All I Want (3 page)

“
Ciao
.” Addington wiggled his fingers at Owen. “Long walk ahead, since you haven’t any coin for a hack.”

The crowd tittered.

Owen bowed instead of replying, which he knew would rile Addington the most. The marquess was obviously trying to egg him into saying or doing something rash. But Owen had spent four dark years serving his country. Self-control was one of the first things he’d learned.
 

Not that it mattered overmuch. He’d never see Addington or Lady Matilda again. Instead, in another week’s time, he’d go back to battle. Just another soldier who no longer had any home or anyone to return to.

He turned his gaze toward Lady Matilda one last time.
 

She glanced away.
 

He was not even to have eye contact, then. Very well. Owen stood straighter. He’d been foolish to think he could ever be worthy of her, for even a moment. Had he won instead of lost, had it been five million pounds instead of five thousand, it still wouldn’t have changed the essence of who and what they were. She was a lady. He was a bastard. They would never be equals.
 

She could never be his.

Chapter Three

Lady Matilda didn’t wait until the weekend, nor for her cousin’s approval. She needed to speak to Owen before she lost the chance forever. Last time, he had not bothered to say goodbye before disappearing. This time, he would not be so lucky. She might not merit his love, but she certainly deserved an explanation.

Before first light, she arranged for a carriage and tore out of London toward North Yorkshire. With luck, Cousin Egbert would be too involved in his gentlemanly pursuits to note her absence until at least the morrow. All the posting houses had known her family for years and would do what they could to speed her along, but their country home in Selby was still two and a half days’ journey.
 

When she arrived at Owen’s small cottage in the poorest section of town, she asked the driver to return in an hour’s time. Despite her being the daughter of a marquess—or perhaps because of it—he refused to leave. The carriage would remain out front, and that was final.
 

Matilda had no choice but to acquiesce.
 

Whether the driver feared for her life or her reputation, she couldn’t say. But Owen was only fearsome in battle, and as for her reputation… Well, she was unlikely to run into anyone of her social circle on a street such as this. And even should she find herself immortalized in gossip rags, there was no scandal powerful enough to undo the allure of marrying a young lady with a thirty thousand pound dowry.
 

She held no illusions about her appeal. Her name and her money were the only reason any eligible bachelor took an interest. Were it not for her fortune and bloodline, she would be just another plain-faced wallflower, with no friends save the ones she found in books. That was the way the world worked.
 

Owen was the only one who had ever treated her like something more than a title and a purse. All he saw in her was a friend. During every one of her nanny’s afternoon naps, Matilda had shot straight out the servants’ exit to the secret meeting place in the backwoods. Owen taught her to whistle and trounced her at chess. She taught him his sums and read to him from books nicked from her father’s library.
 

Until he disappeared without a word.

She needed to know why.

But now that she was here, standing atop the stoop she’d only visited once before in her life—right after his disappearance—she couldn’t quite bring herself to lift the brass knocker. Last time, her call had gone unanswered because he’d joined the army without so much as a fare-thee-well. And this time… What if he stood on the other side of the plain wooden door, and still didn’t care enough to answer her knock? How would she go on?

She lowered her hand.
 

The door flew open.

“What the
devil
are you doing here?” Owen. Furious and handsome beyond words.

Her body tingled all the way to her fingertips. He was not what one might call pleased to see her, but at least he wouldn’t be leaving without saying goodbye. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

She elbowed past him. Or tried to. He was a fortress, tall and unmovable. He filled the doorway. His strong arms locked around her torso, preventing her from entering.

Or leaving.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. When Owen was a boy, he’d been too poor to smell like anything other than soap and sunshine, but now the clean red wool of his military jacket bore the faint scent of cologne. Something rich and spicy.

A long moment later, he still hadn’t moved. Nor did she wish to. She was pinned too well to wrap her arms about him as she wished. Instead, she laid her cheek against his chest and listened for the beat of his heart. But the thick wool blocked the sound. Even trapped in his arms, she still could not reach him.

He released her abruptly.

“I suppose you’ve come to have a look at the goods. And why not? It’s yours.” He didn’t bother to hide the bitterness from his voice.
 

She hitched up her chin. She hadn’t forced him to wager his childhood home on the turn of a card. Her shoulders sagged. Nor had he forced her to take a stance against him. She bit her lip. She’d only wished to prevent her cousin from having something else to lord over Owen, but all she’d managed to accomplish was to drive a wedge further between them.

“A tour, madam? Your mansion awaits.” He brandished his arm as if he were escorting her into a royal palace. Both his tone and his grandiose movements dripped with sarcasm.

His anger was well-placed. Nor could she blame him for being displeased with her unexpected appearance. But she had no choice. This was the last time she would ever see him. If she did not take his arm now, the opportunity to touch him, to stand by his side, would not present itself again.

She curved her fingers against the crook of his elbow before she could change her mind.
 

He tensed, his entire body still as stone.

She stared straight ahead without blinking. If his expression betrayed displeasure at her touch, she had no wish to see it. “Ready.”

Without another word, he led her down the hall. He seemed to be avoiding her gaze as assiduously as she avoided his. The muscles of his arm had not relaxed. But although he controlled his steps with the precision of a soldier, his stride was nonetheless graceful.
 

He was comfortable with his body in a way he’d never been as a boy, she realized with a jolt of awareness. Back then, he had been awkward and carefree. Now, he moved with the confidence of a tiger. Lean and strong and devastating. Her heartbeat thundered. No wonder ladies everywhere swooned in his presence. The aura of controlled danger was irresistible. This was a man who knew what he wanted and took as he pleased. It would be heady indeed to be the object of such single-focused passion.

It would be her darkest desire come true.

She tugged his arm closer. “Let’s make a new wager.”

He stopped walking. “A new wager for what?”

“This. Everything.” She rolled back her shoulders. “All or nothing.”

His eyebrows arched. “You already have everything. What more would I have to offer?”

His heart. His soul. His love. She fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a stack of playing cards. His lip curled. She forged ahead. “One shuffle. Highest card takes all. If you win, you keep your house
and
the money you would’ve earned last night.”

His eyes narrowed. “And if you win?”

“I’ll tell you after.” If she won, she would give it back anyway.
 

“No deal.” He leaned away from her. “I don’t gamble without knowing what I’ve wagered.”

“What if we both do?”
 

His head jerked up. “Wager blind? Are you mad?”

“We can write down what we wish to receive if we win, and seal the bets with wax. Completely fair.”

A laugh startled out of him. “The loser has no option to say no, regardless of the winner’s choice of spoils, and you call that fair?”

She could see he had no intention of agreeing to something so risky. “Is that a no?”

He nodded. “It’s a yes.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ve paper at my escritoire. Come this way. We may as well start the tour with my bedchamber.” Heat flashed in his eyes before he turned and strode down the corridor.

The shiver that raced down her spine was half panic, half desire. She rushed after him. She had just wished to return what was rightfully his in the one way he would feel honorable about accepting. What if she’d risked more than she was prepared to give?

She hurried through the open doorway.

He was already at his escritoire, dipping his pen in ink. A small bed stood to one side, a humble wardrobe at the other. The room was otherwise empty.
 

She crept forward, trying not stare too obviously at the bed, with its twin white pillows and one corner of a chestnut-colored blanket turned smartly down. It was simple but inviting, and she shouldn’t have been able to see it. Much less wish to lie upon it in his embrace.

He dripped wax atop a folded scrap of paper, then rose to offer her the chair. “Your wager, my lady.”

She slid a narrow-eyed glare in his direction, but this time could find no trace of irony in his words or mien. Her stomach fluttered. With a final glance over her shoulder at the open doorway, she straightened her spine and crossed the last few feet to the waiting chair.
 

Owen leaned against the corner of his bed. He was too far away to touch, yet his gaze upon her stripped her as bare as if his rough hands were undressing her.

Her fingers shook as she reached for the pen. Somehow she managed to dip the nub in black ink and scratch out a few fairly legible words. When she blew on the paper to dry the ink, she caught his dark gaze out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t staring at the parchment, but rather the pucker of her lips. His slow, arrogant smile melted her like honey in a kettle.
 

She folded the paper as quickly as her trembling fingers allowed and sealed the edge with candle wax.

“Here.” She thrust the small square toward him without waiting for the wax to harden. “My wager.”

He shook the wax dry, then rose to his feet. Her wager disappeared into his pocket along with his own folded square. He held out his arm. “Care to see the rest of the cottage? Or do you prefer we remain in the bedchamber?”

She leapt up from the escritoire and flew out into the corridor without accepting his proffered arm.

His low chuckle sent heat down her flesh. He followed her into the corridor and placed her fingers upon his sleeve before lowering his mouth to her ear. “A scoundrel can hope.”

She glared at him. At least, she meant to. The problem was, she was less shocked by his scandalous suggestion and more disappointed that he hadn’t meant it. Her cheeks burned. She’d waited almost one-and-twenty years for someone to kiss her, and thus far no one had ever tried. She smiled bitterly. A spinster could hope.

He led her to the next chamber, hesitating only slightly before flinging open the door.
 

The room was completely empty.

She glanced up at him, a question surely writ upon her face.
 

“My mother’s room.” He didn’t meet her eyes.

Her heart squeezed. “You must miss her terribly.”

“She was my mother,” he said simply.
 

No other words need be spoken. Matilda well knew the pain of losing a parent. She’d believed it the worst possible hell when she lost both her parents at a young age. Poor Owen. His father still lived, but had never once acknowledged him. His mother was all he’d ever had. Losing her meant losing everything.

She held his arm a little closer to her side. “Must you go back to the army?”

He snorted softly. “What other choice is there?”

She plucked at the folds of her gown. “You could sell your commission.”

“With no home to return to? Come. There are only two rooms left to show. First, the kitchen.” He turned to look at her, his eyes hopeful. “Might you stay for luncheon?”