrender the viscountcy through whatever means necessary. Owen had happily agreed.
Then his father had proceeded to have eight girls.
Saxony nickered, and Owen stroked a calloused hand down the horse’s neck.
An October breeze lifted strands of the stallion’s mane and brought with it the scent of wood smoke, making Owen grateful for the wool overcoat he had chosen last minute.
Winter was fast approaching, and the manor was drafty and ill-suited for such a long stretch of cold, as were the stables.
He briefly closed his eyes as he thought of the enormous sum it would take to restore the buildings.
He was a wealthy man and could afford the repairs, but that did not mean he wanted to.
He balked at the idea of investing in the thing his father had loved so much, and that he hated with equal passion.
Owen’s thoughts drifted from the redesign he was considering for the stables to his half-sisters.
Until he had arrived a week prior, he had never met them, and when they had been assembled into a line in the formal parlor to receive him, he had been so exhausted he had barely seen them beyond noting that, although they had the same caramel-colored hair as he, they took after their mother with their mischievous hazel eyes, for which he was grateful.
He was not sure he could have borne eight miniatures of his father.
He had been told the girls ranged from the ages of three to ten, and by all accounts they were wild and unmanageable.
According to the whispers he had overheard, because God forbid anyone say anything outright, the only person the children seemed inclined to mind was the new governess: Miss Ivy Bennett.
Owen scowled as he remembered his one and only run-in with Miss Bennett.
He had briefly met the governess before she had known who he was.
She had been charmingly disheveled, with light brown hair, a sprinkle of freckles on her pert nose, and eyes the color of clover honey.
With a conspiratorial smile, she had proceeded to warn him about the “grumpy” new viscount who was due to arrive.
When he had enlightened her to the fact that he was the grumpy new viscount, rather than looking chagrined, she had smartly saluted him.
Was her impertinence why his young sisters adored her so? Or was it because she was a Bennett?
Owen’s jaw clenched at the possibility that Miss Ivy Bennett was related to Barnes Bennett.
Might in fact be the man’s cherished baby sister.
His former school friend had many talents, one of which was witty impertinence.
Based on Owen’s brief encounter with Miss Bennett, he thought the likelihood of their relation high.
Despite how his friendship with Barnes had ended, Owen still occasionally thought of the man.
A decade ago, he and Barnes had been inseparable friends at Harrow, until the day Barnes had bloodied his nose and told him he never wanted to set eyes on him again.
Before Owen had recovered from the assault, Barnes had packed his belongings and fled the school without another word.
Owen had ridden to Barnes’s house to demand an explanation, but his closest friend had refused to speak to him, and Owen had been too proud to keep begging.
With no further reason to stay at Harrow, Owen had packed his own bags ten days before graduation and left the country, his traitorous friend, and his miserable life behind.
Owen was mulling over the bitter memory, when he spotted a shadowy figure on the road ahead.
The streetlamps flickered in the wind, casting dancing shadows across the packed dirt and the silhouette of a woman trying hopelessly to squash a hat atop her head as her horse ambled forward.
What was a lady doing riding unescorted on a country road so late at night?
Any manner of ill fortune could befall her.
Owen urged his horse into a trot. The woman must have heard him coming up behind her, because she paused and turned beneath a streetlamp, her plush lips falling open and her honey eyes widening with surprise when she realized who he was.
“Miss Bennett,” Owen said sternly, “what are you doing in town at this time of night?” His gaze fell to where a good four inches of her stockings were visible beneath her cape.
She was riding astride, which in his expert opinion was the only sensible way to ride a horse, and bareback.
He knew for a fact his stable possessed a number of good saddles.
“Lord Brackley.” She smiled widely at him, and a crescent dimple appeared in her right cheek, which was rosy from the October chill.
Tawny curls tumbled down her back, and her hat was askew on the crown of her head.
She appeared entirely disheveled and breathless, as if she had just come from healthy exercise.
At the thought, Owen’s hands seized on the reins. There was only one explanation for her presence on the street at this time of night, and in this state of dishabille. “I repeat, what are you doing in town?”
“Visiting a friend.”
His jaw clenched. It was not his place to care whose bed his governess saw fit to visit, but he had to consider his sisters’ reputations and the fact that every nosy person in this damned country did seem to care about what others did.
Then there was the small, niggling voice in the back of his mind that told him if Barnes knew, he would murder the man who dared tarnish his sister’s reputation.
Owen did not owe Barnes his allegiance, but he was Ivy Bennett’s employer, and that made him responsible for her safety at the very least.
“You appear mussed, Miss Bennett.”
“Oh.” Ivy glanced down at her misbuttoned gown and laughed. “My friend is the modiste, and she and I were trying on gowns. What is the point in owning a modiste’s shop if one cannot sample the wares when the business day is done?”
Owen’s shoulders eased with that bit of information. “Is it not late to be calling upon an acquaintance?”
Ivy’s lips twitched. “Pray, what are you doing in town, my lord?”
Owen’s scowl deepened, even as he grudgingly thought, Touché. “I did not know governesses were taught to question the master of the house.”
“Oh, I suspect they are not.”
Flippant, just like her brother. “Although the country is generally safe, there have been recent reports of marauders traversing rural areas. It is unsafe to visit your friend after dark. Alone.” His eyes involuntarily fell to the curve of her calf. “Without a saddle.”
She squirmed atop her horse at that, but did not respond.
“I will escort you home. Watch for holes and loose stones that could hobble your horse.”
“The moon is full.” She tilted her head, letting her face bathe in the silvery glow.
Her little navy hat slid farther down her hair, and he was irrationally relieved that it was not one of those brightly colored monstrosities that were all the rage in London at the moment, with the garnishing and ribbons so green they hurt the eye.
“I believe it is bright enough that my horse will be fine.”
She swayed atop her gray mare. The air was crisp, but she did not appear to be cold beneath her cape. Rather, she seemed enthralled by the night. She smiled and lifted her arms at her sides as if she were flying.