“You’ve never complied with my wishes!” The Earl of Moreland banged his large fist against the desk. “Too many to count,” Owen muttered again, glancing down at the tabletop so he wouldn’t have to witness the assault on the garment. “And how many times have you left here and done absolutely nothing to comply with my wishes?” his father replied, still tugging on his lapels. “Quite a few,” Owen answered in a clearer voice. “What was that?” His father narrowed his eyes on him. He was already thinking of the hand of cards he’d be playing tonight at his favorite gaming hell. “Too many to count,” Owen muttered under his breath. “How many times have we had this discussion?” “You don’t understand at all,” the earl continued. There was no need to take it out on the garment. You don’t understand, Owen.” His father clutched at the lapels of his own burgundy coat and tugged viciously.
You want me to find a wife and ‘settle down.’ I understand entirely.”
“There, you see? I’ve cataloged all my faults. He focused his gaze on his father’s red face. Well dressed, well fed, well entertained. The garment had cost a small fortune, but then again, high fashion didn’t come cheap and Owen prided himself on being well dressed. Owen picked an imaginary bit of lint from the front of his impeccably tailored blue coat. Owen pressed his lips together to keep from saying something he’d regret. I don’t think you do understand,” the earl said, stamping his foot against the wooden floor again. He had learned over years of such meetings that it was best to get out quickly before his father had a chance to toss more empty threats at his head. “I understand,” Owen drawled, standing up from the leather-upholstered chair that sat in front of his father’s large mahogany desk. At least it would be more palatable if he were half in the bottle. Blast, he should have stopped at the club and been even later than he already was to his father’s favorite pastime, dressing down his son. Only this time, Owen had the misfortunate to be completely … sober. He’d been summoned to his father’s study for what was likely the sixth time in as many months.
Owen tugged at his sleeve and did his best to keep from rolling his eyes. “You heard me, Owen, and this time I’m putting my foot down.” The stamp of a boot lent credence to that particular claim.
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