Page 107 of Dukes All Night Long

“W e were right.”

Owen, weary in his road dirt, dropped into a chair in the steward’s quarters and accepted a brandy from Marshall gratefully. He had arrived just at dark.

The steward leaned out his door, located a footman with little effort, and sent the boy at a run to fetch Mrs. Morrit. “The man’s been stealing?” he asked, sitting across from Owen.

“Stealing, lying. All of it.”

“Did you discover if he’s her legal guardian?”

“He most definitely is not.” Owen leaned forward, one elbow on his knee. “According to her mother’s will, her guardian is the Duc d’Argenta until she is five and twenty.”

“Thank goodness for that. I sent the old miscreant on his way twice while you were gone—once with the local magistrate. I’d hate to find out he had rights.”

“Her guardian is some Italian Duke?” Mrs. Morrit swept into the room.

“A close friend of her mother, no doubt,” Owen said, “Madame Castellano—Sal Potter, actually, as it turns out—was no fool. She never would have trusted her sister’s husband. It was good you suggested I let the Glenmoor people handle it. Thank you for the letter of introduction.”

“The solicitor in on it?” Marshall asked.

“Probably not. More like incompetent. He read the will and believed everything Vicar Howard told him. When the bank in Rome sent only a trickle of money, he assumed it was all gone, and didn’t bother to respond to letters because he didn’t know Italian.”

“Nincompoop,” Mrs. Morrit muttered, and Marshall nodded in agreement.

Owen chuckled and went on, “The Glenmoor solicitors suspect the guardian got suspicious and clamped the funds down. They are contacting him now.”

They’re requesting permission for me to marry her, too. Owen kept that to himself, but the memory shot through him like a lightning bolt. “I need to speak to Lu—er, Annie. Alone.”

“Not like that you won’t,” Mrs. Morrit said. “I ordered hot water sent to your room. Clean up and then we’ll see.”

Owen took the stairs two at a time, thoughts of his Lucia washing away all weariness.

*

Annie put the Mozart score on the stand aside, dug deep into her heart, and pulled out Herr Beethoven’s most passionate sonata. She didn’t require a score. It poured out of her.

In the three weeks she’d been at Woodglen, she’d come to trust the people there, and the sense of safety permeated even her playing, unleashing the well of emotion she had suppressed since her mother’s death.

She could be comfortable here, and yet the passion of the music seemed to tell her she needed more.

Artie and Sam, the two footmen, sat spellbound in the corner, she knew. It no longer bothered her to have listeners. They were her friends. They’d come to tell her a man had arrived and was closeted with Marshall and Morrit. Owen .

Owen Pritchard loomed over everything. Owen.

The man she’d given her heart to in Rome years before.

The man who had carried her to safety in his arms, who’d left her here with these good people, people who trusted that he would come back as he promised, was the same man and yet more forceful and decisive.

Perhaps that new Owen was the “more” she longed for if she allowed herself to hope.

What then? Unfinished business hung in the air even as cascading melody surrounded her when she ran her fingers across the keys.

She paused before the second movement and heard the shuffle of feet as Artie and Sam rose.

“Pardon me, gentlemen, but I need a word with Miss Potter.”

Heart pounding, she turned, still seated on the piano bench, to see Owen, a single candle as usual in his hand, gesture to the door. Artie glanced back as if to ask if she minded, God love him. She nodded and smiled encouragement.

When Owen shut the door behind them, she rose.

“You look like a rabbit ready to bolt again. Please don’t. You are safe with me, but Mrs. Morrit has allowed us only twenty minutes.”

Annie’s thoughts flew in circles. Frightened rabbit? No. No longer. But a shy one .

“Was your business successful?” she asked.

“My business on your behalf was indeed successful.”

Startled, she had no idea what he meant. “ My business?”

“You will be reassured to know that your uncle is not and never was your guardian.” With every word, he stepped across the room, coming closer. He set his candle on the piano.

She blinked rapidly. “I—that is—guardian?” She shook her head in confusion.

“Your legal guardian, at least until you are twenty-five—”

“Seven months. I’ll be twenty-five in seven months.”

Her interruption seemed to please him. He grinned. “For seven more months, it is the Duc d’Argenta.”

“Uncle Luigi?” she gasped. “Why hasn’t he come forward?”

Owen laughed at her name for the duc. “Because he had no idea where you were. Your mother’s bone-headed solicitor knows no Italian and ignored his letters asking for information. They sat unopened in his office.”

She drew in a deep breath, staring at her feet, and let it out slowly. “I could have been living at Palazzo d’Argenta all this time instead of that miserable vicarage.”

“Yes, you should have been, but then I might not have found you.”

“And the duc would have insisted I perform. That is what he and Mama shared in common. Love for the stage.” She glanced up then.

“I do not wish to be on the stage, Owen. Never again. I’ve enjoyed playing for friends, but I don’t want audiences.

I don’t want to be dragged from venue to venue.

Dusty stages, crowded green rooms, travel—none of it.

You have to understand that. No agent. No tours. ”

He had come to stand mere inches from her. “If you don’t want that, then you won’t do it,” he murmured.

He took both her hands in his and an electrical charge ran up her arms, warming her from her core. He searched her face as if looking for the secret to the meaning of life.

She held her breath waiting for his kiss, but he spoke instead. “How do you feel about playing in churches, or for church communities?”

It wasn’t what she expected. “Uncle’s church was cold inside and out. The organ wheezed.”

He chuckled, running his thumbs over the back of her hands. “The organ at Llandaff Cathedral doesn’t wheeze. It soars.”

Her brow furrowed. “Where is that?”

“Cardiff. My home. I’m the organist and music director. You could teach, you could lead choir, you could…” At her gape-mouthed stare, he rushed on. “But of course, you don’t have to. You could care for home and children. You could—”

“Owen?” she whispered. “What are you trying to say?

He dropped one of her hands to run his fingers through his hair. “I’m making a muddle of this, aren’t I?”

She pursed her lips tightly, determined not to rescue him. “That depends on what you’re trying to say.”

He raised his eyes to the ceiling and back to her face. “I’m trying to say that I love you, Lucia Castellano or Annie Potter, whichever you choose.” He cupped her face with trembling fingers. “You stole my heart with a sonata seven years ago and never gave it back. I’ve waited and—”

Annie didn’t wait. She stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth to his. She dropped back down and smiled at him. “And?” she asked.

She barely got the word out before he claimed her mouth with his, gently at first and then more deeply, setting off a conflagration of passion.

His hands slid down her cheeks to her neck, her shoulders, her back, pulling her tight against him, while his lips explored her eyes, her ears and the sensitive spot between ear and neck, and back to claim her mouth again, taking possession.

The distant part of her mind that still managed conscious awareness thought perhaps his hand wandered places it shouldn’t. Inspired, her hands slid under his coat seeking to feel him until, frustrated, she began to unbutton his waistcoat.

Only the necessity of breathing broke the kiss in the end. Leaning his forehead against hers and gasping for breath, he said, “That. That was what I was trying to say.”

She struggled to catch her breath and a laugh didn’t help. “Didn’t you forget something?”

Without letting go of her, his head bobbed up and his brows rose, asking what she meant silently.

“What was all that about home and children?” she asked, rubbing her fingers across his lapels.

He gasped and took a step back, taking her hands in his as he did. “I did rather get ahead of myself, though after that interesting interlude, I think I can guess your response.” He dropped to one knee. “Will you marry me, Lucia?”

Her lips quirked, and she tipped her head to one side. “Annie,” she insisted.

“Very well, Annie, though you will always be the light of my life. Will you marry me—Annie? I’m afraid Cardiff is part of what you would be agreeing to, but you can do what you want with your music.”

“I think I’ll like this Cardiff very well—Owen. Yes, I will marry you.”

He leapt to his feet and leaned toward her for another kiss.

“Wait,” she said, laying a hand on his chest. “Do we need my guardian’s permission?” Stupid law, but there you have it.

His grin was naughty. “I already sent the request to the duc. If it comes, we can marry as soon as it arrives. If not, you’ll be of age in seven months.”

“I think I’ll like having a husband who gives me choices but plans ahead,” she said, caressing his shirt. “Now, where were we? How much time do we have?”

He scooped her into his arms and carried her to a settee. “We have our whole lives, but after seven years of waiting, I don’t plan to waste a minute of it.” He set his mouth to hers and showed her exactly what he meant.

The End