“What does any man want who falls in love?” Owen asked quietly, thankful there was no one else in the kitchen but them.
“Love?” Tommie repeated, then smiled softly. “Well, the butler is a man now. You are in love with our duchess?”
“Yes.” Owen knew to deny it would be a pointless thing. He was passionately devoted to her, not only thinking of her long into the night before he could sleep but waking up thinking of her too. So often, he had rolled over in his bed, wishing he could wake up beside her again, brushing the hair back from her forehead and setting kisses at the top of her neck, then asking her how she wanted to spend her day. That was the life he wanted.
“Do not say it,” Tommie said, pinching the bridge of his nose before he realized his hands were still covered in flour. He lowered his hand and made a grab for a nearby muslin cloth, wiping the flour from his face.
“Say what?” Owen asked.
“You said, what does any man want who falls in love. The answer is simple. They want to marry the woman.” Tommie abruptly walked away from the worktop, reaching for the kitchen door that he flung shut.
“Making sure no one can hear us?”
“Exactly.” He hurried forward, reaching for Owen’s shoulder and giving him a good shake. “You cannot marry a married woman, you fool.”
“I never said I could. That doesn’t mean I can stop myself from wanting it.”
“You’re talking of bigamy! You can be arrested for such a thing. So could she.”
“I would never do that to her.” He shook his head firmly, knowing he couldn’t put Diana at that risk. “All I’m saying is … had it been a different life, was she not wed. Well, I know exactly what I would be asking her about now.”
“Well, my friend, you certainly are a man who is lovesick.” Tommie released his shoulder and stood straight, reaching for the dough on the other side of the table and flouring it another time.
“I am not as great a fool as I appear to be right now, Tommie,” Owen said with a smile.
“So, why are you running around town visiting prisons trying to find out what the duke’s business really is?” Tommie asked, lifting his eyebrows.
“Because I may not be able to have the life with Diana that I want, but I’m going to damn well try to give her a life that she deserves, at the very least.” He felt the determination of his words, making his voice sharp. “She shouldn’t have to live with a man like that forever. Isolated, alone, and miserable.”
“That’s why you’re doing this then? To see if there’s any way to get her out of her marriage to the duke?”
“That and for Jessie,” he said quietly. “She’s heartbroken, Tommie. If we’re right, the man she loved is responsible for the death of a very old friend. Who can ever repair that damage?”
“Nothing can,” Tommie said, shaking his head as he placed the dough down again with a firm thwack. “It’s a tragic thing; nothing much can be done about it.”
“Maybe something can be done, no matter how small.” Owen stood to his feet, about to leave, when the door opened, and Tommie waved the dough ball in his direction.
“Shh – look.” He gestured behind him.
Owen turned around to find Jessie advancing towards him. Her eyes were red and puffy, showing she had been crying all night again.
“Jessie, how are you?” Owen asked, unsure what else to say. She shrugged, clearly the only answer she was going to give. She delved a hand into the skirt of her dress, pulling out a sheet of paper, and offered it to him.
“I found this. Mr Arnold, you need to be more careful with hiding this kind of thing,” she said, whispering the words to him before crossing to the side of the kitchen and collecting the brass bucket she used to make up the fires. As she left the room, Owen unfurled the paper, finding one of the paintings he had made of Diana.
With the paints she had purchased for him, he had painted her sitting in the library, writing at her desk. Only in this picture, her wings were complete and intact. They did not appear so fragile now, only bolder and in more vivid colours.
“You have talent, my friend,” Tommie said, peering over his shoulder. “Jessie is right, though, do not leave that kind of thing hanging around.”
Owen snatched the paper away, hiding it against his chest as he hung his head, realizing it must have fallen out of his pocket, then he felt guilty the next moment.
This is not the way to love Diana, with so much secrecy.
***
Diana peered across the breakfast table as Owen placed some letters down on the table beside her. He briefly danced his fingers across the back of her hand, a stolen touch before the footmen entered to serve up her food. She quickly hid her smile behind her letters as she opened them up.
The first letter was from her father, the first one in ages. To her dismay, he spoke of nothing but more debts. It seemed his attempt to save his reputation by marrying her off had only gone so far. Unable to defy his habit, he had returned to the gambling halls and spent more of his money. He didn’t ask after her or her marriage. He was merely writing to her to ask if the duke could spare him a loan.
