Free Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens Page A

Thomas passed close to each other—an affliction she was increasingly suspicious he had guessed she was prey to—he and she had continued to manage to deal with each other without incident of any sort. At least, no incident they couldn’t both ignore, or, at the very least, pretend hadn’t happened.
    She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that, but . . . all in all, after his first week with them, she was feeling unexpectedly content.
    She could even admit that she was glad he had joined them.
    At the other end of the table, Thomas, too, was content with his first week’s achievements. His days were settling into a rhythm of financial work, intellectual instruction, and physical labor that suited him well. Coming to the manor, and remaining even after he’d discovered his unexpected new caretakers, had been the right thing to do. He could remain here in comfort and in peace while waiting for Fate to summon him to perform his final penance. If somewhat deeper in his blackened soul lay a certain impatience over his ultimate task, an impatience to learn of it, accomplish it, and find . . . whatever lay beyond, somewhat to his surprise, the gentle distractions of the moment, of the house, the children, and the alluring Mrs. Sheridan, appeared to have sufficient weight to drown it, to suppress it.
    Here, now, he was conscious only of a day well spent and a soothing, soporific sense of calm.
    Pippin skipped around the table removing the empty soup plates. Mrs. Sheridan handed out the dinner plates, then brought a large casserole to the table.
    Resuming her seat, she gestured for him to serve himself; it was one of those instants when he wished he could argue but accepted that she would prefer he take the path of least resistance. His instincts insisted that she—a lady no matter her standing—should be served first, but . . . to keep her peace, he served himself, then passed the spoon to Homer.
    The meat was delicious; he’d made sure to increase not just the amount delivered but also the quality of the cuts. Mrs. Sheridan had, of course, noticed, but she had made no comment, simply adjusting her dishes to suit the better ingredients.
    As a pleasant silence, broken only by the chink of cutlery on china and a murmured request from Pippin for Homer to pass the bread basket, enfolded the table, Thomas flicked a glance up the board and met Mrs. Sheridan’s fine brown eyes, which had already been on him.
    Their gazes held for a second too long, a fraction of a heartbeat beyond the excusable, then they both looked down at their plates.
    Thomas resisted the urge to shift in his chair; she would notice, and . . . no. That was the only thorn to the rose of his days there—the attraction that, unrelieved and unsated, was building, building. It was, he knew, the sort of attraction that would not readily subside, not while they remained under the same roof, in such close proximity.
    However, thus far, they’d both succeeded in suppressing any outburst, in keeping a lid on the pot that was slowly, steadily, inevitably, coming to the boil.
    His hope was that, before it did, Fate would send for him.
    The thought focused him again on the other three occupants of the table. He glanced at Homer, then at Pippin. He would only be in their lives for a short time, theirs and their mother’s, and although he’d weighed the matter at some length, with every passing day he felt increasingly certain that his decision to interact with them and give them whatever support, whatever help, he could over the time he was with them was the right path to take.
    Teaching Homer, and Pippin, too, what he could, and meanwhile living as normally as he could—as he needed to live—while avoiding setting what was fermenting between him and their mother alight . . .
    His plate empty, his stomach comfortably full, he leaned back in his chair and looked down the table. “A very nice dinner, Mrs. Sheridan. My compliments to the cook.”
    She