George cast a disparaging glance in Micha’s direction and then said to Thomas, “I see he’s still here.”
Thomas fully expected Micha to come back with something cutting, but when he tried to catch his eye, Micha was staring fixedly at his hands. What Thomas could read of his expression, which was little, suggested some scalding combination of fury and mortification, and seared him as painfully as if he had been the subject of George’s discourtesy. “He’s my guest. And,” he went on, striving for a way to resolve the tension peaceably, “he’s sitting right there, fully able to witness your abominable manners.”
George still refused to acknowledge Micha, and Micha still refused to show any sign of being alive—it was, in short, a rather awkward situation all round. Thomas knew George was best confronted directly. His heart was stubborn, though, Thomas believed, generous in its way. And it was not like Micha to be cowed by mere bluster. But perhaps it was difficult to be reminded of dependency. Like most things too fiercely protected, Micha’s pride was a fragile thing.
“You don’t know anything about him,” George was saying, at his most blustersome. “Who is he? Where has he come from? Rather convenient for him, isn’t it, being able to latch on to you?”
And, again, Micha was uncharacteristically silent, though his eyes were burning coals beneath the shadow of his lashes.
“His name,” said Thomas, as patiently as he could, “as I have told you, is Michael Dashwood. He is a gentleman who has fallen upon hard times, and he is my guest here while he recovers. That is no concern of yours. I only ask that you treat him as you would anyone else—with respect.”
“Respect?” repeated George, turning the word into something more exclamation than question.
“Yes, respect. It is not easy for any man, let alone a proud one, to accept aid from a stranger. Mr. Dashwood has been gracious enough to allow me to help him, and I am grateful.”
Micha cleared his throat. There was a feverish flush standing out upon the jutting bones of his still-gaunt face and, as familiar as Thomas had grown with his humour and expressions, this was the first time he had seen him in something like real distress. “Don’t pretend I’m better than I am,” he whispered, so softly that Thomas barely caught the words at all.
But before he had a chance to answer him as he might have wished, George had swung himself to his feet and Thomas’s attention was distracted. His brother had that sullen, resentful look Thomas had always disliked and was beginning to witness far too often. “And if I don’t meet your exacting standards of civil behaviour? What then?”
Thomas stifled a sigh and also stood. He was, by disposition, self-effacing, but birth had made him a brother before life had made him a priest, and nothing in this world or the next would induce him to sit still and uncomplaining while George loomed over him and acted the bully. The worst thing to do when George was in one of his moods was yield. “Are you trying to start a fight with me in the drawing room? What nonsense.”
George swaggered a step closer. He had strength, but Thomas was taller, something he suspected had always annoyed George, who put great store in the scant handful of minutes between them as though, in being older, it was his right to be bigger too. Up close, Thomas could see the fine lines that had gathered at the corners of his brother’seyes and the deep shadows beneath. “I doubt you still have it in you,” sneered George.
Thomas was deeply conscious of the ludicrous picture they must have presented to a stranger. Grown men acting like children. But he could not back down. Not in the face of Micha’s stifled silence. “Then try me.”
George laughed, the harsh sound reminding Thomas unexpectedly of Micha. “Is that what you preach on Sundays? Brotherly love.”
“The Bible says honour thy mother and thy father. Not thy brother when he is being a ...” Thomas cast an uncertain glance at Micha, his tongue tripping slightly over a word he had never found occasion to utter aloud: “... a prick.”
“Oh, a hit,” returned George, with a theatrical stagger, “a palpable hit. Is that the best you can do?”
Thomas’s patience, often believed to be unassailable, finally broke. “Why,” he said, with evident frustration, “are you trying to provoke me? If you want to strike me, then do it. If you don’t, sit down, be quiet, and try to be courteous.”
There was a long silence.
“You sound just like His Lordship,” muttered George.
And it seemed to Thomas, in those few fleeting moments, very likely that his brother would hit him. It was something he would have preferred to avoid, but, all things considered, it was easily borne. While Thomas could defend himself if necessary, he lacked the will—or perhaps the need—for violence that sometimes seemed to take hold of George. His time in the army had hardened him, and his personal frustrations had few outlets while he lived beneath the marquess’s eye. It had also been their preferred measure for solving disputes when they were young, and the marquess had encouraged it. Usually it had been left to Edward to pull them apart before anyone got really hurt—though, in general, Thomas tended to receive the worst of it—but now it was Micha who suddenly interposed himself between them.
“Lawks,” he drawled, flipping his hands into the air in a ludicrous gesture of affronted modesty. “Good sirs. Pray do not fight over unworthy little me.”
George, who, for all his faults, had a pronounced appreciation for the absurd, gave a startled-sounding laugh. His eyes slid, almost unwillingly, to Micha. “You have to understand,” he said, “sometimes my brother needs someone to beat the seven hells out of him.”
“Now who sounds like His Lordship.” Thomas sank, with some relief, into a chair. He was surprised to find Micha’s eyes on him, though his expression was bland to the point of unreadable. Thomas tried to communicate his gratitude, and Micha immediately looked away. “And forgive George, will you?” he added. “I think in his own way he’s trying to care for me.”
George, too, took a seat. The anger seemed to have drained out of him. He looked tired again. “Somebody has to.”
“He probably thinks you’re taking advantage of me.”
“Well,” said Micha to the rug, “aren’t I?”
“Oh Micha, you’re supposed to be on my side, not his.”
“I’m on my own side. Always.”
Thomas turned to George. “He is, at the very least, honest.”
“Oddly enough,” returned George, “I’m not reassured by that. But it’s moot, anyway. I come bearing a message from the marquess.”
