Chapter 20
Owen spent the next morning with his correspondence and ledgers. The only upside to his infirmity was that he was forced to do the tedious bookkeeping he had been putting off for too long. He paused his work only for the doctor to visit, examine his wound, and proclaim him the luckiest man he knew.
“It seems you owe the seamstress your life.” The doctor, a man in his fifth decade with thinning gray hair, shook his head in amazement.
“Imagine a woman being able to do that! I can hardly believe it. Of course, I would have cauterized the wound rather than stitched it, but what can you expect from a woman?”
“You are a fool.”
The doctor, taken aback by his rancor, finished the visit by ordering him to stay in bed and rest for six weeks.
“Absolutely not!” Owen roared. “What is the bare minimum?”
The doctor stammered, “My lord, you need to heal. At the very least you must refrain from using the arm for a fortnight, but it really should rest for four to six weeks.”
“Two weeks it is.”
Once the doctor left, Owen returned to his work, squinting at endless numbers and lines of correspondence until his head ached and he was so surly his lips were in a permanent snarl.
Ivy did not arrive until the afternoon, slipping into his room in her navy gown with little sprigs of leaves embroidered on the hem.
Sunlight seemed to slide in with her as she cheerfully bounded over to him and sat in the chair on the opposite side of the table.
Her honeyed eyes were twinkling, as if she knew he was in horrid temper and it amused her.
She tossed a stack of gossip rags on the table. “I know you only read boring horse facts, but I thought you might enjoy a change of pace.”
“I could not enjoy anything less.”
Her twinkle intensified. “Not even when the gossip is about you?”
“Especially then.”
“I shall read it then.” She reached for the top paper, the Tatler, and his bad mood soured further. Either not understanding his expression, or not caring, she snapped the paper open and began to read aloud:
“One would have to be hidden beneath a rock not to have heard about the juiciest morsel of gossip to start the Season: the newly returned, reclusive, and highly anticipated bachelor, the Viscount Brackley, is courting the granddaughter of the Marquess Rothford. The newly titled viscount has only recently returned to England, and is already pursuing the young lady who had been acting as his governess. That is correct, dear readers and disappointed ladies across the ton. It seems that while tending to the viscount’s eight sisters, the lovely Miss Bennett caught the lord’s eye.
They were spotted most recently at a country party hosted by Mr. Donnelley, and again at a musicale hosted by Lord and Lady Fleetwood.
According to attendees, they appeared to be smitten with one another.
But this writer would be remiss not to share that several other gentlemen also appeared quite interested in the young lady, who has already had three Seasons.
Will the viscount win her hand? Or do the ladies of the ton still have a chance? ”
Owen was appalled. “Do they have nothing better to do than speculate about our arrangement?”
She gestured to the pile of gossip rags. “No. We are mentioned in all of them.”
“You never told me how your father handled the news of the courtship. Did it cause problems with Reedly?”
“Father wrote to Reedly,” she answered cautiously.
“And?”
“And?” Her eyes were far too innocent. Ivy was always sparkling with cheer and mischief; she was never the docile woman that peered at him now.
“And what are you not telling me?”
She folded the corner of the paper and then unfolded it again. “I have no idea what you mean, my lord.”
He reached over and lightly grasped her wrist. “How many times have I told you not to call me my lord.”
She licked her lips, her pupils expanding. “Owen.”
“Good.” He stroked his thumb over her delicate skin, his blood singing when he found her pulse beating wildly. “Now what are you not telling me?”
She tugged her hand away. “Reedly was unhappy, but expressed continued interest in matrimony should the courtship fizzle. It seems I will need a marriage prospect lined up rather quickly when our charade is over, lest I end up right back where I started.”
The news was like a serrated knife cleaving him in two.
One half of him wanted Lord Hartford for Ivy, if only for her own happiness.
The other half bristled at the news, like he was some wild beast with his hackles raised.
How was it that so many men should have the gall to express interest in her when she was supposed to be his?
Did they not have even an ounce of self-preservation in their bodies?
He knew the answer. How could they not desire her?
She was clever and amusing and so bright and cheerful that he found his thoughts returning to her near constantly throughout the day.
There was the way she moved under her gown, graceful and athletic, and those plush lips of hers that made him fantasize about pulling her into his lap and kissing them swollen.
He could picture himself now, sweeping his hand down her back and cupping her bottom, then lifting her against him and—
Blast! Blast.
He swallowed. “Then we will do our best to see that Lord Hartford proposes.” The words tasted sour coming from his lips, and he could not look at her as he said them.
If he did, she would know how badly he wanted to pull her to him and do all the things he had dreamed about doing last night.
Ever since he had been shot, she had dominated not only his waking hours, but also his unconscious hours, disturbing his sleep and leaving him frustrated and aroused each morning.
But what he did with Ivy in his dreams started and stopped there.
Under no circumstances could he allow himself to act on this inconvenient attraction.
She deserved more than Owen Brackley and his world of bedroom sinning.
“Good,” she said, clearing her throat. “I should probably—”
“Your questions.” He should not have reminded her, but he did not want her to leave yet.
She was the bright spot in his days, and he did not want to ruin that by making her uncomfortable.
That meant no more putting his hands on her.
No more inserting a commanding tone into his requests and feeling a deep burn of pleasure when she complied.
This was a blossoming friendship, and nothing more. It could never be anything more.
“Oh!” Her awkwardness instantly disappeared. “I almost forgot. How good of you to remind me.”
“Yes, I am a saint.”
“You are many things, but I doubt a saint is one of them.”
The smile he gave her made her cheeks redden, but she did not back down. “My question is about Heidi.”
His smile melted, and he could not conceal the unpleasant shock of hearing Heidi’s name leave her lips, although he should not have been surprised considering how loud Millie had been when she had discussed his former lover in the sitting room.
“If you thought I would ask silly questions about your favorite color, I fear you will be disappointed. If you wish to back out—”
“No. I made a deal, and I will not back out,” he said, offended. “What sort of man do you think I am?”
The corner of her mouth turned up, and he realized that was exactly what she had been expecting to hear, the little schemer.
“You must tell me the truth. What we have between us is a business dealing, and these questions will supplement our knowledge of one another to validate our ruse. Do we have an understanding?”
Her words stung like ever so many bees, but she was right. Just because he was losing control of his attraction to her, that did not change the nature of their arrangement. “What is your question?”
“Do you still love her?”
She had prepared him for a question about Heidi, but he had not expected her to ask something so simple and yet so monumental with five simple words.
His throat turned dry, and he took a swig of water, shifting in a way that made his arm burn.
He had cared for Heidi, but he had not loved her.
He had been content knowing she was at ease with his demanding desires, and that he did not have to hide that part of himself.
He had thought that was enough for a union at the time, but now he was grateful that Heidi had only been occupying her time with their affair while she had looked for a Prussian-born husband.
Owen had been too single-minded and focused on her to see the wider picture of who she truly was.
His pride had been hurt when she had turned him down, but now he shivered to think that he had asked someone with a similar temperament to Millie to marry him.
“No.” The word rang firmly in the room. Ivy waited patiently, her eyes tracing over his stony expression. She was waiting… for what? An explanation? “I never loved her,” he added.
She lifted a brow. “But you had an affair with her?”
Owen’s jaw flexed. He did not know if Ivy was innocent or not, but either way this was not a proper topic for him to discuss with Barnes’s little sister—or any woman who was not his lover.
But she sat there, her honey eyes wide and curious, and he had promised he would answer her questions in good faith. “Yes.”
“Do you have affairs with many women?”
He had been taking another drink of water when she asked, and he choked, coughing until his shoulder seared. “I do not think that is an appropriate question.”
Ivy sighed and slumped in her chair. “You are like my brothers.” The disappointment was clear on her face. “The things they say when they think I am not listening are raw and crude, but when they speak to me, they treat me like a stupid doll. Why is it that your sex thinks my sex is so delicate?”
“It is more that it is improper to discuss such things among mixed company.”
“I did not take you for a rule-follower.”
He pressed his finger to a bead of water on the side of his glass and smudged it, tracing his finger up the cool surface. Ivy’s eyes were fixated on his hand.
“If I told you about my affairs,” she taunted softly, “would you feel more comfortable telling me about yours?”
His heart stopped.