The Untamed Earl (21 page)

Alex rubbed her temples. Her mother was completely inappropriate. “Lavinia has quite definite opinions, though, Mother.”

“So does your father, and he's settled on Lord Owen for her. I hope I can count on you to keep this to yourself, but we've already begun working out the contract.”

“Lavinia's not going to like that.”

“I'm hoping she'll warm to him, given enough time,” Mother said, patting Alex's hand.

“What do
you
think, Mother? Do you think Lavinia and Lord Owen are well suited?”

“Oh, my dear, being well suited has little to do with marriage. Your father wants Lavinia to fancy Lord Owen, but I told your father not to count upon it.”

Alex balled the bedsheets in her fists. “So, you're here to tell me I shouldn't spend any time with him?”

Her mother patted her leg this time. “It's what's best for your sister. And what's best for Lavinia will leave us all in peace. I know she's not easy to get along with.”

“That's putting it rather mildly.”

“I've spoiled her, Alexandra. I know that. There's not a day that goes by that I don't blame myself for how she acts. But, regardless, the contract has been drawn up and Lord Owen is set to be Lavinia's husband.”

“Even if I actually like him and enjoy his company and Lavinia obviously detests him?”

Another soft pat. “I'm sorry, Alexandra. I hope one day you'll understand.” Her mother stood up and drifted toward the door.

Her mother left. As usual, Mother hadn't even noticed that Alex hadn't agreed to a thing. It was merely taken for granted that everyone in this household would do what was best for Lavinia. Alex ripped the pillow from behind her head and savagely threw it across the room.

*   *   *

Owen had been suffering Lady Lavinia's barbs and rudeness for the better part of two hours. He'd attempted to open a discourse with her on the writings of Mary Wollstonecraft, but far from being interested in the subject, Lavinia had made it abundantly clear that she had absolutely no desire to speak about the rights of women. “That's the sort of drivel Alexandra enjoys,” she'd sneered. To make this odious dinner party worse, Owen had been looking forward to seeing Alex tonight, but apparently, she was abed with a headache. He didn't blame Alex. If he were her, he wouldn't want to suffer through this dinner party either. In fact, next time he might just claim a headache himself. Her words kept playing themselves over and over in his mind. “You have that opportunity, too; you simply choose to squander it,” she'd said. Those words haunted him.

Meanwhile, the duke and duchess were making markedly feeble attempts at getting Lavinia to show Owen any favor. It was failing miserably. The only thing that made it bearable was the wine he'd ingested. But he hadn't had nearly enough. He was determined not to let his father down this time.

“So, Monroe,” the duke's voice thundered across the table. “How do you feel about the toll road bill? I'm in favor of it myself.”

Owen thought about it for a moment. If it were his father asking, he'd say he didn't give a toss about the toll road bill. But that wasn't true. He
pretended
he didn't give a toss about the toll road bill. The truth was he had thought about it. Had overheard some of the gentlemen at the club discussing it a time or two. He'd read all he could on the subject since encountering the farmer on the road the other day. And Owen was convinced that the toll road bill should be struck down. It called for an increase in the tax paid at the entrances to town. It was the reason why the farmer couldn't get his poor sick daughter to the doctor.

Owen had been haunted by the memory of that little girl he met on the road outside London. He actually went there earlier, after he'd left the rookeries, to the storefronts near St. Paul's, looking for a doctor who might have catered to the sick girl. He hadn't found her, but he vowed to continue looking. All he could hope for for the time being was that the sovereign he'd given her father might have helped her plight.

Yes. Owen had studied the arguments for and against the toll road bill and the money that the Prince Regent hoped to make from the increase in the tax. And Owen indeed had an opinion on it. It made him sick to think that another little girl might one day be denied care in order to line Prinny's pockets. He opened his mouth to say as much to the duke but just as quickly closed it. God. What was happening to him? He wasn't an MP. He was a ne'er-do-well. A scoundrel. A profligate. Good only for drinking and carousing. Hadn't his father told him that often enough? “Don't fail me,” his father had said. “For once.” All his father thought he was good for was charming women, and he clearly was failing even at that.

Owen glanced over at Lady Lavinia, who rolled her eyes at the conversation. Clearly, she was as uninterested in tolls as she was in the rights of women. He focused again on the duke. “I haven't given it much thought, Your Grace.”

Lavinia sneered at him and Owen recoiled. What the blazes did she want him to say? He considered pushing back his chair and leaving the room. In fact—he decided right then and there—that's
exactly
what he would do. Temporarily, at least. He pushed his chair away from the dining table.

“Will you excuse me, Your Graces, Lady Lavinia?” He stood, grabbed his conveniently refilled wineglass, bowed, and dropped his napkin to his seat. “I find I need some air for a moment.”

Lavinia's jaw dropped as if she couldn't possibly comprehend that anyone was leaving her esteemed presence, but the duke and the duchess nodded to him as he made his way out of the dining room. He turned down the corridor and headed toward the back of the house, where he knew the exit to the terrace was.

Using his free hand, Owen pushed open the doors to the balcony and stepped outside. He kicked the door closed behind him and downed the entire contents of his glass in one gulp. He balanced the glass haphazardly on the balustrade and strolled into the garden, scrubbing his hands into his hair. This was one of the longest, most disagreeable nights of his life. Made worse by the fact that Alex wasn't here.

Alex. Why couldn't he stop thinking about Alex? Blast it. He rubbed his hand over his scalp harder, as if he could wipe away the memory of her.

“What are you doing here?”

Alex's voice? Had he conjured her from his thoughts? He blinked and narrowed his eyes to squint into the darkness of a nearby hedge.

Alex materialized from the shadows. She was wearing a dressing gown and slippers and was twirling a violet between her fingers. Her hair was down, and the surge of lust that hit Owen squarely in the groin when he saw her nearly sent him to his knees.

“Alex?” he whispered, afraid she was only a figment of his imagination and would disappear if he spoke too loudly.

“You shouldn't be here. Or I shouldn't be here. Either way, you shouldn't see me like this.”

“I like seeing you like this.” He gestured to her dressing gown.

She pulled it more tightly around her neck with one hand and blushed beautifully.

“How is your headache?” he asked, leaning against a nearby tree and contemplating her. The familiar scent of strawberries filled his nostrils and he wanted to reach out and pull her into his arms.

“How is your dinner?” She nodded toward the house.

“Excruciatingly boring,” he replied with a grin.

The hint of a smile touched her lips. “That bad?”

“Worse.”

She made to walk past him. “I should get inside before anyone sees us—”

“Wait.” He reached out and grabbed her soft arm. “Earlier at the poorhouse, you said I had the same opportunity you have but I choose to squander it. What did you mean?”

She pulled her arm away and turned to face him, still clutching at the throat of her gown. “It doesn't matter.”

“It matters very much … to me.”

She sighed. “I only meant that you're a future earl. You're a member of the
ton
. A male. You have so much power and you don't even choose to use it. You could take a seat in the House of Commons now, and someday you'll be in the House of Lords. You could campaign for the rights of the poor, ask Parliament for money for the poorhouses. With your connections and your fame, Owen, you could do so much more than I do, giving them my bits of embroidery from time to time.” Her eyes flashed dark fire at him.

He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Do you respect me, Alex?”

She swallowed and glanced away. “What do you mean?”

“You heard me. Do you respect me?”

“I don't know why you're asking or why you would care what I think.”

“I'm asking for the same reason I care. Because it matters to me what you think of me.”

She sucked in her breath. “Why?”

“I've been trying to discern that myself for days, but I do. What do you think of me, Alex? Do you think I'm a fop, or someone pretending to be someone I'm not so that I can line my pockets with your sister's dowry? Or a scoundrel? Out only to seek my own pleasure?”

Her eyes met his. Hers had tears swimming in their dark depths. “Is that what you think of yourself?”

“That's what I am.”

“Not to me. Never to me. I know what happened at Eton, Owen. Cass told me.”

“She had no right to—”

“I know who you are. I see who you are. You can't pretend with me.”

Owen wanted to silence her. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was rough, fierce, a bit punishing, but also hot and wet. He crushed her to him, and when her arms went up to thread around his neck, Owen groaned. That was all he needed. He swept her up, took two steps over to the giant oak tree hidden behind the hedge, and pressed her against it. He braced an arm behind her to keep the rough bark from her back, but no doubt it scratched her in a few places regardless. Apparently, she didn't care. She clung to him and Owen deepened the kiss, lips and tongue clashing with hers. She tasted like strawberries. Just as he knew she would. He couldn't get enough of her. His hands reached down to her hips, and he picked her up at the waist. Her legs wrapped around his outer thighs.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered, nodding toward the tree.

“I don't care,” she moaned against his mouth.

She locked her ankles behind his hips and pulled him hard against her. His erection pressed against her most intimate spot. Despite the sweet ache in his groin and the unbearable lust riding him, Owen tried to force himself to pull away. Anyone could come around the hedge and see them then. She would be ruined. But all he could think of was Alex's mouth on his, his hips levered against her, his tongue plunging in her mouth over and over, and his cock pressing against the juncture in her thighs, taunting her, teasing her. Making him want her even more.

When the kiss was over, he let her drop to the soft grass. He set her down softly and pulled her back away from the tree. “Are you all right?”

Alex pressed her fingertips to her burning lips. “Wh-why?”

His breathing was labored. “I—”

“Why,” she repeated, searching his face. “Tell me why you did that. I want to hear you say it.”

He closed his eyes and pushed his face toward the sky. “Would you believe me if I told you that I did it to teach you how to properly kiss a man?”

“No,” she breathed.

He opened his eyes again and stared into her soul. “Then I'll tell you the truth.”

“Which is?” Her hand was shaking.

“I did it because I want you.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Alex rushed back into the house and up the servants' staircase the same way she'd come minutes earlier. Only this time she was completely changed. She'd sneaked outside to get a bit of air to clear her head. She'd had no idea she'd encounter Owen alone in the gardens and even less of an idea that he'd
kiss
her, of all things.

And good heavens—
what
a kiss it had been. More than a kiss. An entire assault to her senses. One she hadn't wanted to end. She pressed her fingertips to her burning lips. If only she could keep her mouth untouched forever with the feel of Owen's lips meeting hers, seared in her memory.

She inspected the back of her torn dressing robe and night rail in the looking glass as best she could. They weren't ripped badly, but they were still ruined. She'd have the devil of a time explaining it to Hannah. She tugged off both garments and pulled a fresh night rail from her wardrobe. She crumpled up the ripped ones and stuffed them into the back of the cabinet. She'd ask Hannah to cut them into bits for the poorhouse tomorrow. There was no possible way her mother would see them and not ask questions.

She climbed under the covers and took a deep breath, trying to still the pounding of her heart. Owen Monroe was a conundrum. He didn't believe in himself. He should, but he didn't. He'd asked her if she respected him. Of course she did, but she'd wanted him to admit why it
mattered
to him what she thought. She'd wanted him to admit that he cared about her, cared for her. And he had. “I want you,” he'd said. He'd admitted it. He'd tasted like wine. He'd obviously been drinking, but she'd overheard her father say often enough that a sober man's thoughts were a drunken man's words. Had he been drunk when he kissed her? She was too inexperienced to tell for certain. But Owen did care for her. She was sure of that. And that's what she'd wanted to hear. Only it didn't matter, because he'd made it clear that he still intended to marry Lavinia.

Alex considered the kiss again. Their first kiss in Cass's ballroom when she hadn't stepped away, that had been pleasant, memorable even. But this one, this was the kind of kiss you remembered when you were a very old lady with a very poor memory. This kiss had been full of passion and longing and—when he'd pushed himself between her thighs! Oh yes, she'd be on her deathbed remembering that kiss.