Page 73 of Dare to Love a Duke
“Three days ago,” he said, his gaze searching, “I sought shelter, and you gave it to me. You gave me... so much. A roof over my head, labor for my hands, pleasure for my body. And my heart...” He swallowed hard. “Goodbye, Lucia.”
“Goodbye, Tom.” There, she spoke with admirable restraint, as if parting with him once more didn’t rend her apart. She wouldn’t ask when she could see him again. She would be sophisticated, affable but not clinging. Whatever happened in the future couldn’t touch her. She was as she’d always been—aloof and in command of herself.
Who are you trying to convince?
She refused to answer her own question, even as he turned and walked out the door.
Chapter 17
“The house hasn’t descended into chaos in my absence, I see.”
Tom strode into the dining room and pressed kisses to the cheeks of his mother and sister as they sat at breakfast.
“Maeve has threatened to disguise herself as a lad and sneak out,” his mother said as he took his seat at the head of the table.
“Only to see Hugh,” Maeve replied. “We both loveAs You Like It,so I should think the prospect of his soon-to-be fiancée wearing breeches for a clandestine assignation wouldn’t be too off putting.”
“Discussions of furtive rendezvous are generally done out of earshot of one’s parent,” Tom said drily.
He nodded as a footman stepped forward to offer him coffee, then inhaled the scent deeply as the beverage filled his cup. God, but he was weary. He’d arrived home, and there had been just enough time to quickly bathe, change, and gather up a stack of waiting correspondence before joining his family for the morning meal.
Hopefully, Lucia would get a few hours of sleep before heading to Bethnal Green and her waiting students.
God, if only I could be back with her.
The day stretched before him, a daunting mountain of hours he had to climb. Monday would see him back in the Lords. He had only today and tomorrow to acclimatize himself before he’d meet Brookhurst not as a future relative and fellow investor but possible disinterested party where the canals were concerned and opponent on future votes. The decision he’d made on the roof of the Orchid Club, in the depths of night, now confronted him in the light of day, in this breakfast room.
He’d have to face it now. And tell Maeve.
He took a bracing sip of coffee before moving to the sideboard and assembling a breakfast plate, loading it up with rolls, eggs, and grilled sausages.
“Someone awoke hungry.” His mother eyed his plate as he sat.
“Travel stirs the appetite,” he said. “Besides, I’ve been up for hours and this is the first meal I’ve taken in a long while.” And it gave him something to do other than stew about Maeve’s reaction to his choice.
The last thing he’d eaten had been stewed beef with the staff of the Orchid Club—over twelve hours ago. Now he was back home, back amongst the world he’d known his whole life, where little changed except, on occasion, the decor.
He glanced around the dining room of Northfield House. His mother had refurbished it three years ago, changing the dark-paneled walls to sophisticated and modern pale yellow plaster, and selecting two massive silver chandeliers to light the chamber.
The staff’s dining hall at the Orchid Club wasn’t nearly as elegant, with its rough stone walls and long, battered table, and he wished more than anything to be there now. Laughing and telling tales with the staff as Lucia sat beside him, adding her voice to the harmonious bedlam.
The notion of time was clearly a construct, if three days in Bloomsbury could feel like three minutes.
And now I’ve become a philosopher, speculating on the nature of time itself.
He hadn’t taken more than a few bites of his breakfast before he felt his mother’s assessing gaze fixed on him.
Quickly, he ran a hand along his jaw. He’d shaved, so the state of his beard couldn’t be the source of her interest. Glancing down, he checked to be certain all the buttons of his waistcoat were fastened in the proper order, and that the knots of his neckcloth were respectable.
“What?” he asked warily.
“The country air must have agreed with you,” she said. “You’re... different, somehow.”
What could he tell her?I worked at a secret sex club and there’s a woman there who makes my blood sing and I’ve reached a crossroads that will affect the course of our family for generations to come and who am I, anyway?
“Despite the fairy stories you told us as children,” he said with an attempt at whimsy, “I’m not a changeling. Same Tom who’s been giving you a headache for thirty-two years.”
“Let him eat in peace, Mam,” Maeve said with a shake of her head.
