“Damn it, Owen. You must care about something.”
Owen did care about something. He adored his younger sister, Cassandra, and his horses. In that order. Neither had ever let him down. Neither had ever believed the worst of him. “I care about the damage you’re wreaking on your lapels,” he drawled.
The earl lifted his chin. “That’s it. I’ve given you plenty of opportunities. I’m officially finished putting up with your behavior. You will return here one month from today with an affianced bride or else!”
Owen’s gaze flicked over his father. Was that spittle on his chin? The old blighter really had his back up this time, didn’t he? But Owen couldn’t help himself. “Or else what?”
“Or else … or else I will cut off your allowance. Yes. That’s it. I should have done it long before now. I am not giving you another pound until you are properly engaged.”
Owen arched a brow and picked another invisible piece of lint, this time from his coat sleeve. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
His father’s face turned even redder, if that were possible. “No. I don’t.”
Owen studied his father’s countenance. By God, the old man was actually serious. Or at least seemed to believe he was serious. His face was a mottled purplish color and his neck was bulging beneath his neckcloth. Yes, Father was serious, indeed. Owen groaned. He’d always known this day would come. The day when his father insisted he take a wife. He supposed he couldn’t escape the parson’s noose forever. He’d had a good run, actually.
Owen shrugged. “Fine. If I must choose a wife, I’ll pick one out. Someone biddable, willing, quiet. One who’ll look the other way. Someone passably pretty and exceedingly meek.”
His father shook his head. “You don’t understand, Owen.”
Owen flicked at his cheek. “Understand what?”
“I’m not asking you to choose a wife. I’m telling you whom you’ll marry.”
Owen’s head snapped up. “You mean to say you’ve already got a candidate in mind?”
His father nodded, his jowls shaking vigorously once more. “Yes. Her father and I have already been discussing the contract.”
Owen leaned back into his seat, the wind knocked from his lungs. Well, he hadn’t seen this coming. Not at all. And he was rarely caught by surprise. He leaned far back in his chair, stretched out his long legs in front of him, and crossed his feet at the ankles. Perhaps this was even more serious than he’d guessed. “Discussing the contract? Good God. Who is it?”
His father cleared his throat, released his beleaguered jacket, and calmly folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “Lady Lavinia Hobbs. The Duke of Huntley’s eldest daughter.”
Owen scanned his memory. Hobbs? Lavinia Hobbs? The name was familiar, but he couldn’t recall a face. Blast. There were far too many pretty little daughters of overly entitled aristocrats to remember them all. And they were certainly not the sort of company Owen preferred to keep. The Duke of Huntley owned land adjacent to Father’s in the country. He knew that much. He’d been to parties at the duke’s country estate countless times. But none of that mattered to him at present. What did Lavinia Hobbs look like? More important, what did she act like? Was she biddable? Was she meek?
He couldn’t recall and he wasn’t about to ask his obviously enraged father. No matter. One eligible innocent was as good as another, Owen supposed. What did it matter whom he married? He’d stop his merrymaking long enough to participate in a wedding, get an heir or two off her, and then resume his style of living. It was more the norm than the exception among his set. It signified little. This was nothing to worry about.
“I’m certain she’s fine, Father. Whatever you say.” Again, Owen stood to make his way to the door. He’d simply go to the club and get a good drunk going, and then he would continue to live his life exactly the way he had been doing for the last thirty-one years. A sennight or so before his next visit to his father, he would track down this Lavinia Hobbs, toss around a bit of charm, smile at her, kiss the back of her hand, and finally ask her to marry him. She’d jump at the chance, of course, because despite his sullied reputation, he was still one of the most eligible bachelors in the ton. Inheriting an earldom tended to whitewash even the most tattered reputation. Then, he’d return here in a month’s time, announce his success to his father, secure his allowance, and go about his routine, while Lady Lavinia planned a wedding worthy of a future earl and the daughter of a duke. After the wedding, he’d install the chit in one of their homes in the country, and that would be that until it was time to beget an heir. Not so difficult, really. He shrugged.