Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“You have just turned twenty-one. It is time that you were wed.”

“So, when my birthday dawned, you decided that you loved me.”

“Not precisely, but close enough.”

She thought for a brief moment that he would have liked to add “damn you!” But of course he did not. “Owen,” she said finally, still hopeful that he would slip and tell her something, “do you not recall that I am penniless? Hardly worthy wife material, I should say. Don’t you agree?”

“There are more important things than money,” he said.

“Not to your family, Owen,” she said.

“You are wrong, Elizabeth, quite wrong! My mother and father think you are wonderful, and they do not mind that you do not have a dowry, I promise you.”

He wasn’t going to tell her a damned thing, Chauncey realized in disgust. He had been well-coached. “Owen,” she said, “I have no intention of wedding anyone. I suggest you forget your newly acquired feelings for me.”

“I cannot!” he said, his voice sharp now. He made a move to capture her hands, but Chauncey quickly whisked behind a chair. “It is not kind of you to . . . toy with my feelings.”

“Owen,” she said with great patience, “I do not wish to toy with anyone’s feelings. I wish only to be left alone.” She lowered her eyes a moment, and added, “Indeed, your parents’ kindness to me has made me realize that I cannot continue to live on their bounty. I intend to find myself some sort of position.”

“Position! That is ridiculous! My mother would never hear of such a thing. No, Elizabeth, for your protection, you must marry me.”

“I remember, Owen, that you offered me your protection, without marriage.”

“It was but a . . . jest, my dear. Aye, a jest.” “Good night, Owen,” she said, lifting her chin.

“No, wait!”

Chauncey raised her skirts and ran from the salon. No, dear Owen, she thought as she ran up the stairs, I have no intention of being mauled by you!

“Elizabeth!”

He was chasing her! Chauncey made her room barely in time. She slammed the door and clicked the lock. She leaned against the door, painfully aware of her heaving breasts and pounding heart.

The doorknob rattled suddenly. “Elizabeth, let me in! I only want to speak to you. Come, unlock the door.”

Where was Mary? Would her Aunt Augusta have the door broken down so Owen could compromise her? Try for a little deviousness, Chauncey, she told herself. You should have learned something about it from Aunt Augusta. “Owen, dear,” she said softly. “I have a terrible headache. And you have surprised me mightily. I . . . I think my nerves are disordered. Can we speak of”—she couldn’t bring herself to say “marriage”—“your feelings and mine on the morrow?”

There was utter silence for several moments. She thought she heard footsteps, and pressed her ear to the door. She heard her Aunt Augusta’s voice, but could not make out her words. Then Owen said, “Of course, Elizabeth. You think my feelings for you are sudden, when in fact they are of long standing. We will speak tomorrow morning. Sleep well, my love.”

Chauncey drew a deep breath. So Aunt Augusta had given her a night’s respite. This is like something out of a melodrama, she thought suddenly, pained laughter bubbling up in her throat. And Owen’s acting is every bit as bad as poor Romeo’s was! She no longer wan

ted to laugh, she was too frightened. She stood for several more moments, then walked purposefully to her armoire. She pulled out her large valise and began to pack her belongings. She stared a moment at the new gowns, then tossed them on the floor of the armoire.

When her valise was packed, she walked to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. The night was thick and uninviting, a heavy fog encasing even the tall trees in the park. This is all such nonsense, she thought, regaining her perspective. They cannot hold me prisoner, after all.

Chauncey awoke the next morning at a sharp knock on her door. She blinked away sleep and called out, “Who is it?”

“Mary, miss.”

She heaved a sigh of relief and quickly rose to unlock the door. “I had thought it might be Owen,” she said.

“Your valise, miss,” Mary said, eyeing the bulging bag.

“Yes,” Chauncey said. “I am leaving this morning, Mary. I am going to see my Uncle Paul. He will help me, he must.”

At Mary’s questioning look, Chauncey quickly told her what had happened the night before.

“Lawks!” Mary said. “Well, miss, after I’ve seen you dressed, I’ll go pack my own things. And don’t you worry, miss, we’ll manage, you’ll see.”