Thomas

by Grace Burrowes

  “You have lit a fuse of your own,” Loris said, glossing a hand over his falls. He probably hadn’t bargained on arousal, and yet kissing her had done this to him. How… interesting.

  How…. lovely.

  “A lit fuse? Why, yes. I rather do.”

  They stood in each other’s embrace, his lordship’s gaze amused and—if Loris wasn’t mistaken—proud? Not of himself, precisely.

  Of them?

  Of her?

  “Shall we sit, madam?”

  The sophisticated, articulate, handsome baron needed to compose himself. Loris wrapped her arms around him in a fierce little hug, then stepped back and resumed her seat at the table. His lordship took the seat at her right elbow and reached for his iced tea.

  He sipped, then held the glass against his left cheek, then his right, then his forehead. Perhaps his lordship was coming down with an ague?

  “You were about to make a point, with the kissing,” Loris said. And the caressing, and the cuddling, and the whispering.

  “A point? Perhaps I wanted to see you smile, precisely as you’re smiling now, and see your gray eyes take on pussy-willow softness, though I have never before in my life likened any part of a woman to pussy willow. I am gratified, however, to see you at rest, quiet for once, and perhaps considering”—he paused, the glass just at his lips—“that your opinion of kissing needs revision.”

  Loris’s opinion of him certainly did, and that was… that was a problem, the very problem she’d intended to discuss with him.

  The discussion had abruptly grown more necessary, also more difficult.

  “When you do the kissing, my lord, it’s lovely. Thus, my dilemma.” The baron set Loris’s own drink in front of her, but she didn’t dare pause to savor it. “The problem is that you can rob me of my reason, and that is worse than merely robbing me of my dignity. I have never—you kiss too well. I am not willing to marry, and you are not asking me to be your baroness. I see no point in further dallying.”

  A minor tragedy, that. Loris had dallied with the viscount, out of curiosity, loneliness, boredom, and ignorance. Wisdom precluded her from dallying with Sutcliffe. She liked Sutcliffe, she liked kissing him. Some day in the distant future, she might, in small ways, even trust him.

  But to have that distant day, she must be sensible now, drat the luck.

  The baron held her drink to her mouth. The cold, sweet tea was ambrosial, a pleasure that made a hot summer morning a delight rather than a torment.

  “Then dallying must have a point?” he mused. “I have never encountered a dalliance that had any other object but pleasure, comfort, and companionship. Best of all, a woman can dally without surrendering her independence.”

  Loris took another sip of her drink, needing the fortification, and the time to absorb that his lordship might very well, possibly, perhaps be propositioning her.

  “You would content yourself with my clumsy attentions, when half the women in southern England would jump at the chance to share your bed?”

  Dark lashes lowered over blue eyes now slumberous, for which nonsense, Loris nearly kicked his lordship’s shin.

  “You are not storming off in a cloud of injured dignity, Loris. Why do you think I’d have such an easy time of it, finding a woman to share my bed?”

  She was tempted to lecture him about appropriate topics of conversation, but they needed to have this discussion.

  “You are handsome,”—Loris ticked off on her fingers—“wealthy, titled, experienced, and not seeking a bride. The widows would kill for a shot at you.”

  “Your rural analogies are quite graphic,” Thomas said, running a finger around his cravat. “I have no interest in putting on airs for some predatory female who will come to call on Tuesday afternoons, and expect me to drop my breeches and service her on demand.”

  So that’s how it was done? Why Tuesdays?

  “I am immediately to hand,” Loris said, “and too ignorant to make inconvenient demands on you. Moreover, you have to know I would neither put on airs, nor expect you to escort me about as if I mattered to you. Forgive me if I am too flattered to accept such a proposition.”

  Thomas laid a hand over hers, his fingers cool from holding the icy beverage.

  “You mischaracterize my sentiments, madam. We will be in each other’s company often enough that we must have honesty between us regarding any mutual interest. I’m not ashamed that I find you attractive, nor should you be ashamed to admit a reciprocal appreciation. I imply no proposition, only a mutual regard.”

  That kind of mutual regard from Sutcliffe could bring Loris pleasure—also heartache, scandal, and awkwardness. And yet, what had propriety gained her, except loneliness and hard work in the shadow of her father’s misdeeds?

  A calf bawled for its mama out across the fields, the sound a reminder to Loris of realities even a wealthy baron could not alter. He had taught her how to navigate the cutlery at a fancy table, and he would teach her how to dance. Sutcliffe could even teach her the glorious subtleties of a shared kiss.

  But Loris could not allow him to teach her to pathetically depend on a man’s notice, or to lose sight of the livelihood that stood between her and the poorhouse.

  “I am glad we understand each other, Baron, for I wasn’t propositioning you either. You will excuse me, for I have work to do.”

  Loris stood, wishing Sutcliffe would argue, flirt, tease, or even grab her by the wrist and prevent her flight.

  “I mean you no insult, Loris,” he said, remaining in his seat. “And be assured nothing that happens between us can jeopardize your livelihood, short of gross incompetence, and you’re simply not capable of that.”

  “You mean me no compliment, either.” She bent and kissed his cheek. “Enjoy your breakfast.”

  With a lingering pat to the bulge behind his falls, she left him and ducked onto the path through the trees.

  * * *

  “You have the beautiful estate, the wealth, and the title,” Fairly observed. “So when will you take a wife?”

  His handsome, blond lordship had ridden into the Linden stable yard at mid-morning having traveled down from Town by moonlight. Thomas had ordered the table on the terrace set once more, for a breeze stirred at the back of the house, and the view was lovely.

  “You are usually more subtle, Fairly,” Thomas said, pushing a plate of peach slices across the table. “I assume you will dash off a report to your viscountess before the sun sets, and lament that since I left your employ, no suitable woman has snatched me up.”

  Nor had any unsuitable women snatched Thomas up. He could still feel Loris’s hand, boldly patting the evidence of neglected manly humors.

  “Better to marry than burn,” Fairly quoted sanctimoniously. “And in the country, a man hasn’t as many options as he does in Town.”

  Perhaps not, but a man could think in the country, could take time to see and smell and enjoy what and who was immediately before him.

  “You mean,” Thomas said, “the country lacks a surfeit of bored, randy society women who will let a fellow tumble them without developing expectations of him?”

  Though the ladies did harbor expectations—the straying wives, the bored widows, the soiled doves. They all had expectations, of disappointment, of financial support, of pointless dramatics.

  “The ladies in the provinces are not usually of such easy virtue,” Fairly said, munching a juicy peach slice into oblivion. “And the ones on your own estate are, of course, not available.”

  Merciful devils. Fairly was quoting scripture and preaching. Thomas waved a fly away from the peaches.

  “Of course, Fairly. Absolutely unavailable.” The fly was persistent enough that Thomas draped a serviette over the fruit.

  “Thomas, you aren’t bothering Miss Tanner already, are you?”

  Miss Tanner was certainly bothering Thomas. She and Fairly had met in the stable yard, according to his lordship. Thomas hadn’t been on hand to offer introductions, which had slowed Fa
irly down for about the time Loris would have spent on a shallow curtsy.

  While Thomas had been in his room, naked on the bed, dozing in the aftermath of a bout of self-gratification.

  “Miss Tanner won’t have me,” Thomas said, because Fairly’s intrusion on private matters needed to end, as did, apparently, the flirtation with Miss Tanner.

  Blond brows drew down in consternation. “She won’t have you in her bed as a lover, or as her spouse? How did you ascertain either, when you’ve been here only a short while?”

  “She won’t have me as either.” Thomas slid a fork beneath the linen covering the peaches and appropriated a slice. “She has made it quite plain she won’t marry—she has her reasons—and I’m not looking for a wife, so there’s an end to it.” Though when Thomas announced his lack of interest in a wife, and had he been in earnest or in jest?

  In any case, there should have been an end to it. A combination of lust, protectiveness, and inconvenient curiosity argued otherwise.

  Fairly sat back, his wrought iron chair scraping against the terrace. “Are you prepared to be a gentleman about this, Sutcliffe?”

  The form of address was new, and grated like the metal chair against the flagstone terrace. Always before, Fairly had used “Jennings,” “Mr. Jennings,” or in situations of extreme irony, “my dear Thomas.”

  “I will be a gentleman,” Thomas said, though he might be a persistent gentleman.

  Loris interested him. Attraction to a pretty woman was simple animal spirits—of which, Thomas had an ample supply—but Loris… She challenged, she questioned, she kissed with shy enthusiasm, then she patted Thomas’s falls and flounced off to check on the brood mare or consult with the beekeeper.

  “Why not simply marry her?” Fairly drawled, swirling his chilled tea. “She’s comely and of breeding age. She’d manage your estate and your household as well. Marriage to her makes a kind of sense.”

  “She will not have me,” Thomas said again. “Though I dare say, it’s worth a try to propose. If not, there are widows about the neighborhood somewhere, I’m sure of it.”

  Fairly set his glass down and tipped his chair onto the back legs. “Not the Pettigrew woman? Greymoor’s description of her was unnerving.”

  In the manner of the British aristocracy, Fairly laid claim to family ties that included Linden’s former owner, Lord Greymoor, who was married to Fairly’s younger sister. In the past, Thomas had marveled at Fairly’s network of family and acquaintances.

  In the past, Thomas had also claimed only tenuous ties to the aristocracy.

  “You are the second man to warn me off Mrs. Pettigrew,” Thomas said. “My stable master told me very articulately that Mrs. Pettigrew hates men, and allows them liberties so she can hate us all the more.”

  Fairly, who had owned a brothel and whose judgment of the fairer sex was nigh faultless, let out a low whistle.

  “Greymoor said she’s a woman who gets colder the deeper you thrust, and then she mutters about having been ill used. Not a woman I’d tangle with.”

  Greymoor was a gentleman and he did not gossip. That he’d use such vulgar language about a woman with whom he’d dallied turned Thomas’s stomach on behalf of all concerned.

  Fairly was yawning discreetly before the food was gone, so Thomas summoned Harry to show the viscount to a bedroom where a tepid bath would be waiting. Thomas remained on the terrace, moving his chair to remain in the shade, the better to ruminate.

  Marry Loris Tanner?

  Part of him leapt—literally—at the idea. To have her in his bed, on his desk, in his hay mow… the possibilities were endless, and endlessly pleasurable to contemplate. Loris would be assured lifelong security, Thomas would have his heirs, and a well-run estate.

  But marriage itself, an irrevocable, lifetime commitment to one woman, and one woman only… That had the feel of a trap, of domestication. Marriage was forever, and Thomas was by no means old. He had time to produce heirs.

  Though nobody had endless time. Thomas was the last of his line, and should he die without issue, the Sutcliffe estate would revert to the crown, leaving his sister homeless and without income. The last thing Thomas wanted was to be responsible for Theresa’s welfare, but neither did he wish her in the gutter.

  He hadn’t seen his only sibling for nearly nine years, had thought of her only fleetingly until coming to Sutcliffe.

  Marry Loris Tanner? Court her, woo her, win her hand…? Thomas was not particularly eager to become a father, but the prospect of securing Loris Tanner’s trust, at the very least, was intriguing.

  The lady spoke of independence, but her kiss had been full of possibilities.

  Thomas downed the last of a glass of lemonade, rose, and headed for the stable, intent on issuing his steward an invitation to dine that evening at the manor.

  Chapter Nine

  The baron had been polite, friendly, and insistent that Loris join him and his guest for dinner. Chesterton’s bullwhip hadn’t intimidated her half so much as Sutcliffe’s invitation, but she presented herself promptly at the appointed hour anyway.

  Loris wore her finest summer dress, one she treasured too highly to wear even to church. Her hair was swept back into a chignon at the nape of her neck, the absence of her braid swinging against her back making her feel exposed.

  Harry welcomed her into the house. “Their lordships are in the parlor, and I’m to announce ye, lord love us.” He clicked his heels and winked.

  “Miss Loris Tanner, your lordships,” he brayed merrily.

  “Thank you, Harry,” the baron said. “Miss Tanner.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “Madam, may I make known to you David, Viscount Fairly. Fairly, Miss Tanner is my most excellent steward. My apologies to you both for not being on hand to make introductions earlier today.”

  The viscount bowed over Loris’s hand. “I declare myself enchanted. Sutcliffe, shoo, that may I monopolize the lady’s company while you, mine host, fetch us our drinks.”

  Lord Fairly seized Loris by the arm and turned her toward the open French doors, smiling down at her with such conspiratorial friendliness she forgot to be nervous.

  “Sutcliffe on a mission to be hospitable,” the viscount stage-whispered, “is a formidable prospect. You must promise to stay at my side, Miss Tanner, and take him firmly in hand when he gets too obstreperous.”

  The viscount was a beautiful man, his features so perfectly proportioned and finely honed, Loris wished she’d at some point had drawing lessons. Mismatched eyes, one blue, one green, should have rendered his features discordant, but they only made his appearance uniquely lovely.

  To behold Thomas—Lord Sutcliffe, in this company—a more rugged, reliable sort of handsome, was reassuring.

  “Lemonade, Miss Tanner, with a splash of white wine.” The baron held out a tall, glass garnished with late strawberries and a sprig of mint.

  “That means,”—the viscount leaned down to murmur—“at some point the glass held some lemonade. Imbibe carefully, lest we make you tipsy.”

  Loris was already tipsy. She was to share a meal with a baron and a viscount; the one was hospitable, the other charming.

  “And your drink.” Sutcliffe handed the viscount another glass of the same concoction. “Mixed for a gentleman’s palate.”

  The baron suggested they enjoy the evening air, for dinner was still at least twenty minutes away. The viscount stayed at Loris’s side, regaling her with humorous incidents from his travels with Thomas, then switching to a series of anecdotes involving his young nieces and nephews.

  As her drink disappeared, Loris was aware of two things. First, Thomas was content to simply watch her. He contributed to the conversation, but mostly he sipped his drink, and let the viscount do the bulk of the entertaining. Second, she was in the social presence of true gentlemen for the first time in her life.

  Oh, the neighborhood included considerate men, fellows who held doors, who stood when she entered the room, but Thomas and his friend had a
polish to their manners, a bred-in-the-bone consideration that enthralled her. She’d seen glimpses of it in Thomas before, in his insistence on her safety, his deference to her gender, his unwillingness to forgo most courtesies regardless of her station or occupation.

  But this gathering was purely social, and aided and abetted by the viscount, Loris was enjoying herself.

  “Would you care for another drink, Miss Tanner?” Thomas asked.

  “Perhaps half that much?”

  Harry stepped onto the terrace and announced dinner, and Loris found herself escorted around the side of the house by the viscount.

  And so the evening went, with the men carrying the greater burden of conversation, and the meal progressing from one light, spicy course to the next, until the sun was all but set, and a breeze gently fluttered the drape of the tablecloth.

  “I don’t know when I’ve eaten as much delicious food at one meal,” Loris said, sitting back. “Or enjoyed as much pleasant company.”

  “A benediction,” the viscount said, smiling.

  His lordship’s smile spoke of sincere pleasure to be in Loris’s company. She had no doubt that when he chose to, the viscount could use that smile to devastating effect.

  Thomas rose and extended his hand to Loris. “I propose some exercise to counteract the soporific effects of our meal.”

  “Are you to stroll with the lady in the gardens while I enjoy my own company?” Lord Fairly asked.

  “Mustn’t pout,” Thomas remarked pleasantly. “Though now that you are a contented old married fellow, we know Miss Tanner would be safe on your arm.”

  “Safe and bored to tears are two different things, young Thomas.”

  “I am nearly the same age as you,” Thomas replied, “but I will not escort Miss Tanner through the gardens. I will busy myself at the keyboard, while you teach her the rudiments of the Roger de Coverly.”

  “Dancing. Ever a worthy pastime, don’t you agree, Miss Tanner?”