Beautiful Things: Second Sons Book One
Beautiful Things: Chapter 37

“You seem distracted today, Tom. Trouble at the great house?”

Tom glanced over at his brother as they slowed their mounts to a walk. He’d arrived that morning at Colin’s request. Since their father’s death, Colin had proved to be more open-handed when it came to collecting rents. This meant he was more well-liked than the late Mr. Renley of Foxhill House, but it also meant his tenants tried to cheat him left and right. Tom didn’t mind lending his weight as another Renley to bolster the effectiveness of Colin’s visits. It did good to remind some of their wilier tenants that the rents must be paid.

Colin watched him with a raised brow. “You’ve been so far away. Is it just this marriage business? Do none of the ladies at Alcott suit? Perhaps you’d do better going to Town.”

Tom sighed. He was distracted. He couldn’t get the image of Burke and Miss Harrow out of his head. Christ, what had the man been thinking touching her like that? The angle of the open piano lid had been such that only Tom and James saw their little exhibit, but still…

“I heard Miss Blanche is staying at the house. Sir Andrew is set to own half of Carrington soon. She’d surely come with a pretty dowry,” Colin teased with a smile.

“I’d sooner marry Blossom,” Tom said with a nod to his mount.

Colin snorted. “Then who are you pondering over? With such a hive of bees buzzing between your ears, it must be a lady.”

Tom shrugged. He’d never had a very open relationship with his brother. They were friendly, but not quite friends. His truest friends were Burke and James. He could tell them anything…usually. But damn if Burke wasn’t a devil last night. He had his hands all over Miss Harrow. Tom’s jealousy warred with his arousal as he watched her cheeks blush pink. She liked it. Hell, she craved it. She was practically leaning into Burke’s touch. It left Tom with a painful ache. Sure, in his cock…and he had very few options as to how to scratch that particular itch while he was stuck in the countryside.

But the ache went deeper. In truth, it went soul deep. Tom was lonely. Rosalie’s words had stayed with him. He didn’t want to marry some high society lady for her money, counting his new guineas as he cashed in her bride price for a set of braided shoulder lapels. He wanted what Burke had last night. He wanted a beautiful woman looking at him with a passion that burned white hot.

Tom lost himself in the memory of her looks, her blushes, her soft, panting breaths. He couldn’t remember the last time he was so turned on. That little phoenix was ready to set fire in her cage. How Tom longed to be the one to let her out.

Christ, he wanted Rosalie for himself. He almost laughed aloud at the realization. What was worse, he desperately wanted her to want him too. He wanted passion and love. He wanted hunger that verged on obsession. Instead, he was empty…empty…empty.

He thought he had that once…with Marianne. Had she taken the best of him? Perhaps he wouldn’t be able to turn Rosalie’s head. After all, she thought he still harbored feelings for Marianne. Did he? He hardly knew. His love for Marianne was so wrapped up in his resentment, like some great Gordian knot.

But he remembered that look Rosalie gave him in the forest, and again walking in the lane. It stung with the pain of dismissal. She would never settle on being anyone’s second choice. His respect for her grew, even as he felt an uncomfortable jealousy churn in his stomach at the thought that Burke might be the one to win her instead.

Nothing about this was simple. Tom’s career, Rosalie’s position, Burke’s competing interest. Was Tom willing to risk their friendship by courting her in earnest?

Be my friend, she said. She didn’t want his sincere attention even if he offered. That was the truth. She wanted a friend and nothing more. Could he stand to be only her friend if Burke got to become more?

“You’ll go cross-eyed thinking that hard,” Colin said with another laugh.

Tom blinked, pulling himself from his thoughts long enough to notice they were almost home. A few of the children called out their welcomes as they saw Colin and Tom approach. Tom glanced at his brother, snagged by a sudden thought. “Colin…why did you marry Agatha?”

Colin barked another laugh. “What kind of question is that?”

“I know we don’t typically talk about matters of the heart—”

“No, we most certainly do not.”

It seemed somehow important that Tom know this truth. “Colin, be serious. Did you marry her for her fortune? It was not a great sum, I know.”

Colin mused for a moment longer. “I believe any gentleman ought to say you marry for duty’s sake first. Then perhaps comes love. Least of all, but still quite important, comes that whole ‘avoiding carnal lusts and appetites’ angle that curate’s love to preach about.”

“Bloody hell, Colin, I’m not asking some country gentleman in a crowded men’s club. I’m asking my brother. Did you love Agatha?”

Colin narrowed his eyes at Tom. Eventually he sighed, giving his horse’s neck a pat. “Tom, I love her to distraction. If you hadn’t noticed, we have six children. Five of them in a row came out boys. We could have stopped with an heir. We could have stopped with the spare. But here we are, six children later, and the sun still rises and sets on that woman’s smile. Gods alive, man, I’m mad for it.”

Tom felt a lightness in his chest as his brother admitted to his happiness. He wanted that joy for himself. No woman since Marianne made him think it was even possible…until Rosalie Harrow.

They rode into the stable yard and dismounted, leaving the horses with a groom.

“Staying for supper?” Colin asked, leading the way towards the house.

“Of course, he is,” came Agatha’s voice. She stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip. “Just try and weasel out of it, Tom, and I’ll have Mark and Thomas tie you to a chair.”

“I’ll get the rope!” cried Young Tom, bounding off around the side of the house.

Mark took off like a shot, eager to chase his little brother down. “Thomas, come back! She was joking!”

Colin and Tom laughed. Tom’s smile fell as he considered her offer. Perhaps he needed a night of distance. He needed to get his head on straight. “Fine, I’ll stay,” he said, placing a kiss on Agatha’s cheek. “Just the one night, mind.”

“We’ll see.” She smiled victorious and turned to go back in the house. “Oh, Tom wait.” She pulled a letter from her apron pocket. “This came for you shortly after you’d both gone.”

Tom took the letter and felt a fist clench tight around his heart. He knew that handwriting like it was his own.

“Tom?” Agatha put a hand on his arm. “Are you alright? You’ve gone pale.”

“I…”

“Heavens, what is it?” Agatha’s tone sang out her concern.

“It’s nothing,” Tom muttered. “I’ll just…go change for dinner.”

“But we’ve not had luncheon yet—”

He pushed into the house, angling for the back stair. As soon as he was safely to his room, he locked the door and tossed his hat and gloves on the bed. The sounds of the full house faded away as Tom picked up a paper knife and sliced open the green wax seal. He unfolded the letter and read:

Dearest Tom,

I can only imagine your surprise at hearing from me again. It was remiss of me not to write to you sooner, but I must confess, I was afraid you would not wish to hear from me. And then I was afraid I wouldn’t know where to write to have a letter be received by you. One hears such horror stories of letters to Naval men going astray. Why, a friend once said her letter went all the way to India before it found its way to her brother stationed in Lisbon.

You can imagine how relieved I was when I heard from Lady Braddock that First Lieutenant Tom Renley of Foxhill House was not only back in the country, but back in the very county of our youth. I can only imagine the fun you must be having in this golden autumn. How is dear James? I hope your brother fares well, and Agatha and all the children.

I have news of my own that might cause you some distress. Again, I confess I am not certain whether this news will be received with any interest, but I shall tell you all the same. In June, a cruel twist of fate took my husband. It was a carriage accident. (How many times did we take reckless drives in the phaeton? You always drove too fast for me, Tom.)

The service was a pretty one, and Thackeray is buried in his family estate near Cornwall. I am still in mourning, but when the time for sadness is done, I look forward to renewing our friendship. If you ever tire of country life, please know you always have a friend in Town who would await a visit from you with eagerness.

Give all my love to Agatha and the children. I will be praying for your health and happiness. I always have, Tom. I always will.

Yours,

Marianne Young