The Tempting of Thomas Carrick (41 page)

And that sense of having made a cataclysmic mistake rose up and nearly choked him.

To you, I will always bring life.

Every young lady he’d met that evening had lacked precisely that—
life
. True vibrancy, the sort that welled from the soul and set fire flaring behind clear eyes and added a tangible glow to their presences.

Lucilla embodied the quality, at least to him. And with her life, she brought
him
alive. Fully alive in a way that nothing and no one else ever had.

And with his eyes now fully opened to what might be, to what he might have—to what waited for him in the Vale—he
could
no longer pretend that any other, here or anywhere else, would ever hold a candle to her.

She
had
brought him life, exactly as she’d promised, a deeper, truer appreciation of what life might be—what his life c
ould be
.

His eyes
had
opened, and he wouldn’t ever be able to close them again.

He was no longer able to pretend that any lady there would suit him.

In his heart, he knew only one ever would.

The epiphany—its depth, breadth, and completeness—left him reeling.

This
was the trap—the real trap—one fashioned by his own self-will, his own…cowardice.

His head spinning, he managed to maintain a mask of languid bonhomie while he made his way out of the crush to the side of the room. He found a small space on the edge of the crowd where he could expand his lungs and drag in a tight breath.

There isn’t anyone else for me or for you—and there never will be. If you turn your back on me, on us, on all we might be, there will be no other chance—not with anyone else, not in any other place.

She had warned him, but he’d thought she’d overstated her case.

Now he knew she hadn’t.

It was impossible to even think of spending more than a few minutes with any other woman; the thought of being intimate with any of them simply left him cold.

Chilled and alone.

She’d warned him that misery would dog his steps; he’d thought she’d been indulging in hyperbole.

And, indeed, it wasn’t so much misery as emptiness—a widening, deepening pit of lonely yearning that nothing, it seemed, could ease, much less fill.

He’d left his heart and soul behind when he’d ridden out of the Vale. Standing in the middle of Glaswegian society, he had to face the fact that
that
was what it felt like—that that was how leaving the Vale had affected him.

This wasn’t his place; there was nothing for him here. His true place, the role he needed to fill—for his own sake, let alone anyone else’s—was not here.

That role, his rightful role, the only one that would satisfy him, lay south, in the Vale. By her side.

Along with his soul that the land had claimed and the heart he now realized he’d left behind.

Did he love Lucilla?

He honestly didn’t know.

Did he crave her unrelentingly?

Yes
.

She’d been a potent lure hooked under his skin and deep in his psyche for over a decade, and as they’d matured, her attractiveness and his awareness of it had only grown.

Could he, in all honesty, envision a life—a future—that did not include her?

The answer to that, a resounding negative, resonated through him.

He refocused on the crowd before him; regardless of how sophisticated, elegant, beautiful, charming, and powerful they might be, every minute he spent in their company only served to emphasize the truth. To him, they and their community were without substance; they didn’t matter to him. And more, here in their company,
he
was a mere shadow of who he could be.

If he wanted the chance to live a fulfilling and meaningful life, if he wanted to reclaim his heart and his soul, he would have to go back, face Lucilla, and do whatever he had to do to reclaim the position she’d offered him and that he’d so arrogantly and misguidedly spurned.

He had to change his course.

Now, tonight.

He dragged in a huge breath.

From the time he’d left the Vale, no matter what he’d tried, the power behind that urge to return had been growing, minute by minute, hour by hour, until now,
nothing
but that urgent need to return seemed important.

He couldn’t stand against it any longer. He no longer had the strength to deny that power, that compelling force.

Something inside him broke. Gave way.

And the man he could be, the man he had tried so hard to corral, to deny and never risk being, broke free of all restraint and took charge.

He searched the room and spotted Winifred and Quentin. Cloaking his near-desperation to be gone, he tacked though the crowd to their side.

Quentin looked inquiringly at him.

Winifred smiled. “Any possibilities?”

His mind was already racing ahead. Despite his inner grimness—how could he have been such a fool?—he tried for a smile, but from Winifred’s fading delight, it wasn’t much of one. He turned the expression into a grimace. “My leg’s playing up. I took the long way here, and I think I overdid it.”

“Oh.” Winifred’s concern was immediate; he felt small. “But,” she said, patting his arm, “at least you came, and you did meet some new ladies. Next time, you’ll have more time to talk.”

He couldn’t force a nod. Instead, he held out his hand to his uncle. “Sir.”

“Take care, my boy.” Quentin’s grip was strong. “And don’t come in if your leg needs more rest.”

He nodded, then he gave in to impulse and bent and kissed his aunt’s cheek. She’d been as much of a mother to him as he’d allowed, yet he doubted he would share much of their lives from now on.

Winifred blinked up at him, trying to read his face and failing. Again, she patted his arm, but this time in benediction. “Yes, Thomas—do take care.”

With a half bow, he left them, left the room, collected his hat and cane, and quit the house.

On the pavement, he glanced back, then looked around at the quiet streets. He might visit, but this would never be—could never be—his home.

He set off to walk back to his lodgings by the shorter, more direct route.

About him, the heart of Glasgow thrummed, but this wasn’t where his heart was, nor his soul.

His heart was someone else’s and his soul had found its true home.

He would be leaving in the morning, and he wouldn’t be coming back.

* * *

He had a lot to arrange—an entire life to restructure. He sat at the small desk in his lodgings, and with the lamps turned high, worked steadily through each aspect.

Carrick Enterprises was surprisingly straightforward, up to a point. That point being how much involvement he wished to retain in the years ahead. He wasn’t sure; when he looked inside and examined the new prospect, the new landscape of his life taking shape, he could see a place for the firm, see a value in retaining his interest and keeping a connection in the importing and exporting trade. The Vale was largely an agricultural concern, and some of its produce could easily be exported.

He was somewhat surprised by how readily the decision about the firm came; now he’d faced his reality and, guided by said reality’s harsh light, had revised his direction, he felt little lingering attachment to the firm, much less than he’d expected. Carrick Enterprises had been his father’s dream; Thomas had assumed it was also his, but it wasn’t. It never had been, because his heart had never been involved. The people, he would miss, but the firm itself?

All of which underscored that he’d made the right decision and was, finally, marching down the correct road.

His goodbyes would initially have to be made by letter. The compulsion to return to Lucilla and the Vale was now full-blown; he wasn’t prepared to dally in Glasgow a moment longer than absolutely necessary. He—perhaps with Lucilla by his side—would return at some point, to visit and explain in person, but for now, the written word would have to suffice.

Nib scratching, he penned letters to Quentin, Winifred, and Humphrey, and short notes to several others in the firm, and still briefer notes to Mrs. Manning and Dobson, wishing them well until next he saw them.

His landlady, his banker, his solicitor—to them, he wrote that he was heading into the country and expected the change to be permanent, but that he wished his current arrangements to stand, at least for the time being.

Then he threw himself into cataloguing the many and various deals and potential contracts and contacts he hadn’t yet passed on to Humphrey. It was like emptying his mind, clearing out the past and creating space for his true future.

With the act came clarity and a burgeoning peace—a simple confidence he hadn’t known since childhood. A clarity of vision, a sureness of purpose, and a certainty that his feet were following the right path.

It was past two o’clock when he tidied the desk and turned down the lamps. Outside the windows, Glasgow slumbered.

Half an hour later, he was packed; when it came to it, he had little by way of meaningful possessions. He set the trunk by the door with a note for his landlady, asking her to send it on.

He was burning bridges, eradicating his past. Eliminating the man he’d spent the last decade striving to be.

With a self-deprecatory grimace, he fell into bed. Was he cutting off all chance of retreat so that no matter what happened with Lucilla in the Vale, he wouldn’t be able to take the easy way out and come running back?

He had to wonder.

He expected exhaustion to claim him—not the exhaustion of physical exertion but that of emotional turmoil. He felt scoured inside, as if, when he’d reached the point of being unable to suppress the fundamental truth any longer, it had erupted and he’d accepted it, embraced it, and just let go…let everything else go.

He’d let the truth in and let it own him.

Let it clear everything else out and become his new reality.

He closed his eyes. His body relaxed and sank into the mattress.

Exhaustion claimed his limbs, then crept higher to claim his mind.

In the last instant of rational thought, in the cavern of clarity his mind had become, he saw where he had been, and where he now was—and where she had been, where she still stood.

At her core, she possessed one attribute he didn’t have. Faith. Which led to commitment. Faith in the fact of simply knowing, and commitment to the path that that knowing led her down.

She’d followed the flame of her faith all her life. He…he could at least follow her.

Whether he had it in him to fully embrace his own knowing—the impulses he felt—he didn’t know. Presumably he would find out, because, as things stood, in setting out along his new road, those instincts, those impulses, were all he had to guide him.

There isn’t anyone else for me or for you—and there never will be.

In going forward, he was counting on that. He couldn’t deceive himself over how much he had hurt her in turning his back and simply walking away.

At the time, he’d been so angry—and, underneath that, so frightened and shaken—that he hadn’t truly appreciated what she’d been offering—
all
she’d been offering—but now…?

He didn’t know if she loved him—if she could or would, if that was a part of their fated interaction. He didn’t know if he loved her, or if he could or would, either. What was love? What, between them, did love mean? That was one aspect he and she would have to learn.

But that he couldn’t live without her—
that
, he knew. That to be the man he needed to be, he had to return to her and claim the position by her side—that he now accepted without reservation.

The mists of sleep rolled in. One last thought drifted through his consciousness.

He might not know what love was—not enough to define it and, with honesty, own to it—but she’d won his heart long ago. His battle to win hers was just beginning.

* * *

He set out from Glasgow just after dawn, riding south into his true future.

Going home.

If home, and she, would have him.

That was the only question remaining in his mind; all the rest had been answered, or had proved to be unimportant.

Jaw set, the wind whipping through his hair, he rode Phantom down the road spooling south before them.

He was finally on his true and correct path. His mind was clear, his thoughts focused, and he was determined.

He might not yet have faith, but he was committed.

One way or another, no matter what was demanded of him, he would find his way back to her side.

CHAPTER 16

The first hurdle Thomas hadn’t expected manifested when, in response to his jangling of the doorbell, Polby opened the front door of Casphairn Manor.

The butler beamed at him. “Mr. Carrick, sir! Welcome back. The master will be so pleased to see you.”

Thomas blinked. Master? Stepping over the threshold, he asked, “Marcus?”

“Oh, no, sir. I meant Lord Richard. He and the mistress returned two days ago.” Polby looked out at Phantom, standing placidly in the forecourt. “I’ll get one of the lads to take care of your horse and have your bags taken up to your room.” Polby shut the door and faced Thomas; his smile knew no bounds. “The mistress said you would return shortly. One learns that she’s rarely mistaken.”

Mistress… If “master” meant Richard Cynster, then by “mistress,” Polby meant Catriona, the current Lady of the Vale.

Thomas was already wishing he’d never been so foolish as to leave in the first place.

Hands clasped at his waist, Polby was regarding him with a mildly hopeful air. “I expect you wish to see Lord Richard, sir.”

Thomas debated that. If he had to face any of Lucilla’s male relatives, he would prefer to face Marcus, but…he supposed he should start as he meant to go on. He assented with a dip of his head.

And delighted Polby all over again. “If you’ll come this way, sir. The master is in the library.”

Thomas followed Polby along the wide corridor and waited outside the library door while Polby announced his arrival and his request for an audience, and inquired whether his lordship was willing to see him.