Her brown eyes brightened. “Oh, how I do love the seaside. Do you enjoy those trips as well?”
A swell of bitterness cut through him, but he quickly pushed it aside. He’d never been invited. His father would need to pay attention to him for that, and while his stepmother did her best in the role once she married his father shortly after his second birthday, she was not equipped to love him fully. Not when he was a symbol of the very thing she had wanted most but could not have herself: children. Some women would have loved him more because of that, but Catherine had struggled to reconcile herself with the fact that Owen was the only child she would mother. By the time that became an unequivocal truth, it was too late for their relationship to be anything but strained.
He gave Miss Yardley a smile. “I would often come here instead, which I did enjoy very much.”
“How fortunate for Briarstead.”
Owen cut a bite from his lamb, eager for the conversation to shift. “Tell me of yourself, Miss Yardley.”
“My mother died many years ago, and my father is often away looking at his mines or investing in new ones.”
That certainly explained how they had been able to afford the estate. “In the south?”
“North Yorkshire. Not terribly far from here.” She wiped her lips and lowered her napkin. “Which has left poor Simon to fret over me. Our great-aunt lives with us as well, but she was ill this evening and took to her room.”
“How unfortunate. Does she need a doctor?”
“She is only ill when large parties come to dine, Captain.” Miss Yardley’s smile was good-natured, but she rolled her eyes. “My great-aunt has a case of nerves. You shall see her at church, but only at a distance.”
“Perhaps she needs someone like Miss Darling, then.”
Miss Yardley’s knife and fork stilled. “Why is that?”
Owen paused, lowering his bite of lamb to the plate. He hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but the thought came out on its own. Emma was so good with his aunt and her nervous affliction. Truthfully, he imagined she would be a good calming influence on any anxious soul.
He finally settled on, “She has some experience with the matter.”
That seemed to relax Miss Yardley. She continued to eat. “In my experience, anxious females need a good shock once in a while to break them of their fears.”
He stared at her. “Would that not increase their fears?”
“I should think not.” She continued to eat, puzzling Owen.
When he glanced across the table, he found Emma speakingquietly to Mr. Lofton. They appeared comfortable with one another, their conversation flowing at a steady clip. Neither of them was overanimated in any way, but it was clear they were engaged in speaking with each other, perfectly content.
It caused jealousy to broil hotly in Owen’s chest.
“My brother told me of your past,” Miss Yardley said gently, causing Owen to choke on the bite of lamb he’d smothered in mint jelly and shoved in his mouth. He reached for his wine and washed it down, allowing the butler to refill his glass. He drank some of that as well, gathering his wits about him.
Miss Yardley might have moved out of her gentleman-farmer father’s house and into a grand estate, but some of her manners were still lowborn when compared to the grace and diplomacy of the upper class. Owen had not been born into theton, but he had been surrounded by it enough to understand how best to properly behave. Now that he had inherited Buckley Place, he felt an imposter, playing a role he’d prepared his entire life for.
“It must be difficult to be forced to interact with her day after day,” she continued.
Emma observed him with concern now, but only because he had nearly died from a chunk of meat. Owen tore his gaze from her, placing it squarely on his dinner partner again. Time to quell her boldness. “You are mistaken, Miss Yardley. We are old friends, and being in one another’s company now is as painless and pleasant as being with my dear Aunt Clara.”
“And yet,” Miss Yardley challenged, “you continue to watch her, but she ignores you.”
Owen reached for his wine again. He couldn’t understand the woman’s motive for this conversation, but he had to admit she was correct. Not once in the entire time he had watched Emma had she glanced at him. Notonce.
Not until he commanded the attention of the entire room with his theatrics.
He scowled, surprised by her bluntness. He would meet it with his own. “What is it you seek, Miss Yardley?”
“A friend.” Miss Yardley reached for her wine glass and brought it to her lips. She drank from it, eyeing him all the while. She was practiced in the art of seduction—or perhaps practicing—and he was her subject. He’d known women like her in India, had witnessed their cunning. Being aware of her motives did not make her less beautiful, however, or her lips less plump and red.
Owen found himself staring at them and thinking of another set of perfectly pink lips that had stolen his attention that evening. He blinked, dragging his attention back to his plate.
What the devil had gotten into him? If he wasn’t careful, he might accidentally cause Miss Yardley to believe he felt some interest in her. He could never. She was too brash. She wasn’t Emma.
