His canine’s howl of surprise couldn’t drown out the incriminating crash.
But the whining dog scampering toward the door and the singing shards decorating his floor were nothing compared to the black blanket of dread that swooped over him. Enshrouded him. Pressed him down, back into the righted chair, hands between his knees, head bowed.
Pray God, what have I done?
Forged a friendship on a lie? Wiled away hours, if not days pretending an interest in something that could never be. Damn him! Damn his mind for veering on to this blasted path. Damn his heart for jumping in head over heels. But most of all, damn his goddamn mouth!
Some two hours later, after the glass had been cleared and the vacant window area boarded over, Daniel realized he was still staring into space, conjuring visions of Thea occupying his ornate bed upstairs, her hair splayed over his pillow, her body sprawled over his. By damn, he wanted to howl like Cyclops.
He was not some naïve Othello to be led around by his nose. Or by his frigger, by God.
What was he thinking? Imagining her occupying the London home he inhabited, the bed that had just paraded through his brain box, sporting images both lurid and lusty? In the very chamber where his revered grandfather had once slept, in the home he’d inherited from the venerable old man he’d not only wished was his father but the man who had taught him more about being a man than any other. About goodness and kindness. Sacrifice, even.
Distracted, feeling guilty because he wasn’t feeling guilty at the idea of parading his paid paramour through these honored halls—and straight into that bedchamber—Daniel balled up the page that tormented him so and tossed it toward Cyclops, straight into the languorously extended paw that clamped over the missive.
“Woof!”
Instead of smiling at the dog’s tail-thumping antics over “catching” such a treat—and with so little effort expended—Daniel found himself hard-pressed not to race his carriage to Thea’s, toss her inside and return with her—upstairs. To his bed.
To make his vision a reality.
And that wouldn’t do.
Wouldn’t do at all.
No small amount of time later, a time during which he hadn’t moved, not physically from his position, nor mentally from his fanciful musings, there came a knock upon his study door. A knock significantly subdued to indicate it didn’t herald another letter from his mistress.
After rousing himself to retrieve the latest note—the one still languishing beneath Cy’s paw—Daniel bade his servant to enter and quickly resumed his seat, smoothing out the page bearing the delicate penmanship and equally destructive suggestion. Joint compositionary efforts? Bah. He’d rather be roasted alive.
“This was just delivered, milord.” Far different from when his brother bounded in bearing Thea’s banter, John sedately placed a wax-sealed note upon the corner of his desk. “Buttons was curious about a reply? He swung back around just to check. I told him I’d bring it when—”
Daniel shook his head.
“I’ll tell him nothin’ yet.” With an ill-disguised frown, the servant backed out.
Why did that look of disappointment make Daniel feel all manner of regret? What of it if his footman had lost the eager mien of a courting compatriot? Was disappointed his master was no longer flirting with a mistress?
“Goddamn waste of t-time,” Daniel muttered with conviction as he reached for the just-delivered note, determined to convince himself.
“Woof!”
“So you want me to open it? T-to see who—” Upon noticing the formal presentation, the fancy wax-seal on thicker paper than he and Thea had been using, something tugged at the back of his mind. He broke the seal and looked straight at the bottom, identifying the sender. Dread reached down from his throat to seize his innards in a clawed grip.
Lord Tremayne—I trust you are well and not under the weather after yesterday’s bout. I only write at the prompting of my son who insists something dreadful must have befallen you (ah, the anxieties of youth).
I myself claim the only thing that has befallen either of us is my memory. I must’ve mistook our appointment time. According to my wife, ’twould not be the first lapse.
Regardless, I remain at your convenience and heartily hope all is well.
Everson (& Thomas, who persists in looking over my shoulder)
Gads. How could he have forgotten? He never forgot appointments. Never. He didn’t make enough to clutter his schedule, ergo, the ones he committed to he cared about keeping.
Ballocks! His should be seized in a clawed grip and twisted.
But what to do about Thea?
“D-dammit.” One problem at a time.
All the self-castigation in the world couldn’t make his pen fly fast enough.
Everson—
My sincerest apologies. Something unexpected occupied my morning and put me off my plans for the day. I do apologize, to both you and to Tom, for my unpardonable rudeness.
If you’ll indulge me once more, I will be at your residence tomorrow morn at eleven. Nothing will keep me this time save your preference for another… You have only to specify.
Sincerely, Tremayne
Forty minutes later, still feeling like a horrid heel whose ballocks were in need of a good stomping, Daniel received Everson’s reply acknowledging their newly set appointment.
“There. ’Tis settled till the morrow. Now to you, my d-dear.”
So Thea wanted to compose poetry? Suitable punishment, that, after his deplorable disregard for his day’s schedule.
Lesson learned—Don’t forsake your commitments because you’re in rapture over your new mistress. In alt over pen-and-ink frivolity.
Blazes. He felt like a total clodpate.
Definitely time to tone down, institute some distance between him and his new inamorata. Why, with the last one, what’s-her-name, he routinely got by seeing her once a week, sometimes less. With Thea, the thought of skipping one day without her company spiked a shaft of angst straight through him.
And that wouldn’t do at all either.
So turning his nose up at their earlier literary whimsy and completely ignoring her suggestion—the absolute last thing he needed to do was whimwham with her over words—he wrote…
Thea—
I regret
