She offered a small smile as she wandered in. “To the fact that I recalled that we do, indeed, share the same house,” she said, her gaze sliding across the bookshelves that wreathed the room. “You have been so absent of late, Thomas. Far more so than you usually are during the Season. We’ve hardly seen you.”
“I was at breakfast,” he said, though it took effort to restrainthe wince that wanted to creep across his face.For once, Mother’s swift, chiding glance seemed to say, and she was not wrong. He’d missed rather more meals than he’d attended of late.
“Yes,” she said. “But you weren’t present, Thomas, not really. You’ve missed so much.”
“Oh?” He swept the last of the papers off the desk just as Mother settled into the chair before the desk and folded her hands in her lap, and for a moment he was reminded of the rare audiences Father had once granted to his wife and his children—as if he had been a king presiding over his court. His approval sparing; his condescension doled out with a heavy hand.
Now it was Thomas who had taken up the mantle of the family patriarch. Weeks already into the Season, and this the first Mother had broached his lack of attention to it. Had he already cultivated too much of Father’s indifference?
He had never wanted to be a man in Father’s image. And yet, in striving to be the sort of baron his family deserved, that his tenants deserved, somehow he had come too damned close to it anyway. Too much a baron. Not nearly enough a son, a brother.
Tucking away the last of the papers within a disused drawer, he settled into his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I have been absent of late. You always seem to muddle on well enough without me, I suppose I never stopped to consider whether my presence—or lack thereof—was strictly necessary.”
“Of course it is not alwaysnecessary, Thomas. That is to say, we understand that you have a great deal of responsibilities to manage, that there will be times that your attention will be elsewhere. But we do miss you when you are gone.” She smoothed a few wrinkles from her lilac skirts. “I worry,” she said, “that you will miss the most important moments. Juliet, I think, is not seriously interested in any one gentleman this Season, but Marina—”
“Marina has got a suitor?”
“You needn’t sound so surprised,” Mother snipped.
“I’m not surprised,” he said. “I’m only—”Surprised. Not because Marina was not a lovely girl, deserving of a decent gentleman, but because he’d somehow missed a courtship. But, then, he’d missed more events than he’d attended, or arrived late, or left early. “You’re right,” he said again. “I suppose I have missed more than I ought to have done. Tell me what I have missed. Has the gentleman in question come to call?”
“Not exactly,” Mother said, with a hint of a wince. “Truth to tell, Thomas, the gentleman in question might not be…well, suitable.”
“Not suitable? What the devil does that mean?”
“He’s a bookseller,” Mother blurted out. “Well-heeled, I suppose, but she must know he is not the sort of gentleman she is meant to encourage. She’s said nothing of it yet, so I can only guess she is conflicted about it.”
Thomas felt his brow furrow. “How did you discover it, then, if she hasn’t told you?”
“For God’s sake, Thomas, I’m not a fool. She asks to visit the bookshop thrice a week, when she has got a dozen novels she hasn’t so much as glanced at since they were purchased. And I could hardly fail to notice that we’ve encountered the same gentleman at the opera, in the park, at the shops.” She gave a vague gesture, half a shrug.
But never at a ball, or a dinner party, or any of those social events which were intrinsic parts of Marina’s life. “And you’ve said nothing to her?”
“What am I meant to say, Thomas? It’s only a harmless bit of flirtation thus far. She’s not had a proper suitor in all her Seasons out, and I am loath to deny her a small bit of pleasure in it.” Mother gave a short sigh, pressing the tips of her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “There is nothing to say of it,” she said,“because, strictly speaking, nothing has happened. But I would like you to consider, Thomas, whatyouwould say of it.”
“Marina could do better than a merchant,” he said. “Even a wealthy one. What would you say of it?”
Mother pursed her lips, drew in a short, sharp breath. “That it is my fervent hope that my children—allof my children—will choose happiness first. All the money in the world could not hope to buy it.”
“She can just as easily find happiness with someone of suitable social standing.”
“Could she?” Mother inquired. And then: “Couldyou?”
His brows arched toward his hairline. “What do you mean by that?”
Mother gave an aggravated little gesticulation of her hands. “Do you think it has escaped my notice that when you are at home, you inevitably retreat to the billiards room with Mercy? That on those rare occasions you dance, it is only with her? Just because I have not remarked upon it does not mean I have not noticed.”
“I—I—” Thomas snapped his jaw shut and tried again. “That is t—t—to say—”Christ. The abrupt thickness of his tongue, the knot that had formed in his throat, prevented clear speech. He scrubbed his hands over his jaw, which felt as though it had locked up entirely.
“Thomas,” Mother said gently, and she reached out one hand to him. “I adore Mercy. We all do. I would offer you the same advice. If you are lucky enough to have found someone who makes you happy, do not sacrifice that happiness on the altar of societal expectations. It is such a rare and precious thing. Don’t you think?”
It was a long moment before that wretched tightness faded enough to speak clearly, and he took his time, breathing through his nose as he collected himself and his thoughts. At last, whenhe trusted himself to speak, he admitted, “I am going to marry her.” Because she did make him happy. He was happiest when he was with her, and that happiness—itwasprecious.
“Does Mercy know that?” Mother asked.
“Not yet.” And neither did her father, which would be a problem of its own. “But she will. I can’t ask her just yet. Not until—” He caught himself, felt his shoulders draw back tight at the realization of what he had almost confessed.
Mother had all but accused him of hypocrisy, and she was more right than she knew. He’d been holding two sets of standards in his head; one for himself and one for Marina. Hell, he had practically extorted Mercy for her secret, while keeping one of such magnitude from his own family.
