“Not for feeling?” Thomas supplied.
Owen looked toward the window. A carriage rolled past outside. For one foolish instant he saw, not the square beyond White’s, but the gallery, and he felt again the slight pressure of her gloved hand upon his arm.
Most people wanted something: praise, influence, confession, gratitude, obedience. Aurelia had wanted nothing from him in that moment. She had merely been sorry that he had suffered.
It had undone him.
He had almost told her that something in their false courtship had ceased to feel false to him. He had almost placed before her a truth she had not asked to carry. Then Clara had come upon them, bright and innocent, and the moment had ended.
He had been relieved. He had also been disappointed.
“There is nothing to say,” Owen revealed.
Thomas’s gaze remained steady. “There is always something to say. You simply prefer writing it because paper cannot look back at you.”
That struck too near.
Owen’s mouth tightened. “You overstep.”
“Constantly,” Thomas grinned. “Why, it is the very foundation of our friendship.”
“She entered this arrangement trusting me not to make her position more difficult. I will not repay that trust by pressing feelings upon her which may be unwelcome.”
“And if they are not unwelcome?”
Owen looked at him then. Thomas’s expression was unusually serious. “I have seen the way she looks at you.”
“You have seen what you wish to see.”
“No. I have seen what she tries not to show. There is a difference.”
Owen stood, unable to remain seated beneath such observation.
“We should return to Carter.”
“Of course,” Thomas said, with no triumph in his voice. “Carter is safer.”
Owen disliked the truth of that enough to ignore it. “You are insufferable.”
“Yes, but useful … occasionally.”
Owen turned back toward him, and despite himself, despite Carter and Langley and the danger pressing closer with every new discovery, he smiled.
Harrow noticed at once. “There … that one again.”
Owen did not ask what he meant this time.
***
By the time Owen’s carriage drew up before the house, evening had settled damply over the street. He stepped down, already considering how soon he might visit the lanes near the marketand which taverns were most likely to shelter old soldiers. He had scarcely crossed the threshold when his mother appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Owen,” she cried, “at last.”
Owen surrendered his hat and gloves to Harcourt. “Am I late for something?”
“For dinner. We have guests, dear.”
He frowned. “What guests?”
