Owen let the exchange pass over him, his attention drifting despite himself.
A month.
It had been a whole month since he had returned to England, a month since his father’s death had drawn him back from a life that, for all its hardship, had possessed clarity. There had been purpose in every action then. Every order was given, and every risk was first measured, then taken.
Now, he was sitting at a polished table, discussing card games.
Marquess of Westbridge.
The title sat upon him with a weight he had not yet learned to carry. He had not wanted to return. The thought came unbidden, as it often did, not in the way his mother might imagine out of reluctance for duty, or distaste for responsibility, but becauseeverything here felt … diminished. He felt as though the world he had known had been stripped of consequence and replaced with something smaller, safer, and less real.
“… and of course,” Harrow was saying, “if one is to be ruined at the card table, it is far more preferable to be ruined in excellent company.”
“You speak as though you intend to test the matter yourself,” his mother replied.
“I should never dare, my dear lady. My purse would not survive it.”
“That has not stopped many men of your acquaintance, I am sure.”
“On the contrary, it is precisely what encourages them.”
His mother smiled again, clearly pleased by the exchange. Such easy charm was a skill Owen did not possess. Nor, he suspected, did he care to acquire it.
“You have been very quiet since your return, Westbridge,” Harrow said at last, turning his attention toward him more directly. “One might almost think you preferred Spain.”
Owen met his gaze. “Spain had its advantages.”
Harrow’s expression softened slightly, the humor not entirely gone, but tempered now with understanding.
“It also had its disadvantages,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Which is precisely why,” his mother interjected, with a firmness that allowed no contradiction, “it is time you both remembered that you are no longer there.”
Owen’s jaw tightened slightly.
“You are in London now,” she continued. “And London has expectations.”
“I am aware.”
“Then you must begin to meet them.”
Harrow glanced between them, as though sensing the shift in tone, but said nothing.
“You have been here a month,” she went on. “A month, and you have made no effort to reestablish yourself. You do not call. You do not attend. You do not engage.”
“I have engagements,” Owen said.
“With your steward, perhaps,” she returned. “Or your solicitor. Those do not constitute a social presence.” He didn’t say anything to that, so she simply continued. “You are a marquess. It is not a matter of requirement. It is a matter of duty.”
Duty.
The word struck him differently now. There had been a time when duty meant standing beside men who trusted him with their lives. Now, it meant attending dinners, balls, and endless, meaningless conversation.
Harrow cleared his throat lightly. “There is, in fairness, a certain merit to it. One cannot spend one’s life entirely in retreat.”
“I am not in retreat.”
