Page 72 of Her Tiger of a Duke
“Is love enough?”
“I would say so.”
But, if that were the case, he would have given into his feelings for Beatrice by now. There was no denying his attraction to her, nor the innate need he felt to protect her, but every time he felt himself coming close to giving in to her, he pulled back again. He had lost everyone he had loved, and he could not bear the thought of losing her too.
“Then I suppose I ought to relax,” George sighed. “I have a beautiful wife, and a child on the way, and a lovely home. I ought to be grateful for that.”
“Indeed. Come, let us see our lovely wives and ruin their time together.”
The man chuckled, and they made their way to the drawing room. Owen felt that same lump in his throat that had been there since the night of the ball, when he had pushed Beatrice away again. She had done nothing to deserve his actions, and he knew that, but he could not change.
When they entered the room, Owen could tell that his wife had been crying, but it was not the time to mention it. He knew that they would have time alone that night, and he would ask her what had happened then.
He simply hoped that he was not the cause of it.
“Hello, ladies,” George greeted. “I do hope that we are not intruding.”
“Not at all,” Lady Helena replied with a soft smile. “We were actually talking about the two of you.”
“All good things, I do hope.”
Once again, Owen’s eyes fell on his wife. She was now smiling, and all traces of unhappiness had vanished, but he knew what he had seen.
“Of course,” she replied. “You say that as though either of you have given us cause to feel otherwise.”
George laughed, sitting beside his wife and taking her hand. Owen did the same, but it was stiff, like a performance. Suddenly, he had an urge to make Beatrice feel different than she clearly did.
When they went to bed that night, Owen found Beatrice outside her room. He had not wanted to talk about her crying in front of others, and that had meant waiting. In that time, he saw that her sadness had turned into something else, something more closely resembling anger.
“Are you all right?” he asked, albeit rather sheepishly.
“You ask me as though you are deeply concerned.”
“I am. You know that I am.”
“Do I?” she asked. “Tell me, Your Grace, when have you ever made it known to me that you care?”
“In many ways. I married you, did I not?”
“As if you had a choice. I shall rephrase. When did you choose to show me how much you care?”
Owen could not deny that her questioning offended him greatly. Everything that he had done had been for her sake, and for her to dismiss it all was proof that she was ungrateful for it. He rolled his eyes, and in spite of the dim candlelight she saw him, and her own eyes flashed.
“That is precisely what I am saying!” she snapped. “Do you know how humiliating it was to sit across from my friend, and listen to her tell me all about her doting husband who adores her and would do anything for her, and know that I shall never have the same?”
“You knew that when you married me. I was clear about it. You cannot blame me because you expected more from me than what I could give.”
“And yet, you forget that this, all of it, is proof that you can love.”
She gestured around them, and Owen knew precisely what she was referring to. He had opened a home to someone who was not his wife and done everything that he could to care for her, while Beatrice was given what was left.
“It may seem unfair, but–”
“Do you love her?” she asked.
“What?”
“Do you love Helena?”
