Page 113 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
It was a curious transition, with them trying to find their way back to the path that his leaving had taken them from.
And even then, it wasn’t quite the same path; they’d rejoined it several bends further along.
As they walked into the house, the luncheon gong rang. Instinctively, he steeled himself. Lucilla cast him a reassuring glance, wordlessly assuring him that all would be well; tightening her grip on his hand, she drew him on.
And she was proved correct. Catriona beamed upon him; Marcus appeared neutral, yet he nodded easily and talked about the dogs. Richard was the only one who appeared watchful, assessing, waiting to see how matters played out.
But most importantly in Thomas’s eyes, Lucilla interacted with him not just as she always had but with a more personal, tentative, exploratory connection that set him apart from everyone else.
He was perfectly willing to work with her on that—to allow what linked them to evolve and deepen, to let it infuse their actions and strengthen the ties that already bound them.
Given the smiles directed their way from everyone in the body of the hall, the existence of those ties was obvious to all.
That was reassuring, but as, seated beside Lucilla, he supped and ate, he realized he wanted, and needed, more. And with his awareness of her deepening with every breath, he knew—somewhere inside, where everything about her wants and needs now resided—that she, too, needed more. Having lived through the drama of his leaving and his return, they both needed to move on more quickly. More definitely.
The meeting with Catriona and Richard in the drawing room after lunch was unavoidable, but as Thomas had expected it and was prepared for all the inevitable questions and Lucilla was increasingly confident of her new footing, the discussion passed off surprisingly well—and Richard stopped viewing him quite so critically.
Richard still watched, but it was more in the way of reassuring himself that all continued well.
Thomas was certain that the full implications of his return had, by that time, occurred to Lucilla’s nearest and dearest; none of them was the least bit slow. Certainly, all of them seemed increasingly amused at his expense. As it happened, he was entirely willing to admit that his return signaled his agreement to living under the paw of a certain flame-haired cat; as the day wound on, he was increasingly impatient to get on with doing just that.
It hadn’t escaped him that the one subject no one had broached was when their wedding was to be. That, apparently, was going to be left entirely to Lucilla and him to decree.
The point was never far from his mind through the later afternoon, when Lucilla had to go down to the still room to deal with her apprentices, and Polby, still beaming, came to ask him what to do with the trunks that his landlady had duly sent down.
By dinnertime, he had made several decisions. He bided his time through the meal—the usual combined gathering of the household in the Great Hall—and through Richard and Catriona’s announcement of the pending union between Lucilla and him, a declaration that was greeted with thunderous cheers and a wave of goodwill that was all but palpable.
The smile he directed over the occupants of the hall was entirely genuine, as was the warmth in his gaze as he looked at Lucilla.
No more shields. None. Not for him, or for her.
She read enough in his eyes for color to rise in her cheeks; raising her napkin, she patted her lips, then reached for her wine goblet.
He felt his smile deepen and looked away. Content, for now.
As usual, the ladies led the way from the Great Hall. Catriona had linked her arm in Lucilla’s; from the snippets of conversation drifting to his ears as he followed alongside Richard and Marcus, Lucilla and her mother were discussing fabrics for redecorating the drawing room.
Richard grunted. In a low voice, he murmured, “Just as long as they don’t decide to redecorate the library.”
“Don’t even think it,” Marcus murmured back. “You know that’s enough to put ideas into their heads.”
Thomas slowed as he reached the archway to the front foyer; stepping through, watching the ladies go ahead, he slowed still more, then halted.
Richard and Marcus had instinctively matched their pace to his. Both halted, too, and turned to him.
He flexed his left leg and winced. “I left Glasgow at dawn and rode hard—I might have overdone it.”
Neither Cynster male looked as though they believed the lie, but neither did they challenge it.
Realizing that they—being the sort of men they were—probably understood, and might even applaud his direction, he went on, “If you would proffer my apologies to Catriona and Lucilla, I believe I’ll retire.”
Marcus tilted his head as if considering the strategy.
Richard slowly blinked, then nodded. “Sound idea. Best to conserve your strength rather than fritter it away in the drawing room. We’ll make your excuses.”
Thomas didn’t wait for more; he turned and strode for the stairs.
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