Page 84 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
Carefully, he stood. He’d left the cane leaning against the bedside table; he grasped the head and tried walking. His stride was less hampered than it had been the day before, but Lucilla’s estimate of several more days before he could risk riding seemed likely to prove accurate.
On reaching the washstand, he set the cane aside, picked up the pitcher, and poured water into the bowl.
He’d agreed to stay in the Vale under duress. Now, however, he was willing to admit—to himself if no one else—that coming there and staying had been the right thing to do. He’d been intending to marry for the last several years, but had dragged his heels over choosing a wife. Although he’d pretended to be seriously looking over the field, in reality he hadn’t yet made the final commitment, not in his heart.
What had Manachan said about him having to learn to think with his heart as well as his head? As usual, his uncle had been correct.
He needed a wife, and when he returned to Glasgow, he would have to act—would have to choose a suitable young lady, propose, and front the altar. And in pursuit of that goal, his liaison with Lucilla would serve to burn away the lingering shreds of his longtime attraction to her. He was well aware that that was passion’s way—resisted and suppressed, it never died, but if allowed to ignite and burn, it would inevitably reduce to cold ashes.
Reducing his deep-seated attraction to Lucilla, if not to cold indifference, then at least to the sort of temperate feeling he could readily leave behind… That he hadn’t done so earlier was doubtless why his memories of her had so consistently and insistently interfered with his attempts to focus on suitable young ladies. She and her inherent passion had never lost their claim on his mind, because he and she had never allowed their suppressed passions to ignite.
Now they had, and the outcome was, indeed, as enthralling as it had always promised to be, but it was only passion. A few more days—a few more nights in her bed—and he’d be able to ride away and finally, properly, get on with his life.
He picked up a washcloth and dipped it in the water. It was bracingly cold, but as he scrubbed, he thought of what the day might bring, including his first real meeting with Marcus, and how that and the rest of the day might unfold.
CHAPTER 13
Thomas followed the sounds of voices down a winding stair and stepped out onto what proved to be a dais at one end of a huge vaulted chamber.
Lucilla sat at the long table that took up most of the dais; she was facing the rest of the room, which was filled with tables and benches at which various groups of people sat. Some were clearly manor staff, but others appeared to be stablemen and outdoor workers.
Curious, Thomas looked around. People glanced his way and smiled; some nodded.
Not entirely sure of his standing, he dipped his head politely in reply and shifted his gaze to Lucilla.
She’d noted the glances from the body of the hall. Looking his way, she smiled and waved him to the chair and the place set beside her.
He limped forward, noting that Marcus sat on Lucilla’s other side, although not quite as close as the place to which he’d been summoned. Grasping the chair, he drew it out.
Marcus looked up, briefly met his gaze and nodded.
He nodded back and sat. There’d been no antagonism in Marcus’s dark gaze—no great welcome either, but more a guarded watchfulness. As if Lucilla’s twin was reserving judgment. Deciding he could live with that, Thomas began lifting the lids from the various covered platters arranged on the board before the three of them.
No one else sat at what he gathered was a high table of sorts.
After sampling the excellent porridge laced with the most delectable honey he’d ever tasted, he murmured, “You have other brothers and… Is it just one sister?” He glanced at Lucilla. “Are they here at the manor?”
She shook her head. “No—not at present.” Busy slathering marmalade on a slice of toast, she explained, “Annabelle—she’s twenty-four—is presently in town staying with our uncle and aunt, the duke and duchess. She’s of similar age to their daughter, Louisa, and also to two of our other girl cousins, so the four of them are keeping themselves amused through the Season.”
A grunt from Marcus suggested just how four young ladies of that age might be “keeping themselves amused” through the London Season.
“And Calvin—he’s the next in age at twenty-one—is also in town, staying with one of Papa’s cousins and his family. Calvin and their son, Martin, and two others of the family have recently come down from university, so they’re enjoying their first Season on the town.”
Marcus pushed aside his empty porridge bowl and reached for the covered platter containing the kedgeree. “I’m sure they’ll be getting up to all sorts of hijinks, but Papa’s brother and cousins are there to pull them into line.” He paused, then dipped his head toward his twin. “Not to mention our aunt, the cousins’ wives, and our grandmother and her cronies, too.”
Lucilla chuckled. “Indeed. And that leaves Carter, our budding artist—he’s just twenty and has gone traveling with Mama and Papa on the Continent.”
“But,” Marcus said, “while they’ll be seeing the sights, Carter will be haunting every museum and gallery he can find.”
“Well,” Lucilla said, “that’s why he went—to see the old masters’ paintings and all the other famous works that he could.”
Thomas paused, then ventured, “By my reckoning, that leaves the pair of you holding the fort.”
Beyond Lucilla, Marcus nodded. “Indeed.” Then he shrugged and looked down at his plate. “But that’s our roles, after all—watching over all those here.”
Thomas had listened carefully, but he’d caught no hint of resentment, not even of mild reluctance, in Marcus’s deep voice. Reminded by their comments about their siblings that these two, even more than the others, could command places at any fashionable table in London, he had to wonder why neither had gone south; most in their places would have—and with alacrity. They might have been born in the Vale, their mother might be Scottish, but their father was English, a scion of an English dukedom. Over Lucilla’s head, he glanced at Marcus. “You don’t mind?”
Although he directed the question at Marcus, he was asking Lucilla, too. He lowered his gaze to her face. “You could have gone to London and been the toast of the ballrooms, yet you’ve remained here.”
