The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (40 page)

A repose that invited introspection; although the last thing he wished to dwell on was his recent past, as he turned up Candlerigg Street and continued strolling, he couldn’t—simply couldn’t—stop his mind from reviewing and reliving the past few days.

After riding—fleeing—from Lucilla and the Vale, he’d reached Glasgow by late morning. He’d blamed the continuing heaviness in his chest on the sulfur-laden atmosphere of the city—the wind had been absent, and the smog had been hanging heavily, after all.

So very different from the crystal-clear air of the Vale.

He’d thrust the comparison aside and had ridden Phantom to the stables where the gray was quartered, then had limped to his lodgings carrying his bag and trying to ignore the renewed throbbing in his calf. He’d
had
to leave the Vale—had had to leave immediately without risking seeing Lucilla again—and at least he’d reached there and was safe in Glasgow, once again focused on following his own path.

With that justification firmly fixed in his mind, he’d walked into his lodgings only to realize it was Sunday. So he hadn’t been able to immediately lose himself in work. He had a key to the office; he could have gone in, but the offices would have been cold and empty—no distraction. He’d debated calling on his uncle and aunt to let them know he’d returned, but given the hour, that would have meant sitting down to luncheon and having to describe his time at Carrick Manor and the Vale… He hadn’t been up to that—not even up to evading the questions.

He’d gone to a nearby tavern for a pint and some food, then had settled to spend the rest of the day and evening in his lodgings. His rooms were by any standards well-appointed and comfortable, bordering on luxurious, yet the walls had suddenly seemed too close, the rooms too dark, and an unexpected coldness had sunk to his marrow.

Writing to Manachan that he was now back in Glasgow had been his only occupation, and even that, involving as it did an acknowledgment that he hadn’t succeeded in resolving whatever it was that was afflicting his clan, had scraped at several raw places inside.

He’d told himself that all would be well as soon as he settled back into his position as principal partner of Carrick Enterprises and immersed himself in his usual routine.

Despite the tiredness brought on by the long ride, he’d slept poorly.

He’d risen early and, with his goal of reclaiming his true life in the forefront of his mind, had gone into the offices. He’d needed to re-establish his norm, find his previous anchor, and feel his world steady beneath his feet.

He’d walked through the door with its gilded logo. Mrs. Manning and Dobson had already been at their morning tasks; both had greeted him warmly, and he’d responded as usual and waited for a sense of coming home to embrace him.

But it hadn’t.

Suppressing his disquiet, he’d walked down the corridor to his office. He’d gone in, shut the door, walked to his desk, and sat behind it. He’d looked at the files and documents waiting there and had felt…nothing.

Just a horrible gaping emptiness where he’d expected eagerness and some semblance of relief.

Shaken, he’d stared at the files and letters, unable to accept that he couldn’t summon any degree of enthusiasm for what previously had so effortlessly commanded his attention. For what previously had been the cynosure of his existence, the focal point of his life.

Reliving the moment, he drew in a tight breath and, head rising, cane swinging, paced slowly on. He wished he could haul his mind from its newfound obsession—from reliving the recent days and all the shortcomings that he was determined to excuse and put behind him—yet his recollections rolled relentlessly on, refusing to let him bury them as he so desperately wanted to do.

That first morning back, he’d been forced to face a realization he still refused to accept as anything like a final truth—a momentary truth, a passing state perhaps, but no more than that. He wouldn’t
let
it be more than that. He’d spent a decade and more crafting a life for himself there, in his office as the principal partner of Carrick Enterprises, and now he was supposed to believe that it no longer meant anything? That he might, all along, have been misguided in pursuing that path?

That it didn’t hold his attention because it didn’t hold his heart?

You need to learn to think with your heart as well as your head.

That morning, sitting behind his desk, shaken and shocked, he’d heard Manachan’s voice in his head. Manachan was as wily and as cunning as they came, but how could his uncle have known about this? About the situation he now faced?

He’d closed his eyes—then, jaw setting, he’d shaken his head, opened his eyes, and got down to business.

He’d told himself that the distraction caused by his time in the country would fade.

Quentin and Humphrey had arrived, and for the first time in his life he’d had to deploy, strengthen, and rely on his façade to greet them, to talk and exchange news with them, all the while hiding the deadening numbness inside him.

It had quickly become apparent that the business had run smoothly without him there. Quentin knew the guiding framework Thomas and he had set in place as well as Thomas did, and Humphrey had stepped up and filled Thomas’s shoes in terms of his day-to-day role, and had done very well.

Why Thomas had done it, he didn’t know, but he’d used his injury as an excuse not to take back all that Humphrey was now handling.

More than any of his reactions, that one had rocked him to his foundations.

What am I doing?

He’d asked himself that through the rest of that day and into an evening spent with a bottle of whisky.

At some point during that night, he’d found himself staring at the prospect that, deep down, he didn’t really want his old position back.

Carrick Enterprises didn’t need him—indeed, could function perfectly well without him. He didn’t need to be there, in the office, for it to flourish.

And if that were so, then his position there couldn’t give him what he needed, couldn’t ground him, anchor him, ultimately wouldn’t satisfy him. It wouldn’t—couldn’t—fulfill his deeply rooted need for
his
place—the right place for him, with the right passion and with people who needed him in a position he and only he could fill.

Despite his long-held belief, his position as principal partner of Carrick Enterprises hadn’t sunk its talons into his soul and refused to let go.

Yet something—someone else and another place—had.

He’d drained his glass and had refused, outright, to believe that. Any of that. Not wanting his established position back equated with him not wanting his carefully constructed life back, and that couldn’t be—
wasn’t
—true.

He’d decided it had been the whisky talking. He’d stoppered the bottle and had gone to bed.

Not that he’d slept, not even after the whisky.

Since then, he’d steadfastly lived as he had before, done all the things he’d done before, exactly as he had before, and had waited for the effect of his sojourn in the country to fade—for the talons to loosen and slip free.

They hadn’t.

Yet.

He remained adamant that, with time, they would. That with time he would reclaim his passion for this life, and be able to go forward as he’d always intended, following his carefully defined, self-determined path into the future.

Attending his aunt’s soirée that evening was to be his first new step along that path since he’d returned.

He hadn’t wanted to arrive too early and have to stand in any receiving line, chatting with matrons and their hopeful daughters while waiting to greet his uncle and aunt, so he’d taken a roundabout route from his lodgings in Bell Street; he’d headed north along Candlerigg Street, then had crossed the road to amble about the gardens surrounding St. David’s Church. Stepping out along Canon Street, he walked east, intending shortly to veer south to Stirling Square, and so on to Stirling Street and the Hemmingses’ house.

Unfortunately, the diversion also gave his mind the perfect opportunity to remind him of all he was striving to forget.

Like the need he’d sensed—had been so openly shown—by Lucilla, and also by so many in the Vale.

He hadn’t immediately understood what it was that had so called to him; in her, he’d seen it as simply another emotion in her mesmerizing emerald eyes, another element of her fire, another aspect of the fierceness of her loving.

Only now, with his mind so insistently revolving about his own need—a need to be truly needed by others—did he finally recognize that emotion in her eyes for what it was—for what it had been.

She had shown him, had exposed and put on display, her deepest vulnerability, and had trusted him to see it, to recognize and honor it.

He had seen, but he hadn’t…allowed himself to know, to consciously recognize the reality for what it was. Because that reality—being needed by her—was a large part of what powered the talons that were still sunk so very deeply in his soul.

His mind had refused to accept, but his heart, it seemed, had known. Not allowing himself to register the truth hadn’t saved him from it—from its effect, from its power.

And it wasn’t only from her that he’d sensed the tug; the lure of being needed—of being wanted—had been so pervasive, coming from so many people and directions in the Vale, that he’d been drunk on its seduction.

Lips thinning, he flexed his shoulders as if he could thus dislodge the memories.

Regardless of all temptation, regardless of all the potential benefits, he couldn’t give in. His jaw clenched; despite the clear assumptions of Lucilla, Marcus, and all in the Vale that, having seen and appreciated the role they believed he was fated to fill, he would surrender and stay, he couldn’t. He couldn’t, in effect, bend to their Lady’s will.

He’d made up his mind long ago that nothing else in his life mattered—could ever matter—more than that he remain in control of it, that
he
defined and directed his path without interference from any other source.

When he’d finally understood what had been happening in the Vale—the trap that had been set for him, however well-meaning—he’d felt…in essence, betrayed. He hadn’t seen until his eyes had been opened—and it had almost been too late to wrench back. He’d almost been unwittingly press-ganged into a life quite different from—and far more dangerous than—the one he’d set his mind on.

His
mind
on—not his heart on.

The words whispered through his consciousness as he reached the railings of Stirling Square; he didn’t remember turning south, but his feet had carried him along by rote. As he paced along the wrought-iron fence, he reminded himself why following one’s heart wasn’t a wise thing to do. Wasn’t a safe thing to do. Why following the directions laid down by a cool and calculating mind was far better.

As he turned into Stirling Street, he squared his shoulders in preparation for the ordeal ahead.

Ordeal by young lady and matchmaking matron; he really would rather be somewhere else.

A fleeting image of that somewhere else, with Lucilla, flared in his mind. In hindsight, his anger—all the righteous anger he’d felt when he’d realized just what she’d done and why—had been misdirected. And overwrought. A concurrence of Fate and some villain’s machinations had delivered him into Lucilla’s hands, and although she’d manipulated the situation, she had done so purely to show him the possibilities, the prospect that lay before him and her, giving herself and all in the Vale a chance to lay the full gamut of their temptation before him. Yet, at the last, she hadn’t tried to hold him against his will. She’d let him go—she hadn’t wanted to, but she had, as if she’d understood that she could never bind him, not against his will and not counter to his commitment to self-determination, to his own way forward.

He had to give her that, had to credit her—and her Lady—with that much understanding and integrity.

You need to learn to think with your heart as well as your head.

Manachan, again.

Reaching Quentin and Winifred’s open front gate, Thomas shook off the yoke of his memories and climbed the steps to the front door. It was opened by their butler, who smiled in welcome, took his hat and cane, then showed him into the drawing room.

The cacophony of dozens of voices, all striving to be heard through the babel, washed over him. Winifred, standing a few steps from the doorway, saw him; she beamed with genuine delight as he bowed over her hand. Straightening, he leaned in to kiss the cheek she tipped his way. “A very good crowd, dear Aunt. Are you pleased?”

“I’m more pleased to see you here, dear boy.” Winifred waited while he exchanged a nod with Quentin, who was having his ear bent by one of the local politicians. “Now!” Winifred tapped his sleeve with the furled ivory fan she was carrying. “There are several young ladies you should meet.”

He inwardly sighed but didn’t try to resist; when it came to his aunt’s matchmaking aspirations, he’d learned that it was better to surrender gracefully. Now that Humphrey was settled with his Andrea, Winifred had turned the full focus of her attention on settling him respectably—and as her goal was, in this case, aligned with his, he did his best to be grateful.

Winifred introduced him to a Miss Mack, who had recently arrived from Perth to visit with her sister. As soon as he’d exchanged a few words with her, Winifred drew him on to make his bow to Lady Janet Crawley, whom he’d met previously, but who, this evening, had a cousin, Miss Vilbray, in her train.

After several such introductions, he felt a deep ennui descending over him; the faces of the ladies seemed to blur—they were soft, charming, sweet, shy, or coy, yet none seemed able to hold his attention for longer than the few minutes he spent conversing with them before Winifred whisked him on.

This was, in reality, no different to other soirées he’d attended, but for some reason, it felt more oppressive.

More senseless.

Winifred finally released him to his own devices, and he was standing for a second in the middle of the room, with streams of conversations swirling around him, yet, for all that, he was essentially alone…when the truth struck him.