He should not have any interest in Emma, though, either.
The thought drew his gaze to the woman he loved most of all at the table—Aunt Clara. Her attention was on her dinner as she kindly listened to Simon prattle on about something, but the pain in her eyes was evident.
What had Owen been thinking? He could not dash off to Yorkshire just yet. Not in this delicate time of his aunt’s well-being.
What Owen needed was to clear his mind ofhimself. He needed to reframe his focus back to where it was meant to be.
The debt he needed to settle and his parents’ visit could wait another fortnight. They had waited so long already, and Tom Danvers, for one, did not even know Owen meant to visit him. What was another few weeks?
Owen glanced up to find Emma watching Aunt Clara as well, a small pucker on her brow that spoke to her similar concern. Perhaps Owen had been approaching his past with her entirely wrong. The truce had been the first thing he’d done correctly.Each time she had been on his side, things had run more smoothly.
He did not need to avoid the woman or ignore their uncomfortable history.
No, what they needed was to work together.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“These wretchedbeasts will be the death of me,” Emma muttered, stepping through the crowd of four sleek hunting dogs. They moved about her feet, nearly causing her to trip more than once as she crossed the small parlor in Primrose End. Work had begun to bring the place up to snuff, repairing a broken window and damage to some of the upstairs rooms where the roof had leaked.
The furniture was shrouded in Holland covers, lumps of white dotting the room like a snow-covered garden. Emma had been given express permission to create a list of anything the house lacked, so it might be ordered. She was to operate as though ample funds were at her disposal—whatever Mrs. Buckley would have spent had the house been left in her name.
Owen had been careful to deliver this aspect of the errand to Emma privately. One wrong word would send his aunt running in the opposite direction.
She dragged the drapes open, letting vibrant noonday sunlight wash over the parlor. Emma coughed from the plume of dust that billowed out. One of the dogs whined behind her.
“Hush, you,” she admonished.
“What is it, dear?” Mrs. Buckley asked, stepping into the room.
“One of the dogs needs something. But I haven’t the faintest idea what they’re begging for.” She stepped away from the horde, but they followed.
Mrs. Buckley clicked her tongue and approached. The beasts scattered.
It was unfair that the woman who wanted their companionship seemed to repulse them. Mrs. Buckley had taken it into her mind to adopt the dogs, treating them as though they were her children. She had never allowed them in the house much before, but now that her husband had left them in her sole possession, her opinion had altered significantly. The trouble was, they preferred Emma, for reasons unknown to anyone.
“Perhaps they are hungry,” Mrs. Buckley suggested.
“Could be. Have you looked in on the dining room? We’ll need to discuss table size. How often do you intend to entertain here? Or will you be doing that at the big house, as the captain suggested?”
Mrs. Buckley followed a few dogs from the room, refusing to answer the question.
Emma suppressed her irritation. The trouble with needing to order furniture was that she received no help from the person she was purchasing it for. Puffing out her cheeks, she released a breath. When she glanced down, one of the dogs tilted his head to the side, lifting his ear as though he understood her dilemma. As though he was replying with, “What ails you, fair lady?”
“Goodness,” she muttered, circling the dog and leaving the room. “I’m conversing with animals now. And I am forcing them to call mepretty.”
A man stepped past the door carrying a plank of wood, so Emma pulled the dog back by the collar to allow him through the corridor. She twisted it, reading the inscription in the leather.Valor.
“You say that as though it is absurd,” Owen said, following the workman and filling the doorway with his broad shoulders and amused half grin.
Warmth rushed to Emma’s cheeks. He had heard her refer to herself, aged and worn, as pretty. She wanted to sink into the aged and worn floor. She would certainly blend in.
“I speak to my horse every day,” he continued.
“Giving commands is entirely different.”
Owen leaned against the door frame. “When one is lonely, one will speak to whoever or whatever is nearby. I have seen men find companionship in the oddest of things.” His eyes danced briefly over her skin before he seemed to recall himself—or before allowing her to address the way he had referred to her as lonely. It was a massive assumption to make about another person. “Have you and Aunt Clara managed to inventory the house?”
Exhaustion swept through her, though she pressed against it, attempting to keep it at bay. “Not exactly. I’ve yet to determine what is beneath most of the covers, and I cannot convince Mrs. Buckley to provide any insight into what sort of life she would like to prepare for here. The size of the table, the number of parlor chairs, or whether we ought to measure for a pianoforte?—”
