It wasn’t his practice to reveal his deeper thoughts to anyone, but in that moment he grew unbearably weary, and perhaps just a little bit tired of being himself. And so he shook his head slowly, and said, “Every minute of every day.”

Many hours later, Thomas was climbing the steps to his bedroom in Belgrave Castle. He was tired. And in a bad temper. Or if not bad, exactly, then certainly not good. He felt impatient, mostly with himself. He’d spent the better part of the evening ruminating on his conversation with Lady Amelia, which was annoying enough—he’d never wasted quite so much time on her before.

But instead of coming straight home from the assembly, as had been his original intention, he’d driven to Stamford to visit Celeste. Except once he’d got there, he hadn’t particularly felt like knocking upon her door. All he could think was that he’d have to talk with her, because that was the sort of friendship they had; Celeste was not a high-stepping actress or opera singer. She was a proper widow, and he had to treat her as such, which meant conversation and other niceties, whether or not he was in the mood for words.

Or other niceties.

And so he’d sat in his curricle, parked in the street in front of her house, for at least ten minutes. Finally, feeling like a fool, he left. Drove across town. Stopped at a public inn where he was not familiar with the clientele and had a pint. Rather enjoyed it, actually—the solitude, that was. The solitude and the blessed peace of not a single person approaching him with a query or a favor or, God help him, a compliment.

He’d nursed his pint for a good hour, doing nothing but watching the people around him, and then, noticing that the hour had grown preposterously late, he went home.

He yawned. His bed was extremely comfortable, and he planned to make good use of it. Possibly until noon.

Belgrave was quiet when he let himself in. The servants had long since gone to bed, and so, apparently, had his grandmother.

Thank God.

He supposed he loved her. It was a theoretical thing, really, because he certainly did not like her. But then again, no one did. He supposed he owed her some fealty. She had borne a son who had then married a woman who had borne him. One had to appreciate one’s own existence, if nothing else.

But beyond that, he couldn’t think of any reason to hold her in any affection whatsoever. Augusta Elizabeth Candida Debenham Cavendish was, to put it politely, not a very nice person.