The Tempting of Thomas Carrick

by Stephanie Laurens

  “They’ll likely be back once the Season in London is over with and the master and mistress come on home. The duke and duchess and the other couples—always together, that lot, and they keep an eye on each other’s broods as needed, too.”

  That was said with approval, and Thomas didn’t disagree.

  An hour and more flew past, then Jenks excused himself to see to some ponies in the farther fields, and Thomas made his halting way back to the house, taking the same roundabout route he’d come out by. The path ran around the side of the manor above a set of terraced gardens stepping down to a burbling burn. It was a lovely sight, with a profusion of plants and flowers brought to vigorous life by the warmth reflected off the manor’s high stone walls; nothing else could account for such lush and vibrant growth.

  The beds were edged with stone, the nearer walls at the perfect height to sit and look down over the colorful carpet to the rippling, rushing waters. Thomas grasped the opportunity to rest his leg—and rest his soul in the peace and tranquility that rose with the perfume of the flowers and, like their scent, wreathed through his mind.

  The view was simply lovely—and made lovelier still when, between the bobbing flower heads, he saw Lucilla further down the slope. She was working in the garden; he realized it must be the source of all her herbs. Two other young women of much the same age worked alongside her, presumably her apprentices.

  He sat and watched and let the peace claim him. For today, at least for this morning, there was nothing more he needed to do—he could rest and enjoy this strange sense of freedom. The time and space to commune with others on subjects he enjoyed, and the opportunity to let his eyes feast on the cynosure of his desire.

  * * *

  After luncheon, once again taken in the Great Hall with the cheery bustle of the household all around, Thomas told himself that he couldn’t waste all day on country pleasures. He needed to remind himself of who he truly was—Carrick of Carrick Enterprises.

  He repaired to the library. After chatting with him over a tasty soup, followed by a cold collation, Lucilla had excused herself to return to the gardens; she was, she had told him, harvesting the first flush of herbs.

  Marcus hadn’t appeared at luncheon; from what he’d said at breakfast, Thomas had assumed he would be out for most of the day.

  The library proved to be another enormous room, this one longer than it was wide. The windows weren’t large—the winters were too cold—but in this room they were frequent enough that, with the long velvet curtains drawn back as they presently were, the room was filled with light.

  As was the case elsewhere in the manor, the focus was on comfort rather than on fashion; deeply cushioned armchairs, well-stuffed leather chairs and sofas, and side tables with lamps abounded. The parquet floor was covered with a series of large, oriental rugs, their deep jewel tones adding a luxurious richness to the ambiance. The wide hearth hosted a cheery little fire, just enough to keep the natural chill of the stone walls at bay. Thomas limped down the room, his gaze roving the many bookcases lining the walls. All were packed with tomes, most leather-bound and showing signs of use. It was clear that this was no formal reception room but a room a large family actively used.

  The desk Marcus had mentioned sat across one corner, facing down the room and toward the windows. On reaching it, Thomas balanced his cane against the nearby bookshelves, then carefully eased down into the admiral’s chair behind the desk.

  His first order of business was to write a letter to Quentin, advising his uncle that it was likely to be several more days before he returned to Glasgow. Despite his intention, it took him a good few minutes to push his mind back to his office there, to recall what matters had been on his desk when he’d left, which issues were still pending. Dipping the nib he’d found and sharpened into the inkwell, he set down his thoughts and suggestions for how those matters might be best addressed, and stated his confidence that Quentin and Humphrey would be able to deal with said matters in his absence.

  As for that absence, after due deliberation, he wrote that he had inadvertently sustained a minor injury that would keep him from traveling for a few days, and that while Manachan had been poorly, he was now much improved. However, subsequent tensions on the Carrick estate had made it advisable for him, Thomas, to recuperate at the neighboring property of Casphairn Manor. He needed to tell Quentin and his office where to find him in case of need, but he didn’t want to unnecessarily alarm them.

  He concluded with a statement of his intention to be back in Glasgow within a handful of days. He paused, rereading the words, knowing he should be more definite and wondering why he wasn’t setting down a specific date for his return, but in the end, without amending the message, he signed, blotted, and then sealed the missive and scrawled the address across the front.

  A silver salver sat on one of the sideboards, several letters already reposing on it. Grasping his cane, he levered himself to his feet, limped across, and laid his letter on the pile. Some footman or groom would no doubt be dispatched to take the letters to the post office in the village later in the afternoon. Thomas knew coaches passed up the main road every evening; his letter would reach Glasgow tomorrow morning.

  He had earlier noticed a pile of news sheets stacked on a low table before the longest leather sofa. Limping over, he let himself down into the embrace of fine leather, set his cane aside, and reached for the pile.

  Glasgow, Edinburgh, and London. He went through the news sheets for the last three days—the days since he’d left Glasgow—in that order, reading all the business news, glancing briefly at the political and general news, and the editorials, and even more idly scanning the society columns, but found nothing of real interest. Nothing to excite him and engage his mind.

  He’d just tossed the last of the news sheets back on the pile when the door opened and Marcus walked in.

  Thomas looked at the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and realized that more than three hours had passed. A glance at the window showed the golden rays of a westering sun slanting over the fields.

  Marcus dropped into one of the armchairs facing the sofa. His expression was impassive and gave nothing away, but his eyes rested on Thomas as if weighing him, or something relating to him.

  Leaning back, Thomas arched his brows.

  Marcus grimaced. “I asked the seed merchant about the supply of seed stock to the Carricks. According to him, they—by which I gather he means your cousin Nigel, who is now managing the estate?” When Thomas nodded in confirmation, Marcus continued, “Apparently, Nigel arranged to have the Carricks supplied from what the merchants call the ‘dregs.’ That’s the bulk of seed left over after all principal orders have been filled. Because the seed will deteriorate with time, the merchants don’t want to keep it, so they offer what’s left at significantly reduced prices.”

  Thomas frowned. “But by the time something that’s ‘left’ has been delivered…how much time has elapsed?”

  Lips tightening, Marcus nodded. “That’s the reason so few estates around here, or south of here, buy from the dregs. By the time that seed stock is delivered, we’re too late to get it into the ground—at least not to allow two full crops. But buying from the dregs is a common enough practice for estates further north, where they can only hope to get one decent crop a year. Those estates can afford to wait for the cheaper prices—and, of course, it saves money. But for us”—Marcus met Thomas’s eyes—“and also for the Carricks, starting the season with seed bought from the dregs means we start too late to get our usual two crops harvested.”

  Marcus sat forward. “The reason the farmers and I—and later the merchant—were out in the fields today was to assess the strike rate of the seed he’d supplied. Our first crop is already out of the ground, and we met to confirm our order for later in the year. That order is already set aside from the original stock. And that’s the other major drawback of ordering from the dregs—you are effectively wagering that there will be sufficient seed left over to supp
ly you in the first place, and your estate also goes to the bottom of the list for fulfillment of orders later in the year.”

  Thomas digested that. “When Manachan asked about the seed supply, Nigel said that there was a new system in place, and that the seed had just been delayed. Strictly speaking, he told the truth.” Thomas raised his gaze to Marcus’s face. “Do you know what the current situation with the Carrick farmers is?”

  “Their seed order was delivered yesterday.” Marcus grimaced. “Even getting the seed into the ground immediately, the only way they’ll get a full second crop is if we have a very late summer and a mild autumn. Most likely they’ll end with one decent crop, and a second that’s immature and only useful for stock feed.” Marcus pushed upright. “Drink?”

  It was early, but…Thomas nodded. “Thank you.” He watched as Marcus crossed to an elegant tantalus against one wall. “Whisky, if you have it.”

  Marcus humphed as if to say that was an idiotic question.

  After returning and handing Thomas a cut-crystal tumbler containing two fingers of deep amber liquid, Marcus raised his own glass, sipped, then sank back into the armchair.

  Thomas considered him, then asked the question circling in his brain. “What reason would an estate manager have for ordering from the dregs?”

  Marcus met his eyes. “Money.” He considered, then shrugged. “I can’t think of anything else.”

  The whisky was excellent; it burned a trail of fire down Thomas’s throat. Tapping one finger against the tumbler, he frowned. “If I understood your explanation correctly, although one might save money initially by buying from the dregs, an estate such as the Carrick estate, where two crops can be brought in, risks losing much more by having a failed second crop.” Catching Marcus’s gaze, Thomas arched his brows. “Is that a reasonable summation?”

  Marcus inclined his head. “Entirely reasonable.” He sipped, then more harshly added, “Also almost certain.” He paused, then said, “What I can’t understand is why Nigel would do such a thing. If you need money, you increase production, not restrict it. As a move driven by prudence, it makes no sense.”

  “No, indeed.” Thomas sipped, then sighed. “Unfortunately, I have no idea what straits the estate might be in—perhaps there was a problem with available cash—but without knowing the full circumstances, looking in from outside, we can’t properly judge.” He shifted, easing his injured leg. “We’ll have to leave it to Manachan to sort out—he’ll find out the same details as soon as he asks.” He paused, thinking of all the other questions about the Carrick estate that were as yet unanswered, but there was nothing he could do about them, either; as he’d agreed, he would have to leave it all to Manachan. He grimaced. “I’ll write to Bradshaw and Forrester—the farmers whose summons brought me down here. At least I can explain what’s been done—not that that will appease them or the other farmers growing crops.”

  His expression severe, Marcus shook his head. “The point I find hardest to comprehend is that Nigel took such a decision without consulting his farmers—those most crucially affected and also most aware of the variables.”

  “Do you do that here?” Thomas asked.

  Marcus nodded. “All the time.” He sipped, then said, “Admittedly, the Vale doesn’t run on quite the same principles as the Carrick estate—we’re not clan-bound, but rather bound by historical allegiance and practice. Our ways are those we’ve found over the centuries work best for us—and if anything stops working, we find a new best way, one that works for all of us.”

  If Thomas had an enterprise like an estate to run, he would run it in the same fashion; his years at the helm of Carrick Enterprises had taught him that the best returns came when all those involved felt their voices were heard.

  He and Marcus sipped and a companionable silence fell. Marcus nodded at the pile of news sheets and asked if anything truly important had occurred; Thomas’s reply—that while according to the pundits, the skies were close to falling, as they always were in the pundits’ eyes, nothing had changed that might even remotely impact the lives of those in their small corner of the world—made Marcus grin.

  In the ease that ensued, Thomas stared into the last of the really quite remarkable whisky in his glass. Slowly swirling it, he said, “At the breakfast table this morning, you and Lucilla…” He frowned, searching for the right words, for his true meaning. “Both of you are strong people, the sort who reach out and wrest from life what they want. The type of characters who demand and establish their own place, their own life, as they wish it to be. That’s in your characters and in your ancestry. Yet”—he gestured, encompassing the room and more—“here you both are, fulfilling roles prescribed for you—expected of you. Designed by others for you.” Thomas raised his gaze and met Marcus’s steady blue eyes. “That seems a very contrary thing for characters such as you, that both of you seem to have so easily accepted that your futures lie here, in the Vale.”

  He paused, but could read nothing in Marcus’s eyes or his expression. “I’m curious—and a trifle confounded, truth be told.” And he wanted to know how such an apparent contradiction could be.

  Marcus didn’t immediately respond, but after several pensive moments had ticked by, he sipped again, then, lowering his glass, replied, “I think a large part of”—his lips curved lightly, a touch self-deprecatingly—“our apparently easy acceptance of our roles here stems from having known of them for all of our lives.” His gaze resting on his glass, he went on, “There never was a time when either of us didn’t know—simply know with absolute certainty—that our true path, our way to our most satisfying and fulfilling future, lies here. That the roles we’re destined to fill—our true destinies—lie here.” He seemed to catch himself, then tipped his head and qualified, “Or, at least, that living here, doing as we’re doing, is the right path to our true and final roles.”

  Thomas said nothing but, his gaze on Marcus’s face, tried to follow the nuances running beneath his words.

  Marcus sipped, then his lips twisted, again with that hint of self-deprecation. “All that said, I can assure you that knowing, even with absolute certainty, that a particular path is the right one to take doesn’t necessarily make it any easier to bow to a power that, to all intents and purposes, is greater than your own will.” Raising his glass, he saluted Thomas. “You had that right—it isn’t in our characters.”

  “Yet you’ve both done it—bowed to that greater power.”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes, but not, I contend, easily. However, as I said, we—Lucilla and I—have had the experience of being…for want of a better term, chosen for our destinies since childhood. We learned from an early age that fighting against your own destiny is, to put it mildly, a complete waste of time.” Marcus paused, his dark gaze resting on Thomas. “If you’re chosen, you can’t escape. You can try, but you’ll end by ruining your life and living in misery—and you still won’t escape.” After a moment, he added more quietly, “That’s a lesson Lucilla and I learned long ago. And neither of us are the sort to fight battles simply for the sake of fighting.”

  After a moment, Thomas dipped his head. “Thank you.”

  They let silence fall again. Marcus picked up the news sheet on the top of the pile, one from London, and started to read.

  Leaving Thomas sorting through his thoughts, through Marcus’s words, and the understanding he’d gained. Marcus’s talk of personal destinies—of being unable to escape regardless of what one might do—rippled through his awareness, reminding him of the unsettling sensation he’d had of being herded—steered, prodded, and ultimately guided down a particular path. One that had led him from Glasgow to where he now was—sitting in the library at Casphairn Manor.

  In his case, people had been behind the herding—Bradshaw, Forrester, Lucilla, Manachan, and Lucilla again.

  A whisper—that perhaps those people were merely the pawns of some greater power—slid through the depths of his mind and sent a sensation suspiciously like a shiver down his
spine.

  Deliberately, he focused on Marcus and asked the other question he had. “You”—he paused until Marcus looked up and met his eyes—“and everyone else here have accepted my arrival in Lucilla’s train without so much as a blink.” He had no intention of alluding to, much less underscoring, the nature of his relationship with Lucilla, so he simply asked, “Why?”

  Any doubt he’d harbored that Marcus didn’t comprehend the true nature of his relationship with Lucilla was slain by the hardness that infused Marcus’s eyes…but, after several seconds, Marcus dropped his almost-challenging gaze and shrugged. “No one has any reason to take exception to your presence here. You arrived quite clearly under Lucilla’s aegis, and whomever she brings to this house will always be welcomed with open arms.”

  Marcus raised his gaze and met Thomas’s eyes—and this time Thomas got the impression that Marcus was studying him, trying to see past his mask and into his mind. But then, his lips easing into what might have been a gently commiserating smile, Marcus said, “There really is nothing more to it than that. As we’ve already discussed, she is who she is, and all of us here accept that.”

  There was a finality in Marcus’s tone that Thomas, in turn, had to accept. He tilted his head in wordless acknowledgment and let the subject drop.

  * * *

  Thomas had wondered if Lucilla would rethink her insistence that he share her bed, but no.

  That evening, after another meal in the Great Hall shared with the entire manor household, during which the company had been entertained by a group of children practicing madrigals, he, Lucilla, and Marcus had retreated to the drawing room, where he’d learned that Lucilla played the harp like an angel. They’d chatted about music; he hadn’t felt the passing of time, but then the tea trolley had arrived, and after duly partaking, he’d claimed tiredness—and hadn’t been entirely surprised when she declared that she would retire, too.