He opened his mouth, intending to say something sharp yet fairly measured, but all that came out was a roar. “Are you fucking blind?”
“Pardon?”
“Can’t you see what you have here? You could be part of something. Part of people’s lives. Part of a community. You could be ... loved.” The word hung between them: ungainly, somehow, and unlikely. “So you might as well attend their stupid fucking book group.”
Micha sagged in his chair and put his head in his hands. His outburst—that nonsense about being loved—had come from nowhere, and he was regretting it already. The way Thomas had chosen to live his life wasn’t Micha’s business. If he wanted to take it for granted, then ... so be it.
After what felt like forever, Thomas nodded. “If you think I should go, then of course, I shall.”
“I don’t care what you do.”
There was another endless silence.
“Micha,” Thomas said, very softly. “Micha, I just want you to know—”
But Micha was in no mood to listen to platitudes.
“Shut up,” he cried. “Shut up and leave me alone.”
And, dignity be damned, he half-ran from the room.
Chapter 11
The next day, Thomas woke Micha early, something he protested against vociferously, though he eventually came down to breakfast, looking bleary-eyed and rumpled. Thomas’s fingers itched to smooth his wayward curls. He wanted to ask him about last night, but since Micha did not mention it himself, it seemed kindest to let it go.
“This better be good.” Micha picked at a piece of bread. “It looks suspiciously like morning is happening out there.”
“Not merely morning.” Thomas smiled at him. “A beautiful morning.”
“No such thing.”
“You might change your mind. I’d like to take you to meet someone.”
Micha actually recoiled. “Oh no. I met enough people yesterday. I’m done with meeting people for a good long time.”
“You will like each other, I promise.”
“No.” Micha shook his head. “Absolutely not. And nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”
“What about . . .please?”
Micha’s mouth quivered with reluctant amusement. “How old are you? Eight? ‘Please’ is not a magic word.”
“I know. But I thought it might appeal to your better nature.”
“I don’t have a better nature. You should know that by now.”
A few days, or weeks, ago this might have discouraged Thomas. But he was learning to read Micha, and the hint of a smile suggestedhe might be more amenable than his words, or his manner, conveyed. Thomas was not a man to ever think of his looks, but he had found that a certain expression had a strange effect on Micha’s resistances. He assumed it now. “Please, Micha. It will not take long.”
Micha frowned, though he seemed far angrier at himself than Thomas. “All right, all right, don’t make eyes at me,” he snapped. “Though if I faint from exhaustion and fall ill again, the blame will lie entirely with you.”
“Come now, you survived both a drenching and the ladies of Nettlefield. You will be quite well.”
Micha made a sceptical sound, but he pulled on his coat and hat without further complaint and followed Thomas out of the house into the brightest of autumn days. The sun came down, as thickly abundant as treacle, and Thomas—far too aware of everything Micha did—noticed the shudder of pleasure that rippled through him as he stepped into the light. Before Micha, Thomas would have walked heedless through the beauty. But today, everything seemed blessed with gold, from the glowing ironstone of the rectory to the dappling that came through the russet-crowned trees and spun like coins upon the gravel. And Micha, of course, careless, scowling, and sun-gilded. He was looking better, still pale, still too thin, but his features had found again their natural harmony. Deep eyes, strong bones, generous, masculine lines.
They walked along in silence, at Micha’s pace, passing between strips of smooth green lawns and borders that blazed with a tumult of autumn colours. Riotously orange daisies, scarlet and sunshine dahlias, tall pink and rust-dark sage, woven through with a delirious haze of purpletop vervain. The sky arched high and endless, swirled blue and white like willow pattern porcelain.
“Don’t you live well here?” Micha gestured sardonically at the gardens and the gardeners that surrounded them.
