Something Old, Rebecca Connolly [ebook reader for laptop TXT] 📗

efforts was gone. It should never have been there in the first place.

He’d never felt as low as he had that day she’d left, sitting alone in the silence of the house. Even when he had been ruined and knew she was out of his reach forever, he had not felt so miserable. His aspiration then had been Lily alone, and he had found a way to have her, even if the means had not been altogether right. He’d planned on a lifetime of atonement and had been content with knowing the desire of his heart was his for the taking.

Now…

Now he had thrown away all of that for the sake of his original sin, though he’d been told that the finances made no difference to her. If she did not care about money, why should he? If she had not thought less of him for the ruination he had faced, why was he driving himself into fatigue over a matter without the same severity?

Why had he let the obsessive habit that had dictated his marriage raise its ugly head once more?

It had not gotten him his wife this time; it had cost him his wife. Not forever, it was true. For Lily had made it clear enough that she was only leaving London, not leaving him. No matter how it felt like she was.

London had not wounded her. He had.

London had not ignored her. He had.

London had not betrayed her. Only he could have done that.

And only he had.

Watching her leave, finding himself voiceless when she’d asked him to come with her, he had felt his world shattering at his feet.

He’d have broken completely had she not called up to him before taking her leave. Had she not invited him to come to her when he was ready.

When he was ready? He had been ready then, would have raced down and taken her in his arms as though hell itself were threatening them. Would have prostrated himself pathetically at her feet to beg her to remain. Yet he had not done any of those things. He had stood, still as a statue, as though it was a test of his will to resist her.

Why? Why had he not opened his damned mouth and told her he was sorry, that he was a fool, that he loved her beyond reason, that she was the meaning behind his existence?

Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer.

Because he had not behaved as though that were the truth. Because he had been blinded yet again by ambition, even if it had once been for her sake. Because he had forgotten that the beginning and ending of his dreams were wrapped up in her. Were entirely her.

Because he was a fool. And until he was no longer a fool, he could not be ready to go to her. Much as he might long to.

He’d received word that she had arrived at Pendrizzick, which had also included news of the hiring of a new butler, but not a word to indicate how she was feeling, if she were pleased to be back, or that she loved him. And certainly nothing alluding to the same sort of misery he was enduring.

It was all politeness, and yet she made him smile and ache as though she had filled the letter with declarations and confessions.

He’d have thought himself ridiculous had he not immediately felt the rightness of his feelings. The truth of them.

For the reality was that he longed for his wife, and that was not something that would fade away lightly or something for which he could bring himself to feel ashamed. No, now he would only put his mind to becoming the man she deserved to be married to. Not financially, not societally, not in any respect that the world might consider a mark of success.

His heart needed to be hers.

He’d thought it was, but at the first stumbling block, he had faltered. He would not do so again. Could not.

His wife was a saint and an angel, but just how forgiving could he expect her to be? How many chances would a man get with the woman he loved? Did he dare test it? Could he do otherwise?

Thomas shook his head now as he walked toward the home of the Marquess of Whitlock, wondering what in the world had possessed him to accept the invitation to meet there. He was in no mood for socialization or business discussions, and he had no satisfactory answer for the man as regarding the endeavor he had pitched almost a fortnight ago. He had no satisfactory answers for anything at this point. Only excuses.

Still, he was well versed and well practiced in the art of politeness, and getting out of the London house was surely good for him.

He was shown into the Whitlock home with brisk efficiency, and a tea tray was before him at once, which was almost startling. He began to make himself a cup while waiting for Whitlock when the man himself entered, followed by Lord Blackmoor and Monty.

Thomas stilled, looking at them all in turn, pausing midway through stirring sugar into his tea. “I see I have been summoned before the tribunal… Have you decided what disciplinary action would best serve the crime?”

Monty’s mouth twitched, and Whitlock looked as irreverent as ever, while Blackmoor looked rather long-suffering, clearly wondering what he was doing there.

Thomas was wondering the same.

“Nonsense,” Whitlock told him, a trifle belatedly. “We simply thought it was best to reconvene our little war council and see how you were getting on.”

Thomas raised a brow. “Meaning you heard my wife left London while I remained behind, and you were curious enough to bring me in for questioning.”

Blackmoor nodded firmly behind the others, Monty the picture of composure, and Whitlock utterly shameless.

“Since you put it so succinctly,” Whitlock said as he sat on the sofa opposite him, “why has your wife left London?”

Monty sighed heavily and sank into a chair while Blackmoor continued