Chapter 8
The girls had a thousand questions about Saxony, stroking and touching the ever-patient horse, until at last their well of questions ran dry.
When it was time to return to the manor, they ran ahead while Owen walked beside Miss Bennett, the stallion at his shoulder puffing clouds of steam into the cool autumn air.
Owen broke the uncomfortable silence first, seeing as he was the reason for it. For a second time he had lost all sense of gentlemanly decency and had made a comment to his governess that was entirely inappropriate.
Bloody hell, the woman was becoming a problem.
He could not stop thinking about the sprinkle of freckles on her nose, or the maddening half-moon dimple in her cheek that begged to be kissed.
He was keenly aware of her whenever she was near, her laughter lighting up the otherwise gloomy estate.
The servants respected her, the children adored her, and he strongly suspected that if she were to organize a coup, his own household would follow her without a second thought for him.
Owen was cognizant of his faults, foremost among them a tendency to pursue his passions with single-minded intensity.
Although such drive could be a blessing when it came to his business, it was a curse when it came to his personal life.
He could not allow his attraction to his governess to continue.
He would not allow himself to imagine her hair spread across his sheets, her eyes glazed with passion, her sweet breath escaping on a moan.
Bloody. Hell.
Thoroughbred, Hackney, Dartmoor Pony.
Rather than risk more of her cheeky teasing, which would inevitably tempt him into saying things he should not, he said, “I will speak plainly, Miss Bennett. Does it appear to you that Lady Brackley is attempting to matchmake me with Miss Pithins?”
“I appreciate your candor. Yes, it appears so.”
His gut twisted. He hated this. Very few in Prussia had known he was the son of a viscount, so he had escaped the machinations of those who would use him and his title for their own gain.
He had not been in England a fortnight, and already his stepmother was scheming to manipulate him.
“She is wasting her time. I have no interest in marriage at present.”
“You and I are alike in that way.”
“I know you did not wish to marry Mr. Marthin, but I thought it was the gentleman in question you disagreed with, not the institution itself?”
She seemed surprised that he remembered the name of the man who had wanted to “break” her, when it was branded into his brain. Marthin had already been added to his “do-not-sell-to” list.
Ivy’s cheeks reddened. “That is correct. There is someone I would marry, but he does not know I exist.”
Owen blinked in surprise. She had set her cap for someone?
He was suddenly desperate to know who had brought that blush to her cheeks, but it would be inexcusably rude to pry further.
“I do not know what to do about Lady Brackley,” he said instead, returning to the latest in a series of never-ending problems foisted upon him by the viscountcy.
“I will tell her I am uninterested in Miss Pithins, but I do not think her scheming will cease.”
“Perhaps you could tell her you have no intention of marrying anyone.”
“I fear she would take that as a challenge.”
“’Tis possible.” She chewed on her lip, and Owen averted his eyes.
“It is not your burden, Miss Bennett. I required only your confirmation.”
“Nevertheless, I shall think on a solution.”
“I will have you know I do not condone murder.”
Ivy clutched her hands in front of her chest. “Does Viscount Brackley have a sense of humor? Do the papers know? Shall I alert them?”
Owen scowled. “They would never believe you. Perhaps the dowager feels the need to interfere because she fears I will turn her and the girls out, and I need to redouble my efforts to reassure her that will not happen.”
“Perhaps.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“My lord, you have already made it abundantly clear that you intend to provide for your sisters as well as the dowager. I suspect her scheme has more to do with power than fear for her children.” Ivy’s skin paled beneath her freckles.
“I should not have said that,” she whispered.
“’Twas not my place to speculate so plainly. ”
“Do not fret, Miss Bennett. You are safe with me.”
Her pupils expanded, and he belatedly realized he had said the last sentence in the low, masterful way he spoke when he was doing… other things. Owen scrubbed a hand down his face. He ought to be struck across the cheek.
Ivy took a shuddering breath, and he was captivated by the sudden idea that she was affected by him and the way he spoke to her.
Or mayhap she is frightened of you. She had just said there was another man she wished to marry.
That was a far less appealing notion.
They resumed walking, and all too soon the rambling manor came into view.
The house had once been grand, boasting more than twenty guest rooms along with private quarters for the family and separate lodgings for the staff; a ballroom; and an indoor orangery.
Now the gardens and orangery were a mess of browned brambles and weeds, and the windows were dirty and some of the panes broken.
The majority of the rooms were sealed to the chill of winter and hosted an assortment of squirrels and mice rather than guests.
Even the facade, once a stately gray stone, was streaked with rust.
The stables and carriage house were in equal disrepair.
A line appeared between Owen’s brows as he once again tried to imagine where his father could have been spending his money if not on the upkeep of the seat of the viscountcy.
He had not had a gambling problem as far as Owen could tell, nor did he seem inclined to purchase luxury items and baubles.
Owen had seen the books: He knew his father had invested wisely enough that he had not been suffering for funds. So where had it all been going?
The girls had reached the house ahead of them, but instead of entering, they had gathered on the steps with the dowager and Miss Pithins to gape at a beautifully lacquered carriage parked in the drive.
Ivy picked up her pace, her eyes widening.
“What is the matter?”
She did not answer, but broke into a skipping trot, and Owen finally understood what had distressed her: plastered across the door of the carriage was her family crest.
“Someone from my family is here. What if my mother is ill?” she asked breathlessly.
They had almost reached the carriage when Owen unthinkingly cupped her elbow. She paused long enough to lift her face to him, her honey eyes filled with concern.
“Whatever is the matter, we will take care of it.”
A moment later a harsh voice he had not heard in over a decade said, “Take your bloody hand off my sister.”