Chapter 22

"Sorry I am a little late," Thomas said, taking off his gloves and sitting down opposite Kenneth at a secluded table in the club. "I was unavoidably delayed."

Kenneth laughed, crossing his legs and gazing up at his friend. "I hope you were unavoidably delayed doing something very pleasant," he drawled with a sly smile. "How are things going between you and your beautiful new wife, Newden?"

Thomas felt his cheeks burn. "Unfortunately, I was not referring to that," he replied, gazing up at the hovering footman before taking a brandy. "More is the pity."

Kenneth gazed at him curiously. "That is confounding, my friend. The sparks between the two of you are so bright that they could light a bonfire." He shook his head incredulously. "I was sure it was only a matter of days before it would ignite. Are you still resolved to keeping her at arm's length, then?"

Thomas sighed deeply, taking a long sip of brandy. "It seems like it is the best thing for both of us," he said, trying to ignore the way his stomach lurched. "It is what we both agreed on. Catherine is determined that I will not seduce her. She seems to believe that I am an impossible rake who will toy with her and then toss her aside."

"You are," Kenneth quipped, his lips twitching. "At least, that is what you have always been. But if the two of you can figure out an arrangement, so to speak, where feelings are not involved, then what does it matter?" He smiled archly. "You can have the best of both worlds."

"No," Thomas said with a vehemence that surprised him. "I will not enter into such an arrangement with my own wife, Dunford." He paused, frowning. "And even if I wanted to, she would never agree to it. She is not like that. She is not a sensualist who can separate feelings from the act. She is still a maiden, for crying out loud!"

Kenneth raised his hands in the air. "There is no need to bite my head off, old friend. It was just a suggestion. I can see that you are yearning for her. I thought it might be a way to slake the thirst, so to speak."

Thomas's frown deepened. He didn't know why, but he didn't like talking about Catherine in this way, even with his oldest friend. He had talked about women a lot with Kenneth over the years. They had crowed about their first conquests when they had been at Oxford. And there had been many more women since then—more than Thomas cared to think about.

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Catherine had been correct when she had said he was a rake. It had never bothered him much before. He took pleasure where he found it. He appreciated beautiful, sensual women. He had never treated them disrespectfully. He was friends with most of his previous lovers.

But he had never fallen in love with any of them. He often thought that perhaps love was like a disease that he was simply immune to. And it had never bothered him. Love was a disease that he had no desire to catch. What had happened between his parents had cured him of any longing for it.

"No," he barked, taking another long sip of brandy. "There can be no arrangement like that between us. We have agreed that we will lead separate lives. My desire for her will wane with time. It always does."

He felt a pang of sorrow as he uttered the words. It was true, he had known great desire for women in his life, but it had rarely lasted long after the lady had capitulated and he had slaked his thirst for her as Kenneth put it. It wouldn't be any different if he lured Catherine to his bed. It would be over and done within a month, if not less.

"I do not wish to live with the aftermath of it," he continued, feeling restless. "It would never last, and then I must deal with the consequences."

"How do you know that your desire for her will wane?" Kenneth looked at him carefully. "I have seen you in a state about many women over the years, my friend, but I have never seen you as bad as you are now. There might be more to it than you will admit."

"Poppycock," Thomas growled, glowering at his friend over his brandy glass. "I cannot afford such sentiment, and you damn well know the reason why, Dunford."

There was an awkward silence. Thomas drained his glass and then called for another. He had been in a restless state, unable to settle since he had returned to London with his new wife.

You have been in a restless state since you last kissed her, and she pushed you away. Avoiding her is pure torture, but it must be done. You have promised her.

"It will be better once this infernal ball is over and done with," he continued, sighing irritably. "Grandmother insists on it, so she can parade us in front of the ton, but after it is over, we can go our separate ways. There will be some logistics to work out, of course, but the sooner it happens, the better."

"I do not know," Kenneth murmured, looking pensive. "You are in an awfully bad way over the lady…"

"Enough of this," Thomas growled, glaring at his friend. "Let us change the subject. I did not tell you why I was delayed." He paused. "I ran into Lady Isabella Lyndon on the street. She and her parents are in London for Grandmother's ball, even though her father despises the city and they rarely visit. She told me that Grandmother would not take no for an answer."

Kenneth laughed. "Your grandmother is a force to be reckoned with, Newden," he stated dryly. "I do believe she could have commanded armies if she had been a man. General Napoleon would have doubtless met his match."

Thomas laughed, feeling the tension abruptly leave his shoulders. It might have been the brandy or being with his friend. Either way, it felt good to stop thinking about the dilemma of Catherine for once.

Maybe, just once, he wouldn't think of her at all tonight.

There was a candle shining in the parlor when Thomas finally did arrive home. He would have stayed longer at the club, for there had been an interesting card game in progress, but Kenneth had started yawning, saying he was ready for his bed, and Thomas had been forced to admit he was getting tired as well.

He hesitated as he walked past the parlor on his way towards the staircase. He should just leave well enough alone, but he paused, debating with himself, before turning around and walking back.

He hovered in the doorway. His heart flipped over in his chest as he saw her sitting on the floor by the fireplace, a small oval portrait in her hands which she was gazing at intently.

"What are you doing?" His voice was sharper than he had intended.

She started, before placing the painting on the floor and gazing up at him. "Nothing," she said quickly. "You are late."

Thomas walked into the room and sat down on the chair closest to her, crossing his legs. He felt completely sober now—he hadn't had brandy in a few hours. He had been too focused on the card game.

God, she is beautiful. Why is it always so hard to resist her?

"Yes," he replied slowly. "I caught up with Dunford at the club." His eyes drifted to the portrait. "Who are you looking at?"

Catherine sighed heavily, picking up the portrait. "I found it in one of my trunks," she said, gazing at it. "My maid must have packed it without my realizing." She shrugged. "It is my parents… when they were first married."

He leaned closer. "Can I take a look?"

She looked embarrassed, but after hesitating for a moment, she handed him the painting.

A young couple gazed back at him, wearing the fashion of thirty years ago. They were turned towards one another slightly, looking at one another, smiling.

"A handsome couple," he remarked, handing it back to her. "The artist did a good job."

Catherine shrugged. "Yes, I suppose they were," she agreed, smiling slightly. "It is nice to see them in their prime." She sighed. "I do not remember them like this. They rarely smiled in each other's company when I knew them."

Silence fell over them. Thomas shifted in his chair. She looked so wistful this evening which was so unlike her. She was always so feisty and willful, butting heads with him, riling him up with her tongue.

"Do you miss them?" he asked, gazing at her steadily.

She shrugged again. "I miss the idea of them," she replied, looking pensive. "I miss the parents I should have had." She hesitated. "It is my mother's birthday today. I only just remembered. It is why I am looking at the portrait."

She laughed awkwardly, tucking her hair behind her ears. She suddenly looked younger than she normally did. Less sure of herself.

"I am sorry," he murmured softly. "Anniversaries are always the hardest."

She stared at him with that wistful half-smile on her face.

"We both lost our parents," she said eventually, her eyes flickering. "That is something we have in common at least."

"Yes." His heart started beating just a little faster. "We have. It is hard." He gazed at her steadily. "It is common ground between us."

Thomas knew he sounded awkward. It was always hard for him to talk about his parents, especially his mother. As far as Catherine knew, she was dead, just like her own mother. She didn't know that his mother was probably still very much alive, living another life somewhere unknown to him.

But for all intents and purposes, it was as if his mother was truly dead. She was gone forever. He had lost her as surely as if death had taken her.

Catherine stood up, clutching the portrait tightly to her chest. "I am sorry," she said, laughing awkwardly. "I should let you get to bed. And I should go to my own."

He stood up as well, approaching her. "Please, do not say sorry," he insisted, gazing down at her. "You are allowed to remember your mother on her birthday, Catherine. It is the most natural thing in the world."

She shrugged, looking embarrassed again. "Yes, I suppose it is," she sighed. "Even though I had a… troubled relationship with her, she was still my mother." She hesitated. "Thank you for listening."

He smiled slightly. "It was my pleasure."

She ducked her head, smiling at him, before scurrying out of the room. He stood in the same spot, not moving an inch, staring at where she had been standing.

She was right. They did have common ground. And when she had been speaking about her parents, he had felt the urge to talk about his own which surprised him.

Usually, he avoided the subject like the plague and would rather have been hung, drawn, and quartered before talking about it. But tonight, it had been different. He had felt that she would understand him. That perhaps she was the only person in this world who ever would.

He wanted to keep talking with her. It had felt like a loss when she left the room.

Thomas shook himself. What was wrong with him? He wasn't given to flights of fancy about confiding in women. Or wanting to comfort them. Usually, he never got that far with them at all. It always remained on a physical level. It was the place he felt most comfortable.

It is just because we see each other daily, that is all. And as soon as that ends, this strange connection between us will end as well.

Thomas walked out of the room, feeling a strange sense of disquiet. The sooner his grandmother's ball was over, the better. Then they could both start leading separate lives.

And he'd finally get Catherine out of his mind.