day-to-day life had taken on. He hated that he spent the majority of his time pursuing pleasure that often was not that pleasurable. He hated the growing covetousness he felt toward friends with seemingly endless funds at their disposal. He hated the late mornings and too-long afternoons that became late evenings, which resulted in a foggy head, only to repeat the unproductive efforts of the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. He hated weighing out the merits of every woman he met and wondering if his attentions would be welcomed. He hated that he had not felt drawn to a single one of them—except the one he knew would not welcome him.
The thoughts cycled through his mind and surged through his heart, building like a thunderstorm in his head and chest until he found himself pleading in silent prayer for God to help him find direction. He wanted to be working his land. He wanted to find a comfortable wife. He wanted to please his mother. He wanted to be mindful of his finances. He wanted to ride his horse through the countryside again without caring how his cravat was tied. He wanted to secure his future. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . he needed to feel at peace with himself. That peace was proving to be fleeting the longer he stayed in this blasted city. The realization brought his thoughts back to the idea that had plagued him increasingly these last weeks: did he belong here?
Which of the women he’d become acquainted with would be satisfied with a husband who sat in the saddle? Would any of them be able to find comfort on his annual income with the rest of his income being dependent on his harvest and management? Would they be comfortable in a country house not yet built rather than an estate with history and distinction?
As the years went by, the smell of the shop, or in his case, the farm, would cling stronger and stronger to Thomas and affect his standing in social circles. His sons would need to pursue careers of their own despite the land they would one day inherit. He did not expect to have adequate fortune to lay about them as they entered maturity. His daughters would have small inheritances but need to marry well to ensure their comfort, likely to a man of trade, which would move them below the society Thomas himself belonged to, if only just. Had Thomas met any woman who could find happiness in such a life? Never mind that each woman he met was compared to Amber Sterlington—her beauty, her figure, the effect her voice had on him each time he heard it. One more aggravation to heap upon the others.
As his mind turned to matters of more immediate attention, he became even more morose. Due to his extravagance, he had spent the majority of the finances he’d brought with him to London. Next week he would need to pay another month’s rent of his rooms, which would leave his pockets near empty. He could appeal to his solicitor for an advance on next quarter’s allowance, but Mr. Jefferies would inform Albert, and the idea of his brother knowing what he’d done burned in Thomas’s chest like a blacksmith’s fire. He would have to withstand his brother’s censure for the irresponsible management of his funds.
Or, perhaps Albert would clap him on the back and express his relief to see Thomas become as irresponsible as every other man in London. Albert had been the second son when he’d come to London and unburdened by the responsibility of one day becoming the Baron himself. He had therefore been quite the rake—even more so after Charles had died and Albert faced the expectations of an inheritance he was not eager to fulfill. Albert had often said that Thomas was too straitlaced and should embrace the pleasures afforded the younger sons of the nobility. Thomas had never wished for such dissipation, it was not in his nature, and had endured his brother’s ribbing with tolerance and amusement. Yet now he had started on that same path—a path that had left Albert at odds with
The thoughts cycled through his mind and surged through his heart, building like a thunderstorm in his head and chest until he found himself pleading in silent prayer for God to help him find direction. He wanted to be working his land. He wanted to find a comfortable wife. He wanted to please his mother. He wanted to be mindful of his finances. He wanted to ride his horse through the countryside again without caring how his cravat was tied. He wanted to secure his future. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . he needed to feel at peace with himself. That peace was proving to be fleeting the longer he stayed in this blasted city. The realization brought his thoughts back to the idea that had plagued him increasingly these last weeks: did he belong here?
Which of the women he’d become acquainted with would be satisfied with a husband who sat in the saddle? Would any of them be able to find comfort on his annual income with the rest of his income being dependent on his harvest and management? Would they be comfortable in a country house not yet built rather than an estate with history and distinction?
As the years went by, the smell of the shop, or in his case, the farm, would cling stronger and stronger to Thomas and affect his standing in social circles. His sons would need to pursue careers of their own despite the land they would one day inherit. He did not expect to have adequate fortune to lay about them as they entered maturity. His daughters would have small inheritances but need to marry well to ensure their comfort, likely to a man of trade, which would move them below the society Thomas himself belonged to, if only just. Had Thomas met any woman who could find happiness in such a life? Never mind that each woman he met was compared to Amber Sterlington—her beauty, her figure, the effect her voice had on him each time he heard it. One more aggravation to heap upon the others.
As his mind turned to matters of more immediate attention, he became even more morose. Due to his extravagance, he had spent the majority of the finances he’d brought with him to London. Next week he would need to pay another month’s rent of his rooms, which would leave his pockets near empty. He could appeal to his solicitor for an advance on next quarter’s allowance, but Mr. Jefferies would inform Albert, and the idea of his brother knowing what he’d done burned in Thomas’s chest like a blacksmith’s fire. He would have to withstand his brother’s censure for the irresponsible management of his funds.
Or, perhaps Albert would clap him on the back and express his relief to see Thomas become as irresponsible as every other man in London. Albert had been the second son when he’d come to London and unburdened by the responsibility of one day becoming the Baron himself. He had therefore been quite the rake—even more so after Charles had died and Albert faced the expectations of an inheritance he was not eager to fulfill. Albert had often said that Thomas was too straitlaced and should embrace the pleasures afforded the younger sons of the nobility. Thomas had never wished for such dissipation, it was not in his nature, and had endured his brother’s ribbing with tolerance and amusement. Yet now he had started on that same path—a path that had left Albert at odds with
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