The Untamed Earl(65)

Alex made her way out of the library and down the corridor. As she passed the foyer, she heard a woman’s tinkling laughter and Owen’s voice. “You don’t know how bad I can be.”

Alex froze. Her hands began shaking. She didn’t want to take another step, but she forced herself to continue walking. The sooner she passed the foyer, the better, and there was no other way to return to the ballroom, not that she knew of, at least. She briefly considered rushing back to hide in the library with Jane, but she discarded that cowardly notion just as quickly. No. She would walk past him with her head held high.

And that’s just what she did.

Alex tried not to look. Truly she did. At first the couple standing far too close to one another in the foyer were little more than a shadow and a blur, but when Alex came into sight, the woman gasped, Alex looked, and Owen’s head snapped up to face her. He took a guilty step away from Mrs. Clare.

“Alex,” he said in a calm, clear voice.

Alex nodded to him, trying to force her feet to keep moving, but she was rooted to the spot. “My lord,” she uttered. “What are you doing?” Her heart thumped so hard in her chest that it hurt.

He turned and the gorgeous blond widow turned, too, and narrowed her silvery eyes on Alex.

“You shouldn’t be here, Alex. You shouldn’t be seeing this.” His words rang out like shots that cracked against the marble pillars of the foyer.

“Seeing this,” she echoed, lifting her chin and subtly straightening her shoulders. She was fighting to not let him affect her. “You didn’t answer. What is ‘this’?”

The widow pulled her shrug more tightly around her shoulders. “What adults do, sweet. Now, run along and play with the other children.”

Alex’s head snapped to the side as if she’d been slapped. But she forced herself to raise her chin again, and she met Owen’s gaze with unshed tears in her eyes. “Is that what I am to you, Owen? A child.”

The widow laughed a deep sultry laugh and opened her mouth to say some other—no doubt equally biting—thing, but Owen raised his hand in a signal that stopped her. His voice was low and harsh. “Go back to your party, Alex.”





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Owen made it all the way into the widow’s bedchamber before he realized he wouldn’t spend the night with her. Or, more precisely, he couldn’t spend the night with her. Helena was gorgeous, lush, and curvaceous. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips attached to his, but he felt nothing. Hollow. All he could picture was Alex’s sweet face when he’d said, “Go back to your party.” She’d lifted her magnificent chin and faced him head-on. He could tell she’d been struggling to keep from crying. Damn it. Damn him. He was nothing more than a scoundrel. He wasn’t good for Alex. He wasn’t good for anyone.

Owen swallowed hard and pulled the widow’s arms away from his neck. Her face immediately screwed into a practiced pout. “What’s wrong, darling?”

“I have to go.” He stepped away from her.

“Go?” She laughed a throaty laugh. “You must be joking.”

“No. I’m not. I find I’m—ahem—indisposed this evening.”

“Indisposed? What the hell does that mean?” Her brows were two furious blond slants above her gray eyes.

He turned toward the door.

“If you leave here tonight, Monroe, you won’t be offered another opportunity.”

He paused only briefly. The hint of a smile touched his lips. “I understand.” And then he was gone, down the stairs, across the marble floor of her impeccable foyer, and out the front door to his coach, which was still waiting. The coachman had clearly settled in to take a long nap; his hat had been covering his face and he’d been slumped to the side of the conveyance.

Owen rapped once on the side of the coach. “Home,” he barked.

The coachman jumped so quickly and so high that his hat flew into the air and he fumbled to catch it. The poor man looked beyond shocked to see him. “Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord,” he choked, righting his hat atop his head and speedily gathering the reins in his hands.

The conveyance took off down the street moments later with Owen inside cursing furiously at himself.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Four brandies were really not so many when one stopped to contemplate the matter. Owen held brandy number five beneath his nose and contemplated it through only partially bleary eyes.

“Monroe, are you going to stare at it or drink it?” Cavendish asked from beside him. They were at Brooks’s, having just finished a hand of cards that Owen had lost. Ever since, he had been intent on blaming his excessive drinking.