Page 97 of The Tempting of Thomas Carrick
There was nothing he could do about that; she would just have to wait until they could speak privately and he could drop that screening façade and let her see just how much anger was roiling behind it.
Looking back, the clues had been there all along, on open display from the instant he’d crossed the manor’s threshold, but he hadn’t been aware of what was really going on, and so he hadn’t noted them. But that morning after breakfast, when Lucilla had departed about her daily chores and Marcus had been summoned to deal with a broken fence, leaving him sitting sipping his coffee alone at the high table, a man had approached, introduced himself as the head herdsman, and asked for his opinion on the manor’s herd of Highland cattle.
He’d explained he had little knowledge of the beasts, but the man had seemed set on showing him the manor’s breeding stock, which were accommodated in the nearer pastures; with nothing else on his plate, he’d mentally shrugged and gone. He’d wanted to walk anyway, to check how far he could go without the cane. Although the stitches were still there, and would remain for some days yet, he’d discovered the injury no longer troubled him. So he’d walked the fields, observed the beasts he’d been shown, absorbed quite a lot from the knowledgeable herdsman, and had discovered that, as with the sheep, he hadn’t forgotten snippets he’d picked up long ago and that he did, therefore, have something to say. Something to contribute.
He and the herdsman had parted on good terms.
Immediately after luncheon, the head forester of the estate, a grizzled older man named Gibbins, had stopped him on his way out of the Great Hall and asked for his views on logging. As it happened, he knew considerably more about that subject than about cattle, or even sheep. Gibbins had been excited to hear of his experiences with the export and import of timbers; several others—the other farmers who were involved in logging on the estate—had gathered around, and they’d spent a comfortable hour discussing the current state of the local forests and the demand for various timbers.
Eventually parting from the men, he’d been left with a strange feeling—something about the way the men had looked at him at the end, as if they’d expected something more from him, some directive, but that wasn’t his place.
He’d been ambling toward the library, musing on what might have been behind that air of expectation, when Cook had come hurrying after him.
“Mr. Carrick, sir.” Halting before him, the ruddy-faced woman had bobbed a curtsy. Wiping her hands on her apron, she’d said, “I’ve been meaning to ask, sir, if you could let me have a list of your favorite dishes.” Bright-eyed, she’d rattled on, “What with you joining the household and all, we in the kitchen like to make sure we provide favorite dishes for the family every now and then…”
She’d gone on, but he’d stopped listening, his mind seizing on the words “joining the household” and “for the family.”
That had been the first crack in his pleasant world.
In a daze, he’d agreed to make a list—not that, even then, he’d had any intention of doing so—but saying anything else would have revealed too much, risked exposing too much of the turmoil erupting inside him.
Cook had beamed, dropped another curtsy, and hurried back to her kitchen.
He’d walked on to the library, gone in, and shut the door. He’d been relieved to discover that Marcus wasn’t there.
Over the next two hours, he’d paced before the hearth while his mind had ranged over every incident of the last days—replaying every conversation, reassessing from the perspective of what he now suspected.
Most especially, he’d reviewed every single word he’d exchanged with Lucilla.
And now he waited to have it out with her.
Finally, the tea trolley arrived. She stopped playing, and he and Marcus set down the magazines they’d been perusing.
She poured and handed around the cups, and they all drank. In between sips, they made idle conversation, which, thanks to his years in Glasgow and his reinstituted façade, he managed well enough.
But his impatience was rising, and she, at least, sensed it.
When he set down his empty cup and declared he would retire, she rose with him.
Leaving Marcus picking up a magazine, he and she quit the library and walked to the foyer. They climbed the stairs and, as they had for the past several nights, ignored the door to his room and continued up the turret stairs to her chamber.
She led the way inside; he followed and shut the door.
He turned—to find she’d halted and swung to face him; she was watching him, and for the very first time in all the years he’d known her, her emerald gaze was unsure.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice was steady. He sensed she truly had no idea.
He locked his gaze with hers; despite a wish to remain impassive, he felt his jaw clench. “What have you told the people here—the household and all those in the Vale—about me? About why I’m here?”
She frowned in open puzzlement. “I haven’t told them anything.” She shook her head. “I haven’t discussed you at all.”
“Ah.” He’d left his cane in his room; he wished he had it—something to grip, to have in his hands. He remained where he was, his back to the door, and kept his gaze locked with hers. “So the desire of so many to hear my opinions—on the crops, on the cattle and sheep herds, on the blacksmith’s new forge, on logging, and on so many other matters—is merely them being friendly?” He saw realization flicker in her eyes. “And what about Cook’s request for a list of my favorite foods? Because every now and then, the kitchen likes to provide favorite dishes for the family.”
The flicker steadied and strengthened; realization flooded her features. “Oh.” She blinked, then grimaced. After a second, she refocused on his eyes. “As I said, I haven’t told them anything, but of course, that doesn’t mean they haven’t guessed, doesn’t mean they don’t know.”
“Knowwhat?” He rapped out the question and felt his façade of sophistication fracture and fall. “What dotheyknow thatI don’t?”
She studied him for an instant, as if realizing he was dealing with her directly again—without that façade of manners between them—then she drew breath and lifted her head. “That according to the Lady, you are my consort.”
