“In danger?”
“Of making a fool of yourself.”
Thomas grinned. “My dear fellow, that danger passed the moment I first saw Clara Blackmore at the Bannerman’s ball. I surrendered then and have felt vastly better for it ever since.”
He said it so simply that Owen looked at him with a kind of unwilling curiosity. There was no shame in Thomas’s face, no calculation, no attempt to temper the admission into something cleverer or less sincere. The man spoke of affection as he might have spoken of sunlight, as something natural, unavoidable, and rather pleasant.
It struck Owen that some men seemed to move toward feeling as easily as others moved toward warmth.
“You make it sound absurdly easy,” he said.
“Perhaps it is.”
“No.”
Thomas tilted his head. “No?”
Owen looked away, toward the rain-paled window. “Nothing worth having is easy.”
Thomas expression softened, though the brightness did not leave it. “I was not speaking of worth, only of falling.”
For a moment neither man spoke. Owen thought of Aurelia’s voice and of the strange unease that had followed him since leaving her the night before.
Falling, perhaps, was easy. It was what waited beneath that was difficult.
Thomas rose at last and set his hat back upon his head. “Well, do philosophize on your own time. At present, you are required to put on a coat and come with me. I have no intention of allowing Miss Blackmore to think I invented your coming. And if MissFinch is obliged to chaperone us, you may at least spare her the tedium of my undivided company.”
That last was delivered lightly, but Owen heard more in it than Thomas likely intended … or perhaps he intended it perfectly.
Owen stood up, and it made Thomas smile at once, as if he had known from the start that he would. “Excellent. I knew you were a man of sense.”
“I am a man who has been ambushed.”
“By affection, duty, or me?”
“Presently,” Owen spoke reaching for his coat, “I see no meaningful distinction.”
Thomas laughed outright and clapped him once on the shoulder as they turned for the door.
When they stepped into the corridor, Thomas was still smiling, easy as ever, already speaking of the weather, of Clara’s laugh, of how absurd London was and how much more tolerable it became in good company.
Owen listened in silence for a while.
Beside him, Thomas seemed all motion and lightness, as though the world had made itself briefly simple. But under Owen’s ribs there remained the heavier thing: the truth not yet faced and the growing sense that before long he would no longer be permitted the luxury of looking away.
Chapter 10
Clara came flying into the breakfast parlor as if she had been launched there by joy alone. It was a small but elegant room, softened by the glow of a cheerful fire and the light that slipped through muslin curtains. A pianoforte was placed near the wall, its polished surface reflecting the candle branches above it. A little table by the sofa held a basket, a volume of poetry, and an untouched letter.
Aurelia had only just lifted her teacup, then paused halfway through the motion and looked up in alarm. Clara’s cheeks were pink and there was a kind of breathless triumph in her whole expression that suggested either a proposal or a fire.
“What has happened?” Aurelia asked.
Clara clasped her hands together beneath her chin. “Captain Harrow is to call this morning.”
Aurelia blinked once. “Indeed?”
“Yes, we arranged it yesterday that we are to go for a walk.” Clara all but bounced where she stood. “Is it not delightful?”
