It was raining by the time Thomas returned home and handed his hat and gloves to his butler, Jones. Climbing the stairs, he headed along the dimly lit hallway and continued toward the third door on the left. Carefully, he opened it and stepped inside, immediately conscious of the easy breathing that came from the bed. He moved toward it on silent feet until he was close enough to study the sweet innocence of Jeremy’s face, now veiled in shadowy darkness. Thomas felt his heart clench. With each day that passed, he looked more and more like his mother—a living reminder of unrestrained love and of his irrefutable failure.

Returning downstairs, Thomas entered the parlor where he found his mother enjoying a sherry. She was reading a book and looked up when she heard him come in. “There you are.” Setting her book aside, she folded her hands in her lap and gave him her full attention. “I thought I would see you for supper.”

“I decided to eat at the club.” He crossed to the sideboard and proceeded to pour himself a brandy.

“A note would have been helpful. I waited over half an hour for you to arrive. You always join me in the evenings.”

Glancing at her, he wondered at how youthful she looked in spite of her advancing years. She was in her fifties now with the occasional gray hair starting to show, but that did not detract from her beauty. “Forgive me. I should have informed you, but there was much on my mind. Returning home at a specific hour so as not to disappoint you wasn’t one of them.”

She sat back as if he’d slapped her, but then her expression hardened, her spine straightened and her chin tipped up. She glared at him much like Lady Amelia was prone to doing these days. “Sit down, Thomas.” The use of that name sent a tremor scurrying through him. She rarely used it unless she was very displeased with him. Because of that, it always carried a sharpness to it, like a blade slicing away the last twenty years of his life until he was but a little boy feeling the shame of whatever wrongdoing he had committed.

So he sat and faced her, aware he’d made her the subject of his irritation once more. She didn’t deserve it. Not after everything she’d had to suffer already. He opened his mouth to speak, to apologize yet again for the rotten mood he was in, only to be cut short by her staying hand.

“I do not want you to tell me how sorry you are,” she said. “What I want is for you to explain what you are going through.” Her expression softened. “Perhaps I can help or offer some sort of advice.”

“I very much doubt that,” he told her grimly, then took a sip of his drink.

She gave him a dubious look that suggested she thought him naive. “You won’t know that unless you open up to me. This is what . . . the third time this week you have given me some cutting remark?” She sighed, and as she did so, her entire body seemed to deflate. “Something is going on, and I would like to be able to help.” When he didn’t answer, she asked, “Is it this business with Lord Liverpool?”

“He made no effort to gain support for my bill.” The anger and frustration he felt hardened his words. “At least I was able to convince Hawthorne and Wilmington. They would have backed it as a personal favor, but Liverpool?” He shook his head. “His dismissal probably shouldn’t surprise me when not even you were willing to give your support.”

“That is unfair. I encouraged you to do what you could—for Jeremy’s sake. The problem is I am no longer sure it would be in his best interest to inherit a duke’s title. And before you start getting defensive and insist I am against him, I am not. I love that boy with every piece of my heart. His existence means the world to me.”

Nodding, he reached out and covered her hand with his. “I know.” Their eyes met, and for a moment their mutual pain hovered between them.

“It might be easier if you were to marry.”

The comment made him withdraw his hand. He leaned back and downed the remainder of his drink in one quick gulp, relishing the way it burned his throat and numbed his mind just a little.

“That is not an option.”

“Be reasonable, Coventry. You must think of the continuation of your title.”

“Prewit can inherit,” he said, in reference to his cousin. “Or one of his sons, if he happens to die before me.”

“Well yes, I suppose that is true, but what about sharing your life with someone who cares for you? What about children?”

“I already have a son, in case you have forgotten.”

“Forgive me. I did not mean to—”

“As for a life partner . . .” A vision of hazel eyes entered his mind. “She would have to know everything, and I am not prepared to share that much with anyone. The amount of trust required . . . It simply isn’t possible.”

She seemed to consider this and, to his surprise, she nodded. “You are probably right.”

“What?”

Picking up her glass, she set the rim to her lips and drank. “I see no point in pursuing a hopeless topic.” Returning the glass to the table, she suddenly smiled. “Let us discuss Lady Amelia instead, shall we?”

His entire body revolted against the idea. “Why?”

“Well, we are responsible for her until her brother’s return.”

“You must not forget about Lady Juliette,” he said in the hope of avoiding a lengthy discussion on Lady Amelia alone. With the state he was in, he might not survive it.

“Of course not. But she is not our main concern. She will have at least another year in which to prepare herself for courtship while Lady Amelia must make an attachment as soon as possible.” She expelled a breath. “Lady Everly agrees that Mr. Burton and Mr. Lowell both make excellent suitors for her. What I wish to know is your opinion.”

He tightened his hold on his glass and made an effort not to bare his teeth when he spoke to her next. “Mr. Burton is a bore—an amicable bore, I will grant you, but a bore nonetheless. Certainly, she may enjoy his kind gentility at first, but after a year or so she will begin to feel trapped. The man simply hasn’t a passionate bone in his body. Unless he is speaking of sheep, that is.”

“Well.” His mother stared at him from behind a pair of wide blue eyes. “You have given that quite a bit of thought, I must say.”

Wincing, he tried to dismiss her implication. “It is something that became glaringly obvious to me earlier today when I encountered him in the park. He was out walking with Lady Amelia.”

“Ah.” She nodded as if this were the solution to every puzzle that had ever existed.

He clenched his jaw. “What does that mean? Ah?”

She gave a little shrug. “Nothing. Tell me your thoughts on Mr. Lowell.”

Hesitating, Thomas wondered briefly about her quick dismissal of his question. It felt as though she was trying to distract him from something, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what. So he pushed his wariness aside and formed a response.

“He is handsomer than Burton, but his reputation isn’t nearly as clean. That being said, I do believe he will be faithful to the woman he chooses to marry and . . . given his rakish streak and his academic interests, he will definitely prove to be a more interesting companion.”

“You have no concern about his club?”

“Its exclusivity, and the fact that even the king enjoys a membership there, prevents me from being critical of it. Certainly, there are no doubt those who find it scandalous, but such is life, Mama. One cannot please everyone.”

“So then you would recommend Lowell? He is your preferred match for Lady Amelia?”

His entire body seemed to strain against the idea. It repelled him to think of her wrapped in another man’s arms when he . . . Damn! He hadn’t even kissed her, so what claim could he possibly think of having? None. That was what. And this whole possessive streak he was on—this itch to shout at someone or hit something—was getting out of hand.

“Yes,” he managed to say while his throat closed around the word, strangling it as he pushed it past his lips.

His mother studied him. “You look like you did when your father and I denied you that rifle you wanted when you were a child.”

He blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you remember?” Her eyes had taken on a faraway look. “You saw it in a shop window when we walked to church one Sunday morning. It was a splendid thing, I have to admit, but you were much too young—only ten, if I recall.” She shook her head as if trying to clear her mind. “In any case, you were very displeased to be denied it, and your face . . . it bore the same petulant expression it does now.”

“Don’t be absurd.” Averting his gaze, he focused all his attention on trying to rid himself of the panic creeping into his bones.

“Perhaps your grumpiness this past week is not only because of Lord Liverpool’s lack of cooperation.”

Don’t say it.

He clasped the armrest while she continued. “Perhaps Lady Amelia is partly to blame, as well?”

His head snapped around to face her. “That is ludicrous, Mama. She is Huntley’s sister—a woman whom I have been charged to protect no matter how bloody difficult she likes to make that task at times.”

“You certainly have a strong opinion on the matter,” his mother murmured. She tilted her head as if contemplating what to do with him.

“It would be impossible not to, all things considered. The task of protecting her reputation is not a simple one and you, if I may remind you, did not make it any easier when you decided to put her in that shocking gown at the Elmwood ball last week.”

“I still think you overreacted about that.”

“Overreacted?” His voice had reached a pitch that he had to admit was quite unacceptable and utterly uncouth. So he blew out a deep breath and leveled his tone. “Her breasts were practically spilling out of that bodice, Mama. It was . . . unnerving.”

“Hmm . . .” She said nothing further, just watched him with interest until he muttered something he had to apologize for immediately after. “I thought she looked lovely,” his mother continued, “but that is neither here nor there. We obviously have two very different opinions on the matter.”

“Obviously.”

“The important thing is she caught Burton’s and Lowell’s attention.” The smile that followed was a little too sweet. “Whatever your thoughts about them may be, I am sure she will make a wise choice for herself. What I quite like is that they do not disapprove of her buying that house and turning it into a school. Lady Everly informed me that both gentlemen have made donations in order to help.”

“As have I,” he reminded her with a grumpiness he desperately wished to get rid of.

“Yes, but you were compelled by duty while they were merely being generous.”

He kept quiet while counting to twenty since speaking at that exact moment would probably result in tears. When his blood had cooled a little, he stood and returned his empty glass to the sideboard. “I will wish you a pleasant evening now, as I am going back out.”

“Where to?” She sounded a little alarmed, which was to be expected since he was not prone to going out late at night.

“I cannot say, but this house is too small to contain my aggravation at the moment. A bit of fresh air should do me some good.”

Having shed the fine clothes he’d worn for the better part of the day and replaced them with a plain pair of brown trousers and a jacket to match, Thomas hailed a hackney carriage and directed it toward Seven Dials. From there he walked the remainder of the way to the Black Swan Inn, locating it easily enough on account of all the noise the place emitted.

Stepping inside, he pushed his way past a thick throng of people who’d gathered next to the door. The sound of violins and the stomping of dancing feet produced a boisterous atmosphere that he couldn’t quite say he disliked. There was something unrestrained here—no rules to govern one’s every move, except for the rule of common decency, though he knew many of the patrons did not even practice that.

Still, he could feel the weight of his responsibilities begin to lift from his shoulders as he crossed the floor to the door leading out to the courtyard beyond. Stepping through it, his blood began to sing in response to the fight that he saw taking place. It was masculine power at its best, just pure muscle and strength against one’s opponent. Moving forward, he joined the crowd of onlookers and considered the men whose faces were both puffy and swollen, their bodies soaked from the onset of rain.

“Well, well, well . . .” The thick voice that spoke at his shoulder had Thomas turning around to find Carlton Guthrie grinning back at him. “Didn’t think to see ye ’ere, Yer Gr—”

“Heathmore will do,” Thomas said, offering up his last name to prevent the man from revealing his title. “You should know that by now.”

“Aye.” Guthrie glanced around. “Matthews ain’t with ye?”

“No. He is abroad at the moment.” Figuring Huntley would not approve of him sharing details about his life with a man he disliked, Thomas refrained from elaborating. “So I have come alone this time.”

“Need a good thrashin’ do ye?” Guthrie’s lips curled back to reveal a row of surprisingly perfect teeth. In fact, if it weren’t for his mustache, the stubble that dotted his jaw and the unkempt state of his hair, the man would actually be quite handsome. He would also look a hell of a lot younger than one imagined him to be at first glance.

“I’ve had a bad week,” Thomas confessed. “I believe hitting something might do me good.”

Nodding, Guthrie stuck out his hand. “It’ll be three pounds to enter.”

“When I was last here, it was free,” Thomas muttered, not because he couldn’t afford the sum but because he didn’t want to be taken advantage of.

“I ’ad to lure ye in first.” Guthrie smiled broadly, eyes flashing with devilish glee. “Now that ye’re lured, it’ll be three pounds.”

“What about them?” Thomas asked with a nod directed at the two men who were still throwing punches. “How much did they have to pay?”

“They’re me men, Heathmore. I’m trainin’ them fer the next match so I’ll be payin’ them an’ not the other way around.”

“I see.” Thomas pulled his coin purse from his pocket and counted out the money, then handed it to Guthrie.

“Thank ye very much, kind sir. Ye can toss yer ’at an’ jacket o’er there if ye like.” He pointed toward a stack of crates that stood beneath an overhang. “These two’ll be done soon so ye’d best prepare yerself ’cause I’m puttin’ ye against Smith.”

It wasn’t until he stepped out into the middle of the courtyard a few minutes later that Thomas understood what Guthrie had meant about preparing himself. Because the man he now faced bore a crisscross of scars on his cheeks and appeared to have risen from a medieval battleground ready to murder any man in his path.

Flexing his fingers, Thomas peered through the sheet of falling rain, his hair already smeared across his forehead. He balled his hands into fists, raised his arms and planted his feet in a solid stance like Huntley had taught him. The hours of exercises his friend had forced him to endure had physically changed his body. Gone was the softness to his belly that most men of leisure possessed, replaced instead by taut rows of muscle. His shoulders had widened as well, while his arms bore evidence of finely honed strength. It would be to his advantage now, he realized when Smith stepped into his space with a punch that was neatly avoided as Thomas moved out of its path.

He turned and rose onto the balls of his feet, dodging first this way, then that, before pulling his arm back and pushing it forward, directly toward Smith’s face. Thwack! His opponent’s head was flung back. Blood flew from his nose in a spray of crimson droplets that mingled with the rain.

Christ, that felt good.

So did the blow Smith landed next, straight to Thomas’s chest. It bit at his senses in an energizing way that had him punching back. Head lowered, he beat his way forward, demolishing every damn problem that clung to his brain; his sister’s unnecessary death, Jeremy’s questionable future, Lord Liverpool’s unwillingness to help and every temptation Lady Amelia offered.

His mind lingered on that last issue while he delivered another blow to Smith’s face and then yet another. Rage burned his eyes, but Thomas didn’t care. He just had to expel his baser instincts—the unforgiving urge he had to capture her lips with his own, to pull her into his arms and this mad desire he had to undress her. A fist slammed into his shoulder, sending him back, but not for long. If he could only stop picturing her naked. Perhaps then he would be able to go on with his life in a reasonable way. He staggered for a moment but regained his balance just in time to avoid getting punched in the face.

Shifting sideways, he stared at Smith. Both were panting now from exertion, and he saw when he raised his fists once more that they were raw and bloody. The pain didn’t bother him though, quite the contrary. He welcomed it in an almost perverse way, hoping it would bring some satisfaction—that it would erase the frustrated state he was in by replacing it with a different kind of ache.

It did no such thing, he realized later when he made his way back home. His body still responded to every thought he had of her. And there were many since they included the products of his own erotic imaginings. Even now, beaten as he was, he felt himself stir at the thought of just seeing her again, of how her mouth would curve with pleasure when he offered a compliment or how her eyes might blaze with anger if he displeased her. Both affected him equally. It no longer mattered what mood she was in or whether she was happy to see him or not. He just wanted her, plain and simple, and he didn’t know what the bloody hell he was going to do about that.

As it happened, there was one thing that would serve to dampen his ardor, though he did not realize this until he returned home and found a note waiting for him on the silver salver in the foyer. Unfolding it, he read the few lines and felt his heart lurch.

Holy hell!

He raced upstairs to his room while doing his best not to wake those who slept. Pulling out dry clothes from his dresser, he exchanged them for the wet and filthy ones he wore. He then grabbed a piece of paper and penned a hasty note to his mother, which he slipped beneath her bedroom door. Nerves tight and heart pounding, he headed back out. All in all, he’d spent no more than ten minutes at most inside his house before hurrying toward St. Giles. There, surrounded by a firefighting unit and with smoke billowing out of every available opening, stood the house Lady Amelia had bought, like an eerie lantern glowing in the dark.

He hadn’t seen it when he’d gone to the Black Swan earlier, nor when he’d returned. The quickest route for him had not required the use of Oxford Street. Now, he sorely wished it had done. Perhaps then he might have discovered this sooner.

“What happened?” he asked a heavyset man who was busy directing a hose from the fire engine while two other men worked the pump.

“Not sure. Perhaps someone tossed a cigar into the weeds, but it’s tough to say. I believe we should have it contained soon. We managed to catch it before it got too big inside—would have had to tear down the building then.”

“You don’t think that will be necessary now?” Thomas asked as he watched the smoke rise to the sky. “Looks pretty bad in there.”

“I suppose that depends on one’s perspective,” he said. “I’ve seen worse.”

Thomas didn’t doubt it, given the man’s profession, but it still didn’t change the fact that Lady Amelia would be devastated by this news. How the hell was he going to tell her? “I would like to help,” he said, not only because saving the building would be in his own best interest, considering the money he’d already spent on it, but because he needed to know he’d done something.

“You can help man the other fire engine over there,” the man said. “I believe one of those fellows could do with a break.”

Thanking him, Thomas hurried over to where the other men were pumping and offered to take one of their places. It was tough work, especially after the fight, but he found a rhythm soon enough and put all his strength into pushing as much water as possible through the hose. If the house was unsalvageable, they could try to find another—he could certainly afford the expense—except Lady Amelia had been so set on this one he suspected no other place would do in her mind. So there was really nothing for it. They would simply have to muddle through as best as they could and make the most of whatever remained in the morning.