17. Thomas

CHAPTER 17

Thomas

The next day, the words of my generals flow in one ear and out the other at our meeting over breakfast. I keep coming back to myself staring into the black depths of my coffee, but in between moments of lucidity, I'm in my car with Clara. I'm in the boutique with my hands on her shoulders. I'm examining the length of her back. I'm imagining Clara's pupils dilating in the mirror as I peel her new dress off her body and bend her over.

I'd been so close to taking her right there. When Clara was dressed in clothes that weren't hers, rumpled and afraid, I couldn't keep my hands off of her. Seeing her in that gown, tailored to hug and accentuate every curve of her, I realized it wasn't just adrenaline that had driven me to put myself inside her. Knowing for a fact that she'd been made a woman in the front seat of a car, and deserved to be shown a much better time than that.

Iris clears her throat violently, and I blink and lift my head. The men at my table are watching me, waiting for a reaction to something I didn't hear .

"Repeat that," I order. As if I'm demanding clarification instead of losing my head.

One of my generals straightens his papers. "Two other businesses in the area of Russo's bistro are guilty of skimming us for this month. After your intervention with Russo and his subsequent disappearance, those missing payments have been made up for with apologies."

Of course they have.

"So someone is moving in on our territory with the intention of redirecting business," I say.

"Three guesses who," Iris says into her tea.

Morgan is indeed getting bold. The truce keeps us from taking shots at each other, but interference in each other's business was also supposed to end. The fact that he's trying to tempt or threaten my people into giving him a cut of my money?

It's almost pathetic considering what I'm planning to do to him.

"It sounds like we can return Russo to his work then," I say. "He's served his purpose, and will certainly continue to warn his fellows away from making deals with the wrong people."

Iris nods in agreement. "We'll drop him off in front of the bistro in time for the dinner hour."

I turn the page of my itinerary, and the conversation begins again around me, but my thoughts have already moved on to something else.

Clara, sitting across from me at breakfast, blowing a little on her tea before taking a sip. I'd watched the shape of her lips and imagined I could feel the puff of her breath on my skin, but I was looking away before she raised her head. It was startling to realize in that moment that there were questions I wanted to ask her, things I wanted to hear her say, conversations I wanted to have that wouldn't have been wise considering we were in a public place. About her thoughts, her relationship with her family… what it was like living with that bastard of an uncle.

Clara, saying, "Thomas, wait!" as I walk away from her. It was insane to even think it, but I wondered if she would ask me to stay. I imagined her undoing the first button of her top, her eyes inviting me to come over and take care of the rest. What would it be like to lay her out on the bed, to cage her with my body, to come with her beneath me?

"Thomas?"

Iris's voice forces me to resurface again. I clear my own throat this time. "Apologies," I lie, "this headache is becoming a migraine. We'll finish this discussion tomorrow."

My generals accept this without question, and I don't know if it's tact or if they actually believe I'm unwell. I watch them leave with a pensive frown, more irritated with myself than anything else. It's been a long time since I was last unable to keep my focus in a meeting. The day after my father's death, if I'm not mistaken.

Iris is the only one left at the table now. I can see the gears shifting behind her eyes, so I wait for her to speak first.

When she does, I almost wish I'd left with my generals.

"You've been acting strangely since you brought Clara to the estate," she says plainly. I wait for her to go on, then realize she meant that as an accusation, and is waiting for me to explain myself.

A spark of irritation flickers in my chest, and I stamp it out. Iris's job is to keep the estate in order, and she's right to point out that I haven't been. Still, I don't appreciate that chastising tone.

"Her being here is a sign that the war could start up any day," I point out. "I've had to accelerate plans and face off with Morgan and rescue helpless damsels more than once in the last week. Nothing about this is normal. "

Iris glowers at me. "You should be taking me with you to the banquet, not Clara. Unless your goal is to provoke Morgan."

"Morgan provokes himself on a daily basis," I argue. "Showing strong ties between my family and the heiress of the Speare family will do more good than harm in front of Lindman."

"Will it? Or will it just give you more opportunities to see her in a backless gown?"

Iris wasn't the one to accept the plastic sleeve containing Clara's gown when it arrived at the estate. But she did see it being carried by my housekeeper, Mr. Eaves, up the stairs toward Clara's room.

I can't help narrowing my eyes at her. "Say what you mean, Iris."

"You first," she shoots back. "Is it part of your plan to seduce Morgan Speare's niece? Or are you taking orders from a body part that isn't your brain, and putting the future of your family in jeopardy?"

We watch each other over the table for a moment. From the look on her face, Iris is just as stunned as I am at what she just said. She's never doubted my intentions, not to my face. And, I assumed, not behind my back either.

I sit back in my chair, measuring everything I want to say with everything I should say. We've always operated on the same wavelength, but she just accused me of throwing away my life for a woman. I want to be pissed as hell, to order her never to speak to me about Clara again. I won't. That's my father's response to the criticism of his advisors, not mine.

"Do you really think," I say instead, keeping each word level, "that I intend to ruin my own plans for Clara's sake?"

I'm giving her a chance to back down, but Iris has never backed down a day in her life, and I'm not surprised she doesn't now. "I think," she returns, picking her own words just as carefully, "that your intentions are irrelevant. The way it looks from the outside is that you're taking risks you never have before. You're distracted during meetings. You're bringing Clara with you on public errands, knowing she's wanted by her uncle- who you punched in the face more than once! You've even given her free range of the house, like she's no longer your prisoner."

I slide my gaze away from Iris's searching one and study the papers in front of me, but the words on them swim in and out of focus. If I were behaving normally, I would talk to Iris rationally about Clara. I'd have told her outright that I planned to seduce her, because it would have been nothing more than a strategy, a means to an end. But seducing Clara hasn't been a goal since our first time alone in a room together, and there is no ‘end' that I'm working toward.

In fact, telling Iris about Clara feels, somehow, like losing. Losing what, I don't know. My self control? My sanity? All I know is that Iris would dissect my moments with Clara and shuffle through them for clues to her motivations, her weaknesses, the ways she could be controlled. And all I want from those moments is to relive the carnal pleasure they made me feel.

"I am taking a risk," I admit. "I'm giving Clara a chance to remember what being allies with the Warwicks feels like. If I keep her on too tight a leash, how can she imagine freedom? It'll be easier for her to stand against her uncle if she has something to contrast him with."

Iris's face is stony. "You're a very, very good liar, Thomas," she says after a long moment. "That's why I can only hope you haven't started lying to yourself."