Chapter 2
“You cannot persuade me, Captain, that a gentleman might lose such a sum at whist without either shocking carelessness or very poor judgement,” the Dowager Marchioness of Westbridge, Tabitha Honeyfield spoke with amusement.
“Or, my lady,” said Captain Thomas Harrow with easy cheer, “an excess of confidence, which I have always understood to be a most forgivable fault in gentlemen.”
Owen Honeyfield, the Marquess of Westbridge, did not look up at the two people talking, though he heard the smile in his friend’s voice. His mother gave a small, approving laugh in a sound that was light but measured, as everything about her tended to be.
Harrow possessed the sort of easy charm that required neither effort nor intention.
There was nothing imposing about him at first glance.
He was of moderate height, with an open expression and a ready smile, but it was precisely that warmth which drew people in.
His manner was relaxed, his humor quick and unforced, and he had a way of putting others at ease without appearing to try.
Now, Harrow leaned back slightly in his chair, entirely at ease, as though he had been born to such rooms rather than having earned his place within them through mud, blood, and long marches beneath a merciless sun.
Owen watched him for a moment over the rim of his glass.
It had always been thus with Harrow. Even in Spain, when rations ran thin and the nights stretched long with uncertainty, he had possessed that same ability to lighten a room, to draw men out of themselves and remind them, however briefly, that there was still something worth laughing for.
It had made him invaluable.
It made him, now, almost intolerable.
“Owen, my dear, you are remarkably silent this evening,” his mother observed.
Owen glanced toward her. “I was not aware I was required to speak.”
Harrow’s mouth curved faintly. “I assure you, Westbridge, you are missing a most spirited debate. I have just been accused of encouraging reckless behavior in the gentlemen of London.”
“And do you deny it?” Owen asked.
“Wholeheartedly. I merely believe a man should be allowed to make a fool of himself if he is so inclined. It builds character.”
“Or ruins it,” his mother returned.
“Ah, but which it is depends entirely upon the observer.”
Owen let the exchange pass over him, his attention drifting despite himself.
A month.
It had been a whole month since he had returned to England, a month since his father’s death had drawn him back from a life that, for all its hardship, had possessed clarity. There had been purpose in every action then. Every order was given, and every risk was first measured, then taken.
Now, he was sitting at a polished table, discussing card games.
Marquess of Westbridge.
The title sat upon him with a weight he had not yet learned to carry.
He had not wanted to return. The thought came unbidden, as it often did, not in the way his mother might imagine out of reluctance for duty, or distaste for responsibility, but because everything here felt …
diminished. He felt as though the world he had known had been stripped of consequence and replaced with something smaller, safer, and less real.
“… and of course,” Harrow was saying, “if one is to be ruined at the card table, it is far more preferable to be ruined in excellent company.”
“You speak as though you intend to test the matter yourself,” his mother replied.
“I should never dare, my dear lady. My purse would not survive it.”
“That has not stopped many men of your acquaintance, I am sure.”
“On the contrary, it is precisely what encourages them.”
His mother smiled again, clearly pleased by the exchange. Such easy charm was a skill Owen did not possess. Nor, he suspected, did he care to acquire it.
“You have been very quiet since your return, Westbridge,” Harrow said at last, turning his attention toward him more directly. “One might almost think you preferred Spain.”
Owen met his gaze. “Spain had its advantages.”
Harrow’s expression softened slightly, the humor not entirely gone, but tempered now with understanding.
“It also had its disadvantages,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Which is precisely why,” his mother interjected, with a firmness that allowed no contradiction, “it is time you both remembered that you are no longer there.”
Owen’s jaw tightened slightly.
“You are in London now,” she continued. “And London has expectations.”
“I am aware.”
“Then you must begin to meet them.”
Harrow glanced between them, as though sensing the shift in tone, but said nothing.
“You have been here a month,” she went on. “A month, and you have made no effort to reestablish yourself. You do not call. You do not attend. You do not engage.”
“I have engagements,” Owen said.
“With your steward, perhaps,” she returned. “Or your solicitor. Those do not constitute a social presence.” He didn’t say anything to that, so she simply continued. “You are a marquess. It is not a matter of requirement. It is a matter of duty.”
Duty.
The word struck him differently now. There had been a time when duty meant standing beside men who trusted him with their lives. Now, it meant attending dinners, balls, and endless, meaningless conversation.
Harrow cleared his throat lightly. “There is, in fairness, a certain merit to it. One cannot spend one’s life entirely in retreat.”
“I am not in retreat.”
“Of course not,” Harrow agreed easily. “Merely … conserving your energy.”
Owen gave him a look, but it only made Harrow’s smile deepen.
“It is a very strategic approach. I commend it.”
“You would.”
“I do. Though I cannot help but think you might find the world rather less tedious if you allowed yourself to participate in it, old boy.”
Owen leaned back slightly in his chair. “I have participated.”
“Yes,” Harrow said. “In war.”
“And you think this comparable?”
“No,” Harrow replied, after a moment. “I do not. But that does not make it unimportant.”
Owen said nothing.
He understood the argument. He did. The world did not pause because one had seen more of it than others. Life continued in drawing rooms and ballrooms, in idle conversations and trivial concerns. But knowing it did not make it easier to accept.
“There is a ball,” his mother said, as though concluding the matter.
Owen closed his eyes briefly. “There is always a ball.”
“Yes,” she replied. “And this one you will attend.”
He looked at her.
“I have already accepted on your behalf.”
Harrow let out a quiet breath that might have been a suppressed laugh.
“Ah, Westbridge,” he said, with mock solemnity, “it appears your campaign has been decided for you.”
Owen shot him a look that might have served on any battlefield, but Harrow only met it with quiet amusement, entirely unrepentant.
He turned, instead, to his mother. “You cannot expect me to—”
“I expect nothing unreasonable,” she interrupted smoothly. “Only that you behave as becomes your station.”
Owen’s jaw tightened. He glanced once more toward Harrow, seeking if not support, then at least some resistance. But Harrow, traitorously, inclined his head.
“Your mother is not entirely wrong. One cannot live one’s life looking always elsewhere, however tempting the alternative may be.”
Owen stared at him. “You, of all people—”
“Am precisely the person to say it,” Harrow returned. “We have both seen enough of the world to know that it does not stop turning simply because we have stepped away from it.”
Owen said nothing.
His mother folded her hands neatly before her, as though the matter were already settled.
“We have received an invitation,” she said. “The first proper ball of the season.”
Owen closed his eyes briefly. “Of course you have.”
“It will be well attended. A great many eligible families will be present.”
“There it is,” Owen’s eyes snapped wide open.
“What do you mean?” she asked innocently.
“It is not a social event,” he told her. “It is a market for marriage. Everyone there will be buying or selling something: fortunes, titles, connections.”
“And you,” she said calmly, “have a very great deal to offer.”
Owen let out a short breath. “I have no intention of marrying.”
“Then you may simply attend.”
“And be paraded through the room like a prize horse?” he returned.
“If necessary.”
Harrow let out a quiet laugh, quickly disguised as a cough. Owen shot him another look.
“You find this amusing.”
“I find it inevitable,” Harrow said through a chuckle. “Which is not quite the same thing.”
Owen dragged a hand briefly through his hair.
“These things are absurd,” he said. “Frivolous … pointless.”
“They are part of life,” his mother replied.
“How am I to concern myself with dancing,” he said quietly, “when there is still a war being fought? When men are still dying?”
The words fell heavier than he intended. Even Harrow did not answer. His mother, however, remained composed.
“We are in London,” she reminded him of the one thing he was desperate to forget. “And in London, we must attend to London things.”
Owen looked at her, feeling the prickle of frustration.
“And the rest of the world?”
“Will continue,” she replied. “As it always has.”
“We cannot live our lives entirely in memory,” Harrow spoke then. “Nor in obligation to what has passed. The men we lost,” he paused, choosing his words with care, “they would not wish us to stand still on their account.”
Owen said nothing.
“They would want life to go on,” Harrow continued quietly. “In all its forms, even the ridiculous ones.”
A faint, almost reluctant smile touched his mouth.
“Especially the ridiculous ones.”
Owen let out a slow breath. He understood the sentiment. He did. Harrow had always possessed a way of framing things that made them … bearable. Still, that did not mean he agreed.
His mother, sensing the shift, moved to secure her victory.
“In any case,” she announced, “it is quite immaterial. As I already said, I have accepted the invitation, on behalf of all three of us.”
Harrow bowed his head slightly. “I am honored to be included.”
“You would be,” Owen frowned.
“It would be churlish to decline,” she pointed out. “Particularly when your return has already been noted.
Harrow grinned. “It will do you good.”
“How?” Owen snorted.
“To be among people. To remember what it is to live in the world, rather than merely observe it.”
Owen leaned back again, studying him. “And you think a ballroom will accomplish that.”
“I think,” Harrow corrected, “that it is a beginning.”
A beginning.
Owen was not certain he wanted one. But he could feel the weight of their expectations pressing in: his mother’s certainty, Harrow’s quiet insistence, and the unspoken understanding that he could not remain as he was.
“Very well,” he said feeling the words drawn from him more by inevitability than agreement. “I will attend.”
His mother’s expression brightened at once. “I am pleased to hear it.”
Owen raised a hand slightly. “I make no promises beyond that.”
“Of course not,” she chirped back. “One cannot force such things.”
Harrow’s smile widened. “Though one may certainly encourage them.”
Owen ignored him.
“The matter of marriage,” he continued, “remains entirely out of the question.”
His mother said nothing to that. She only inclined her head in a way that made him immediately suspicious. He knew that look. He had seen it before. And it rarely boded well.
Still, he had agreed. That, it seemed, was enough for now.
Owen reached for his glass once more, his thoughts already turning ahead with a faint sense of resignation.
A ballroom, music, conversation, expectation … it was all a different kind of battlefield.
And one, he suspected, for which he was far less prepared.