The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

by Stephanie Laurens

  He’d woken five minutes ago to discover morning sunshine streaming in through the window and Lucilla no longer beside him—indeed, no longer in the room. But the sheets at his side still held her warmth; she could only just have left. He was sorry he’d missed that—both the sight and the chance of gauging what she’d thought of their earlier endeavors. Then again, there was no reason to imagine the interlude had affected her in the odd way it seemed to have affected him.

  In his eyes, some new element had crept into the moments, something unexpected that he didn’t understand, and as such, it intrigued him and tugged at his awareness.

  By anyone’s standards, he was an experienced man. To discover something new in an act he’d indulged in times out of number was a situation guaranteed to command his attention. Admittedly, the first time he’d had Lucilla beneath him had been exceptionally intense, yet now… It wasn’t so much her, herself, as her and him together—possibly in this place—that seemed to be opening new avenues to explore.

  Which, for a man of his appetites, was a very real temptation….

  Luckily, he had at least a few more nights of compulsorily sharing Lucilla’s bed.

  He let a slow grin curve his lips, then he threw back the covers. He swung up to sit on the edge of the bed and paused to assess his injuries. His head no longer throbbed at all; he reached up and traced the lump above his left ear, and was pleased to find it reduced in size and only slightly painful when prodded.

  As for his leg, there was definite pain there, but a quick examination showed the redness about the gash and stitches was already fading. Whatever ointment Lucilla had smeared over the wound seemed to be doing the trick; the gash was dry, and even he could see that there was no infection.

  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 h
er face. “You could have gone to London and been the toast of the ballrooms, yet you’ve remained here.”

  She met his eyes, held his gaze for an instant, then simply said, “Here is where we’re supposed to be.” She paused, then looked out at the hall before them. “We wouldn’t be happy anywhere else, so”—she shrugged lightly and reached for her teacup—“neither of us bothers to go down and pretend.”

  Marcus chuckled rather darkly. “Much to the consternation of our aunt and her peers. Our parents, however, are more understanding.”

  Thomas ate for several minutes. He’d noted Lucilla’s unwavering certainty about her direction in life; it seemed her twin shared the same conviction—the same assurance that this was where his future lay. Where he needed to be for that future to evolve as it should.

  It must be…comforting, and anchoring, to have such absolute knowledge.

  Finally pushing his plate away, he reached for the coffeepot and poured himself a mug. Both Lucilla and Marcus had finished their meals; like him, they were enjoying a last cup—tea for Lucilla, coffee for Marcus.

  He would only be there for a few days, but he was accustomed to business, to being actively engaged with something through the days…and he was curious. Most of those in the body of the hall had departed, although a few last stragglers were still being served by the maids. He gestured at the hall. “I take it this is a communal place?”

  Lucilla nodded. “It’s the Great Hall—the original Great Hall of the manor—and still functions as such. Everyone who works on the manor lands, including all those on our farms, come here for their meals.”

  “That isn’t as odd as it sounds,” Marcus said, “because all our farms radiate outward from the manor. If you wander around the perimeter fence, you’ll see some of the farmhouses, and all are within sight of the manor’s turrets. So the manor is at the center of the Vale in a literal as well as figurative sense.”

  “And as we are also—like the Carricks—snowed in for part of the year,” Lucilla said, “it was decided very early in our history that it made best sense for everyone on the estate to come into the manor during those times.” She met Thomas’s eyes. “It’s safer that way.”

  He nodded. “I remember that Christmas Eve when we were all stuck in the Fieldses’ cottage. Bad enough when the blizzards rage now, but a century or more ago, it would have been hellish getting stuck for weeks in those flimsy shacks.” He idly tapped the table, then admitted, “I could wish the Carricks had a similar system, but sadly, now the various families are too…shall we say independently minded? If the first Carrick had instituted a system similar to yours, perhaps it might have worked, but now the farms are too far-flung and each family, or group of families, tends to struggle through on their own, only asking for aid when they’re in desperate straits.”

  Marcus inclined his head. “Pride. It’s a fine edge one needs to tread when balancing independence and community.”

  The housekeeper came bustling up. Smiling, she halted before the table, bestowed brief nods on Thomas and Marcus, then fixed her gaze on Lucilla. “If you would, m’lady, I’d like to get the menus sorted so I can send the boys off to Ayr. We put off the usual trip to market while you were away.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lucilla pushed back her chair.

  Despite his injury, Thomas was on his feet before Marcus could rise; he drew the heavy chair back for her.

  She smiled—distinctly warmly—at him. “Thank you. Feel free to wander wherever you like. Your wound will let you know if you overdo things, but it won’t help you to sit all day, either. If you have any questions, ask anyone. All here will be pleased to assist you.”

  He inclined his head. “I’ll endeavor to keep myself amused.”

  She laughed and left, stepping to the side and down two shallow steps to join the housekeeper. Heads together, they walked away across the huge hall.

  Thomas hadn’t quite finished his coffee; he slipped back into his chair and lifted the mug.

  Having drained his mug, Marcus glanced at Thomas. “She meant that literally.” Something like amusement lurked in Marcus’s dark blue eyes. “You may be perfectly certain no one here will let you get lost, and everyone will be happy to answer whatever you wish to ask.”

  Thomas wasn’t quite sure what to make of that—neither the words nor the amusement behind them. He’d expected to get off to a much more fraught start with Marcus, but apparently Lucilla had been correct, and Marcus would, indeed, take his lead from her.

  “I have to ride out and look over the state of the crops with our farmers.” Marcus set down his mug and met Thomas’s eyes. “Last night, Lucilla told me about the strange happenings on the Carrick estate. She mentioned there was some question about the supply of seed. I’ll be seeing the local seed merchant today—he’s due to join us out in the fields. He’s the same merchant the Carricks use. If you like, I can ask if there have been any problems. The man knows me and values his business with us—if I ask, he’ll tell me what he knows.”

  Thomas gazed at the table for several seconds, turning over the offer in his mind. If it had been Manachan who had been dealing with the merchant, he wouldn’t have contemplated checking up, as it were, but…if it had been Manachan dealing with the seed merchant, he suspected there wouldn’t have been a problem at all. Looking up, he met Marcus’s steady gaze and nodded. “Thank you. I have no idea what’s going on, but hearing from the other side of the deal might be the fastest way to find out.”

  Marcus nodded and rose. “I’ll let you know what I learn.” He pointed to the archway to the rear right of the hall. “The library’s through there. Feel free to investigate, and if you need to write letters, you can use the desk there. The news sheets from London, Edinburgh, and Glasgow arrive about lunchtime, and will be put in there, too.”

  Thomas didn’t fancy sitting inside all day—he did that too often in Glasgow. He eased his chair back. “Which way are the stables?” He should check on Phantom.

  Marcus grinned and pointed to the largest archway. “The front foyer is through there—you want the corridor to the left. Head down it and through the door at the end, then turn left down the path. It’s actually not the shortest way distance-wise, but I suspect it’ll be your fastest way.”

  Thomas dipped his head, then, using his cane, pushed to his feet. “Thank you. I rather think, in this instance, that fastest will be best.”

  Marcus chuckled and left him, striding off down the hall.

  Thomas paused, wondering how he felt over being left to his own devices—to do as he wished, with no restraint or direction… It had been a long time since he’d had such an opportunity.

  Shaking himself to action and deeming it best to get out of the hall and let the serving maids clear the table, he gimped down the steps to the hall floor and headed for the main archway to which Marcus had directed him.

  And realized, as he passed under the broad arch, just how he felt.

  It had been a long time since he’d felt so free.

  * * *

  Thomas limped into the stables and asked for the head stableman.

  A grizzled man came forward; when he saw who waited for him, the man’s face creased in a smile. “Ah—Mr. Carrick, sir! I’m Jenks.” Jenks bobbed his head respectfully. “I suspect you’ve come to take a look at your horse. Lovely animal.”

  Jenks waved Thomas toward the stalls further down the long stable. “Yon Sean said as how the beast’s name is Phantom. Nice conformation, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Not at all.” Thomas glanced at the older man, who had slowed to keep pace with his own halting gait. “I’m rather partial to his points, myself.”

  Jenks laughed. From that promising beginning, it was an easy step to discussing the finer points of horseflesh. Phantom looked quite pleased with his new digs; after admiring the big gray and trading tales of horses they had known, Jenks invited Thomas to look at some of the other horses under his care.

  “Right lucky, we are,
with Mr. Cynster’s cousin being a trainer of Thoroughbreds and all. He—Mr. Demon Cynster, that is—picks all the family’s horses, so we get some gems. Like this little beauty.” Jenks stopped and leaned on a stall door. Thomas joined him in looking at Lucilla’s black mare.

  Jenks sighed. “So elegant, she is.”

  Just like her mistress. Rather than saying anything so revealing out aloud, Thomas said, “I recall when last I saw Miss Cynster riding—years ago, now—she had a black mare then, too. Does she always ride blacks?”

  Jenks pursed his lips, thought, then admitted, “Now you mention it, all her horses have been blacks, but I’m not sure as that’s been deliberate.” He arched his brows. “Must remember to ask her, when I next see her, if she really is partial to blacks, or if that’s just been an accident.”

  They chatted about the riding in the area, Thomas drawing on his memories, and from there the talk veered into hunting and the other horses in the stable. Eventually, Thomas perched on a bench to ease the pressure on his leg and happily watched as various grooms, all of whom Jenks had introduced, paraded some of the most superb horseflesh Thomas had ever laid eyes on.

  “Aye—when it comes to hunters, it’s Miss Prudence—Mr. Demon’s daughter—who has the best eye. Even better than her father, she is, although he’ll never admit that!”

  Thomas grinned. With his cane, he pointed to a heavy dappled gray. “Whose is he?”

  “That’s Mr. Marcus’s favorite, Edward—better known as Ned.”

  “Ned?”

  Jenks shrugged. “He was named after the king, Edward the Third, but he’s so fractious, Mr. Marcus said he was more obstreperous Ned than kingly Edward.”

  That, Thomas thought, sounded like Marcus.

  The talk meandered this way and that, over horses and the various eccentricities of the Cynsters, both those of the local branch and the more far-flung members, who, Thomas gathered, frequently visited.