Tom frowned at his reflection, moving back and forth to see himself in sections in the small, chipped mirror. He didn’t have time to tie his cravat properly, and his hair was mussed, and damn Leighton anyway for dropping by unexpectedly. And damn himself for caring what Leighton thought. He wasn’t Leighton’s lover; since they’d agreed to marry, Leighton hadn’t touched him, not even to the extent of a casual hand on his arm. That Leighton had given him funds sufficient to pay his landlord, eat like a king, and entirely renew his wardrobe was quite beside the point. One couldn’t be a light-skirt — light-breeches? — if one didn’t bed one’s patron, could one? And if Leighton didn’t want him, then Tom certainly didn’t want Leighton. He had his pride, although that pride bent a bit in the middle
