Thomas lifted a brow. “How do you intend to do that?”
“By spending time with him, of course. Lucy plans to introduce me to Branville at the Penningtons’ ball tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thomas unraveled his cravat for the second time. He wasn’t particularly adept at tying the neckcloth, but he was better than Will. Thomas hated to embarrass his friend by making him attempt to tie his blasted neckcloth half a dozen times. They’d worked this way for years. Thomas did most of his own dressing with Will adding what he could to the process. It may have resulted in Thomas going out into the world wearing a few slightly wrinkled shirtfronts and some askew cravats, but Thomas would never hurt his friend’s feelings by criticizing him.
He stood in front of the looking glass in his bedchamber and worked on the neckcloth while Delilah’s Future Husband Qualities List repeated itself in his mind. He’d spent the better part of the day mentally checking off each of the requirements she’d cited. Specifically, ensuringhemet all of them.
Eligible? Yes. Decidedly.
Kind? He’d like to think so.
Intelligent? He had gone to Eton and at least begun Oxford, hadn’t he?
Funny? That was best left for someone else to determine, but he’d always been able to make Delilah laugh. That was promising. And Branville wasnotfunny. He’d known Branville at school, and the man had never made him laugh.
Healthy? That was one criterion Thomas could resolutely say he met. He’d always been fit as a fiddle. Oh, he’d broken the odd bone a time or two doing things he probably shouldn’t have in his youth, but he’d never had any lengthy illnesses or lingering health problems.
Forgiving? More forgiving than Delilah’s awful mother, but that wasn’t exactly saying much. Besides, he didn’t agree with Delilah that she needed to be forgiven for anything. A crystal bowl could be replaced, but Delilah was a true treasure. All of her so-called detriments (according to her mother) would never add up to the joy she brought to her friends’ lives.
Handsome? If others were to be believed. He certainly had never had any trouble attracting the opposite sex. But his heart had always belonged to Delilah, so he’d never much attempted to attract other ladies.
Kissable? That remained to be seen. It depended entirely upon who was on the other end of the kissing. He could only hope Delilah would want to kiss him when the opportunity presented itself.
He’d got himself in a bind. He’d always known he and Delilah were a perfect match for each other. Delilah, however, seemed to look at him as nothing more than a friend. That had been entirely appropriate given their age when they first met. However, now they were plenty old enough to marry, and he loved her madly. But he knewtwo things about Delilah. She was stubborn, and she didn’t like anyone else to tell her what to do. She had enough of that from her mother.
He let the damnable cravat hang for a moment and rubbed his hands over his eyes. It would be awkward to be the first to divulge his feelings. Thomas was rather expecting she’d figure it out on her own. He always hoped that one day she’d look at him and realize he’d been there the whole time, her perfect match. The woman was a purported matchmaker, for God’s sake, one who seemed to be frustratingly obtuse when it came to her own match.
The Duke of Branville was a decent man, but he would never appreciate Delilah’s uniqueness. Branville would be the type of husband who would expect Delilah to become the perfect duchess, and Delilah wasn’t conventionally perfect. Far from it. She ripped her gowns and stained her slippers and brought home all manner of strange creatures that needed to be healed or helped, and she did a hundred other outrageous things on nearly a daily basis. These were the things Thomas loved about her, the same things her ridiculous mother disapproved of so highly. Delilah needed a husband who would accept her exactly the way she was.
She needed Thomas.
He had to go about this carefully. No obvious proposals or declarations. He didn’t want to ruin their friendship, after all, and an unwelcome proposal might do that. He’d rather live as her friend the rest of his life than lose her friendship because it had become uncomfortable between them. Hecouldn’t lose her friendship. He wouldn’t. She had been there on the worst day of his life and all the days since.
He’d been home from school on a break. His father had called him to the carpet in his study that evening. It hadn’t been much different from the dozens of otherarguments they’d had, but Thomas would never forget the words they’d exchanged that particular night.
Thomas had grown up doing mainly the opposite of anything his father asked of him. He’d been more interested learning how to gamble in the stables with Will, riding horses too fast, and imbibing too much brandy than taking his role as a marquess very seriously. His father, who expected his only son to be perfect, had never appreciated Thomas’s fun-loving ways.
Thomas had stood in front of his father’s desk that night, while the duke railed at him. He’d managed to crash his expensive new phaeton on the way home from school. “You’re thoughtless,” Father had thundered. “You’re reckless. You’re selfish.”
Thomas had feigned disinterest, but each of the words had torn a hole in his heart. Standing at attention, he’d kept his jaw tightly clenched and his gaze trained on the wall behind his father’s head. “You forgot useless,” he ground out.
That reply had made spittle fly from his father’s mouth. “You’re supposed to be a bloodydukeone day, but all you care about is gaming and drinking and riding hell for leather with your friends.”
“And?” Thomas had drawled, crossing his arms over his chest and giving his father an insolent stare.
His father shook his head in disgust. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
Thomas had wanted to say he was young. He wanted to say he had time. He wanted to tell his father that he’d always intended to stop gambling and drinking and riding hell for leather after he graduated university, after he grew up a little, after he enjoyed himself a bit. But Father never listened. He preferred to criticize. He’d always chose to assume the worst about his son, so Thomas haddone his best to live up to his father’s low expectations. It had nearly turned into a sport for him.
“No,” Thomas drawled. “I also wanted to say you can go straight to hell.” He’d turned on his heel and stalked from the room.
He’d gone directly to a gaming hell with some chaps from school that night. He’d been half in his cups and had won nearly five hundred pounds with his penchant for odds-making when Owen Monroe found him. Monroe’s face was pinched and pale.
“You must come home, Thomas. Immediately.”
The tone of Monroe’s voice had penetrated Thomas’s drunkenness. It had to be serious, but he hadn’t asked, and they’d ridden in silence the short drive from the gaming hell to Father’s town house. They’d jumped from Monroe’s coach, ran up the steps, and flown into the foyer. Soft voices sounded from the drawing room, and Thomas rushed inside.
