Chapter Twelve
November 13th, 1808
Whiteoaks, Wiltshire
Tish met him in the stableyard, austere and angular in a navy blue riding habit. They mounted, and trotted from the yard. Tom tried to tease her into smiling. “This may be the most exciting morning of my life. Trysting with an heiress! Is it to be a special license, Tish, or do you want the banns to be read?”
Tish’s mouth tucked in at the corners. “Tom, do be serious.”
He would—once she smiled properly. “But,” he said in a bantering tone, “I feel it’s only fair to tell you that my heart belongs to another!”
“I want to talk about Lucas.”
The levity drained from him. “What about him?”
“How is he? Truly?”
Tom had a flash of memory: Lucas crying so hard that it seemed he would turn himself inside out.
He looked away, swallowed,
