His mother descended with a rustle of silk and reproach. She wore her best amethysts, which should have warned him that ordinary domestic peace had been abandoned.
“General Langley and Miss Langley.”
For a moment, Owen said nothing. The name struck with such cold precision that all thoughts of Greenwich vanished.
“I was not aware we were intimate with General Langley.”
“Why, we’ve known the family for years. And besides, they are already seated, because you were late.”
“I was not late,” he corrected her.
“You were absent, which is worse.”
Owen drew a slow breath. The urge to turn on his heel and leave the house again was powerful enough to be almost comic. Instead, he allowed his mother to fuss at his cravat and endured her murmured instruction that he was to be civil.
Before he could answer, the dining room door opened and the butler announced him as though he had not already been master of the house for some months.
The sight within did nothing to improve his temper.
General Langley sat at Owen’s table with the ease of a man accustomed to occupying any room he entered. He had not taken the head, of course. Even he would not violate propriety so crudely. But he had placed himself near enough to command the conversation, while Charlotte seemed to be placed next to his mother’s seat.
Both looked up as Owen entered.
“My lord,” Charlotte said, rising just enough to make the gesture graceful rather than necessary. “How very good to see you.”
General Langley smiled. It was a hard, polished expression.
“Lord Westbridge. We began to fear affairs of state had detained you.”
“Nothing so important,” Owen replied.
His mother gave him a warning glance. He bowed first to Charlotte, then to her father, and took the seat arranged for him with a resignation that tasted very much like anger.
Dinner proceeded with all the elegance of an ambush.
Charlotte was sweetness itself. She asked after his health, after his adjustment to London, after whether he found society improved or diminished since his absence. Her eyes remained attentively upon him whenever he answered, as though each syllable were of private interest to her.
General Langley, meanwhile, was affable in the manner of a commander granting temporary favor. He praised the wine, complimented the table, and spoke warmly of old acquaintances. He offered small reminiscences of Owen’s boyhood as though they had been family friends rather than men connected chiefly through rank, army, and convenience.
“How many years ago was it,” his mother asked, smiling at Charlotte, “that you and Owen ran wild through the gardens at Westbridge House? You cannot have been more than seven.”
“I remember it perfectly,” Charlotte answered. “Lord Westbridge was terribly solemn even then.”
“Was I?” Owen asked without any interest.
“Oh, dreadfully. I thought it very grand.”
“You were easily impressed.”
Charlotte laughed as though he had paid her a compliment. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I had excellent judgement early.”
His mother looked delighted. “I always said you made a charming pair. Even as children. Did I not, General?”
“You did,” Langley replied. “And I believe I agreed with you.”
Owen set down his knife with care.
“It is fortunate,” he said, “that children are not bound by the expectations adults place upon them.”
