Vincent woke with the warmth of sun on his bare back and a happy ache in his body that seemed to emanate from somewhere deeper than his bones. He stretched out an arm, checking for Thomas despite himself. Logically, he knew the man would not be there â some bleary part of his memory even recalled him leaving in the early hours â but that did not stop the sting of disappointment.
A light knock at the door had him quickly alighting from bed, pulling on his trousers and wrapping a housecoat securely around his chest.
He opened his door to find Lupe, her eyes fixed on the floor as she clutched Isabela securely to her chest. There was an awkwardness still, since that night she'd offered herself to Thomas, the clung to the air between them. Vincent did not want it there â he was hardly holding a grudge against the poor, traumatised girl â but alleviating it was well beyond his skillset.
"Buenos dÃas, Vicente. Isabela te ha estado buscando toda la mañana." She squirmed in place, the hip Isabela sat on jutting out slightly. "Isabela want," she explained, chucking her chin at him.
Vincent nodded, clearing his throat, and accepting the child into his arms. Isabela gurgled happily, oblivious to the tension in the air, and gnawed determinedly on one of her fists. Before the babe's weight had even settled in his arms, Lupe dropped into a quick, messy curtsey and tried to hurry out of sight.
Vincent stopped her with a wave, his hand hovering above her should but never making contact. "Lupe..." He didn't know what to say â in Spanish or English â to explain, to make her comfortable again. He wished, not for the last time, for some of the charisma that Thomas had that would allow him to smooth this situation over. "You're... The..." He winced, irritated with himself, and when he opened his eyes again, Lupe was staring at him, looking like she might shatter into a million pieces with the gentlest of breezes. "You're safe here," he said softly, hoping he sounded as genuine as he felt, "Segura."
Tears welled in her eyes.
Vincent could have kicked himself. He set about finding new words of comfort when she spoke.
"Muchas gracias Vicente. Eso significa mucho para mÃ."
Although he wasn't quite sure what she was saying, her tone was ... happy? She smiled softly.
"I am... safe."
.
In the dining room, Matt sat at the table with a pile of food and the newspaper laid out in front of him. Thomas sat adjacent to him, largely ignoring his breakfast as he pointed out something in the print and shook his head at whatever Matt's reply was. Only one of them looked up when Vincent and Isabela entered.
Thomas rose, meeting them at the table where the staff had laid out breakfast, and grabbing a plate before Vincent could shift Isabela to his other arm. He spoke as he filled it.
"Good morning, and good morning to you." The first was delivered traditionally, the second with a higher pitch and delivered to Isabela who gurgled a greeting in return.
Vincent heard none of it.
Instead he felt his heart thump in his chest, and snippets of last evening played in his head. He saw Thomas' eyes on his, felt his hand slide across his hip, breathed in the scent of him, and heard his name on Thomas' exhale.
In the present, Thomas stepped around him, adding a few slices of ham to the plate.
"Are you hungry?" he asked in a low voice.
Whatever part of Vincent that had not been blushing were now aflame. The blush worsened further when, shielded by the way he was positioned, Thomas' spare hand rose to settle on the small of Vincent's back. They were unreasonably close, even under the pretence of Thomas arranging Vincent's food, but neither pulled away. Thomas because he had decided he did not have to. Vincent because all reason had fled him.
"Do you think it's a bit warm in here?" The question was lobbed from across the room by Matt, his tone placid and his eyes fixed very deliberately on the paper in front of him. It was enough to jolt Vincent from whatever spell Thomas had him under, his gaze ricocheting back to the food. Despite the reminder of another person in the room, Thomas' subtle hand on his lower back didn't move.
"Indeed," Thomas said in answer, his smile for Vincent alone. "How about we take our breakfast outside?"
.
Their impromptu picnic found them laid out on a rug in some gardens not far from the Humphrey's London townhouse. Thomas & Vincent sat out opposite corners â or rather, Thomas lounged â with Isabela mumbling gibberish between them. A second rug, laid out under a second tree a few dozen strides away, supported Lupe and another maid, who attempted stilted conversation and giggled over the little cakes they'd been given. They were there to offer legitimacy to the outing.
Thomas had found a feather, abandoned by some water bird or another, and he used it now to tickle Isabela's tiny hands and feet, his own grin fixed in place as she squirmed and giggled. He glanced up to find Vincent watching him, his eyebrow quirking despite the way his smile softened.
Vincent felt compelled to explain. "You're very good with her."
Thomas glanced down quickly, touching the feather to the tip of Isabela's nose and revelling in her squeaks of joy.
"As are you."
There was a silent protest to that statement in the way Vincent shifted in his seat.
"Have you made a decision about what should happen to her?"
Although the questions startled Vincent, the answer was easy. The decision had been made in a subconscious part of his mind, perhaps when he'd toured the orphanages, or when he'd learned she shared Thomas' blood, or even innocuously, in one of the moments her dark brown eyes tracked him around the room, waiting for him to return to her.
"Yes. I will find someone to care for her, someone close by who will be good to her." He nodded, confident in his decision. "She will be well cared for, I will see to that, and I will make sure she knows about her mother's bravery."
"To strangers then?" There was no acridity in the question, but Vincent still flinched. Thomas reached out, laying a hand on his knee to show he'd meant no harm. "Close-by strangers."
Vincent could see no other option. "I thought perhaps Beth and David might be suitable, but with their own child on the way I'd hate to imposition them. There's no one else I-" He froze suddenly, heat flaring in his cheeks. He had overlooked someone as equally invested in Isabela as he was. "Unless... I... Do you...?"
The hand that rested on his thigh gave a squeeze, mercifully cutting him off mid-sentence.
"I would not make a good father," Thomas said, his brow marred by a slight frown. "I had no one to show me how. Perhaps I could just do the opposite of everything the Duke did, but I'll not risk little Isa's happiness on that." He gave her stomach a quick pat, his expression smoothing out as Isabela raised her short arms over her head and yawned as widely as she was able.
For his part, Vincent watched on with a frown.
"You have never thought of having children then?"
It seemed a great waste to him for the world to never see the secretly gentle Thomas Thorne become a parent.
The man in question shrugged his shoulders, sitting himself upright on the mat and scooping the little girl into his arms. "Not particularly." He seemed oblivious to the irony as he set about soothing Isabela to sleep. "Not alone."
It was an interesting point, Vincent thought as he rested back on his hands. There were not many of their standing who could honestly say they had been raised by two attentive parents; most were the product of housekeepers, nursemaids, and governesses. But the having of children... that generally required the engagement of two parents... a man and a woman...
Vincent returned himself to his original point; Thomas alone would make a far better parent than most of the peerage combined. He opened his mouth to say as much but Thomas was already speaking.
"But I was not suggesting myself," he said softly, his eyes on Vincent's. "I thought you might take up the mantle?"
Vincent could not claim ignorance, or pretend he had not considered it. He had. Gabriela had laid her child at the mercy of the Humphreys â at his feet, as it was â and he felt a desire burn deep in his chest to honour her decision and her sacrifice. And every look and smile from Isabela fanned that flame.
The words to explain himself came easily â he'd heard them many times before in his mind. "I would not want to raise a child to be as afraid of the world as I am."
Thomas' head tilted to the side, a black curl dancing from one side of his forehead to the other. "I do not think you are afraid of the world. Perhaps I did, before I knew you better but now..." He shrugged a little. There was no smirk on his face, no glint in his eyes. This was Thomas at his most sincere. Vincent dared not look away. "I think you are wary, and pragmatic, but also insightful. To know the world as thoroughly as you invites a little caution. I know Isabela would be better for it."
For a long moment, Vincent could only stare. And wish they were not in such a public place.
The silence and building tension were interrupted as the maid, with Lupe and a footman who had not been with them moments earlier, approached.
"Forgive the interruption, m'lords, but you asked that any mail be brought to you with haste." She bent at the waist, holding out a few cream envelopes.
Thomas rose up onto his knees, but with Isabela in his arms he could not accept them. Instead, his gaze flicked between the maid and Vincent. His urgent encouragement was lost on Vincent, who had already taken them from the maid, and sliced open the first with a breadknife. As their staff dismissed themselves back to the other blanket, he skimmed the first in seconds, before setting it aside and beginning on the next. Thomas watched the other man's brows raise, but before he could ask about the letter's content, Vincent was speaking.
"It's from Forsythe," he advised. "He thanks you for your inquiry and..." The pause was short, just long enough for Vincent to decide it would be better to read the text directly rather than to paraphrase what was to come.
"'However, upon reflection I think our interests do not align. I think your request for women immoral and you should strongly reconsider your staffing choices. I myself would never...'" Vincent trailed off; neither of them needed to hear more of the man's blustered attempts at innocence.
Thomas let out a huff of air, his expression grim. "What an insufferable reprobate. I suppose I shouldn't have expected he'd give himself and the duke up so easily, but I did hold out hope."
Vincent had not thought it likely. "If... For..." He aimed for comforting humour â Thomas' specialty. "I'm sure the first rule of criminality is 'do not put your criminal acts in writing'."
"That's one rule I wish the duke didn't abide by."
Despite the lightness in Thomas' voice, Vincent's frown returned. It was the duke's involvement in all this that concerned him the most. Not because he especially feared or hated the man â though he did both in small amounts â but because of Thomas. And the way Thomas reacted to the man who had sired him. And the dangerous habit Thomas had of throwing caution to the wind in the hopes of spiting the man.
"How... If..." Vincent was concerned about how his next line of questioning would come across. His brain tripped over itself to craft a sentence that would not itself cause harm.
Thomas waved to catch his attention. "Ask what you'd like, Vincent," he said gently, brown eyes level and calm. "I do not fear your insight."
Even with Thomas' encouragement, it took him a few more minutes to pose the question.
"How do you hope this will all end?"
Thomas blinked, a small, bemused smile spreading across his face. It was clearly not the question he had been expecting. "With the women safe and the perpetrators punished."
"Perpetrators?"
The other man frowned slightly. "Yes; the duke, Forsythe, that complicit brother of mine, anyone and everyone who laid a hand on those women should be punished."
"And that is a priority for you?"
"Of course. Vincent, I-"
It was not often that Vincent interrupted others, but he pressed on. "Just as important?"
"Yes!" Thomas instantly shook his head. "No, of course not â the women's lives matter the most. But if the duke is not stopped, then countless more lives will be put in danger!"
Vincent didn't disagree. But he struggled to prioritise the theoretical. Their dealings with the duke had already shown that he was able to be bargained with â they had traded the knowledge of Thomas' secret for David's life last year â and it felt unwise to rule that out when there were lives at stake. He did not think Thomas could stomach that again, however.
He wasn't sure how to put that fear into words.
Thomas let out a sigh, oblivious to the other man's inner conflict. "I don't suppose that last is a message from Jack having caught the duke red-handed and single-handedly rescued all the Spanish women?" he asked, the humour forced.
Vincent had not rushed to open the last envelope in his hands, doubting the sturdier card stock was one of the missives they were anticipating. Now, he opened it, noting the elegant calligraphy addressing it to Thomas at his club, and frowned. It was undeniably an invitation, embossed and golden, from one Earl Montreal. Without a word, Vincent held it out to Thomas.
Isabela had settled to a state of near sleep, and with only a quick glance at her, he leant forward and accepted the invitation. His eyes found the issuer and he nodded.
"George's uncle," he said by way of explanation. That came as no surprise to Vincent.
"The... I... How did it find you here?"
The corner of Thomas' mouth quirked into a smile. "I asked some trusted employees to forward my mail to your family's townhouse. I didn't think I'd need to return to my own any time soon."
Something about his phrasing set off the heat in Vincent's lower belly. He cleared his throat and repositioned himself on the picnic rug.
Thomas' smirk widened, but he didn't comment. Instead he said, "The Earl is a business connection I'd prefer to keep happy. I know this is not exactly the time for it, but how would you fancy a spot of distraction tonight?"
.
Earl Montreal's London resident was more magnificent than the Humphreys, particularly as it was decorated that evening. Vincent could hardly admire it, however; his eyes continually scanned the crowd, looking for signs of George and other threats.
As they entered, Thomas bowed to the host, conversing with him quickly, introducing Vincent as his guest, and promising to speak in detail of horseflesh with the man later on. Somehow bemused yet unsurprised, Vincent trailed after him. Thomas greeted a few more connections as they passed by, before finding a section of wall that was unoccupied by table, matron, or wallflower, and positioned Vincent with his back against it.
The man felt some of the hairs on his arms rest, but others sprang into action at the... thoughtfulness of the action.
"I have to hunt down a few more acquaintances to sort out some business, and investments, and the like. It will be quicker if you stay here, and then when I return we can go find the Earl's estimable library and see if we can find something you don't know." He winked, and then he was gone.
Vincent watched Thomas melt into the crowd, not the least surprised by the man's ability to adapt to any social situation. He had purpose wherever he went; things to uncover or achieve, or people to befriend. Vincent on the other hand, was already itching to leave, his cravat feeling a little too tight and his pulse a little too loud. Surely if he ducked out and found that library, Thomas would find him when-
All plans for escape were interrupted as an unfamiliar young woman came to a sudden stop in front of him.
"Oh, Lord Humphrey! What a lovely surprise it is to find you at an event such as this!"
It took all of a moment for Vincent to remember the manners imbued in his bones, and he sketched a quick bow as he tried to remember the woman's name. For the life of him, he could not remember ever having met her.
"The... I..." As the corner of her mouth twitched, Vincent felt himself flush. This was why he avoided these events. He'd already stood in the ballroom for longer than he had at any ball in his adulthood, and look what reward that had earned him. "Good evening."
To her credit and Vincent's embarrassment, the young woman's smile faltered no further. "I've never had the pleasure of standing up with you," she said, her eyelashes fluttering as she dipped her head at the dance floor, "but as my dance card will allow it..."
The pause was anticipatory.
Vincent wasn't completely sure what they were anticipating. A large part of him worried that the girl had just invited him to invite her to dance, which would not bode well. For starters, Vincent did not enjoy dancing. He knew how, of course, and perhaps better than most given his mind's love of patterns, but being in contact with someone and making small talk for an entire dance? A harrowing prospect. However, there was no way to refuse her request that he make a request... not without thoroughly embarrassing them both.
"I'm afraid my friend here has two left feet." Thomas reappeared with those words and with a rather firm pat on Vincent's shoulder. "Perhaps you'd do me the honour, Miss Clark, and spare all three of us the embarrassment."
Vincent couldn't prevent his wince. As Miss Clark accepted Thomas' hand and the pair drifted over to join the dancing, he rolled his shoulders, trying to disrupt the weight of that word... Thomas had not meant it as an insult to him, he knew. But that did not fix the echo in his mind.
Embarrassment.
With great effort, he put his attention back on the dancing, his eyes quickly scanning the group for Thomas' dark curls. The man was, of course, grinning as he elegantly weaved his way down a line; the picture of a young gentleman at a ball. Vincent wished he was closer, to see if his smile reached his eyes or whether â as he suspected â Thomas was sizing up every guest engaged in the quadrille.
Even if he was, Vincent doubted any of the other dancers noticed. Not as he reached the end of the line and met up with Miss Clark, their palms pressed together, and they began to trot their way back to their starting positions. They made a rather picturesque pair, Thomas' dark features and navy coat against Miss Clark's golden curls and sage dress. Surely some dowager or matchmaker was watching at that very moment, laying bets of how long the engagement might take. They'd never know how wrong they were, that Thomas-
The heat in the centre of Vincent's chest that seemed to crackle to life whenever he and Thomas were in the same room went suddenly to ice. The sensation was so real that Vincent's hand travelled up to rest against his breastbone, as if searching for an external wound that might have caused the change. But there was none.
Truthfully, there was no obstacle to a match between Thomas and Miss Clark. None that mattered.
The ice travelled up Vincent's spine, and he twisted his neck to try to dislodge the feeling.
Embarrassment.
A hint of movement across the crowd drew his attention. The simple act of a man taking a sip from his glass made noticeable only by the way the man's own gaze was fixed on Vincent. When their eyes locked, George inclined his head in greeting, before glancing quickly at Thomas. His mouth stretched into a wide smirk, and he slowly turned back to Vincent. He raised his glass in toast from across the room, mouthing to Vincent as the quartet finished the song and a smattering of polite applause erupted.
My condolences.
Vincent tore his gaze away from the man, refusing to be goaded. He was a jilted lover set on sowing mayhem and he was not to be believed.
And yet...
Another song had started up, the warm melody of a waltz filling the ballroom, and Vincent could not help but watch Thomas and Miss Clark arrange themselves into the proper position. They were an elegant match. Appropriate and untroubling.
Embarrassment.
Vincent went in search of the library.
He did not know if he found the room Thomas had spoken of, but he found a space lined with books, a dying fire beneath the mantle, and a tray of whiskey and glasses. He poured himself a small glass and then proceeded to stare into its depths for a long time. He was still standing in the centre of the room, eyeing his drink in consternation, when Thomas found him.
"I thought you might at least wait for me before you found somewhere to hide."
Vincent felt the word 'hide' like a hit to already bruised skin.
He swirled his glass and took a deep breath. "You should consider Miss Clark as a potential wife. You looked a good match out there."
Thomas let out a huff of laughter. "I doubt it. The poor thing almost swooned every time she was passed into Lord Barington's arms. There'll be a match there, if I'm not mistaken."
The ice in Vincent's chest gave a painful squeeze, and he contemplated the dark liquor in the glass he held.
"Still," he said after a long pause, "there are many young women you could choose from."
With his gaze fixed in place as it was, he plotted Thomas' path through the room by sound. Footsteps carrying him to Vincent's right, the clink of the crystal decanter as the stopper was removed followed quickly was a slosh of liquid. Another moment's pause and then Thomas' voice was closer than it had been.
"Is something the matter Vincent? You seem... unlike yourself."
Vincent wondered what that meant â was he better or worse than his usual self â but madness lay that way, so he refocussed on the dancing and Miss Clark and whispered condolences from across the room.
"Does George believe that things ended between you so that you might find a wife?"
For the first time, Thomas' voice had an edge to it. "I have no earthly idea what George believes, and I do not bloody well care â his opinions have absolutely no baring on me, and they should not on you either."
"He would not be the only one to think you might catch a good match."
"But I do not want- Argh, Vincent!" Thomas threw back the whiskey he'd poured, setting the glass down forcefully on the table. "I beg you, please explain to me why we're having this conversation. And, importantly, what exactly this conversation is!"
"It's a conversation about your future, I think that's quite plain."
Thomas turned away abruptly, his hands thrown in the air. "Ugh, you're being ridiculously difficult."
The ice thumped painfully: Embarrassment.
Suddenly, he was looking up, his eyes locked on the back of Thomas' head with fire dancing in them. "Do you think me so completely inept that I cannot manage a simple dance with a lady?"
Thomas was surprised by the outburst, more so when he looked back and found Vincent's furious gaze on him. "That's what this is about?" The breath that left him carried relief. "I just thought-"
Vincent snorted a laugh. "I know what you thought." His tone was mutinous.
"Clearly you do not." Thomas was bemused and confused, waiting for the moment Vincent made sense. "I thought to spare you discomfort. I know how little you like to be touched, or to speak with strangers, or balls in general..." He shrugged slightly. "Tonight, you came here for my benefit, and I thought that I could make one thing easier for you. I don't understand why you're so upset!"
Vincent took a step backwards. This time his words were quiet. "Then perhaps you do not understand me at all."
The other man watched him cross the room, his brow so deeply furrowed it was almost difficult to see him. "Are you determined to twist everything I say? Where is this coming from?"
"You and Miss Clark-"
Thomas folded his arms across his chest as he interrupted. "Are you jealous?"
He was smirking slightly, mostly in jest.
Vincent considered it for the briefest of moments before a harsh laugh tore free from his chest. "Of course, I'm jealous! She can stand up with you, and take your hand in public, and look into your eyes and no one will think anything of it. When those thoughts â those desires â occupy half my waking, of course I'm envious that Miss Clark can waltz in without a second thought and claim those moments with you. But that's completely beside the point!"
Thomas thought that might have been the point entirely, but there was no time to interrupt.
"I have spent my entire life being cautious and afraid, worried that something I might do would have repercussions for myself or my family that I could neither foresee nor understand. And yet, for all that worry, I have somehow still burdened those I love. They have had to make excuses for me, avoid things for me, and lied for me, all because I cannot think or behave the way society wants me too." His eyes were wide, alive with unnameable emotion that threatened to overflow.
"Vincent, I-"
"Then I met you." The words were quiet now. "And barely knowing me you waited and listened, and I thought that I had finally been seen. I thought I'd met someone who understood. Someone who did not feel it necessary to apologise or make allowances for me, but could accept... all of me." A single tear broke free, trailing across his cheek.
Thomas crossed the room. "I do, Vincent." He stopped as Vincent raised his hands, keeping him at bay. "Like you, I feel the crushing weight of society's expectations and-"
"But you're not like me!" Vincent finally abandoned the drink in his hand, setting it far too firmly on the table beside him, but he was too angry to take note of the pain that radiated up his arm. "You say that we are the same, but it's not true. You have a choice."
Thomas froze in place, confusion radiating from him. "A choice?"
"Yes. You can choose society. You can choose normality. You can choose..." Vincent took a single, deep breath. "A wife."
They stood across the room from each other, each breathing heavily, and the room seemed to shift. Thomas drew his arms to him, folding them across his chest. A muscle in his jaw pulsed.
"I could... 'choose a wife'?" he asked, quiet but firm. With a small noise of consideration, he swivelled on one heel and put some more distance between them, carrying himself to a wall and propping one shoulder against it. "You think I should just 'choose a wife' to fit in with society."
Vincent was not oblivious to the steel in Thomas' tone. He met it with his own. "You are able to. You've told me yourself you are attracted to women. Why would you not do the easy thing?"
Thomas nodded slowly. "So I should ignore whatever I feel for men, to appease society?"
"You could so easily have everything you deserve." Vincent took a step forward, his hands clenched at his abdomen. "Children? A wife could make you a father, Thomas, and you would be an excellent one."
His tone was so emphatic, so honest. Thomas blinked once to clear it from his mind.
"And all I would have to give up is half of myself?"
"And be rewarded with a life free of the challenges of being different!"
The laugh that broke free was anything but amused. "You sound like the duke."
Vincent flinched away.
"When he first discovered my relationships with men, I thought he'd kill me then and there." Thomas tongue ran the edge of his teeth, the sharp sensation grounding him. He pushed off the wall, finding the liquor again and pouring himself another glass. "But for the first time in my life he surprised me. He said I could sustain whatever perversions..." He took a hefty swig of the whiskey, relishing the burn. "...I liked in secret, as long as I took a wife and produced an heir, and did whatever else the Ton expected of me. When I asked what if it was a man I loved, he gave me the beating I had been expecting all along. And then he threw me out, with a stipend of course. Perversions in secret, perfection in public. I was fifteen." He'd held together well through the retelling, fighting down the bitterness that crept in, but on this last, his voice cracked.
A second tear joined the first, wetting Vincent's other cheek. He had no words for the pain in Thomas' story. He hated the Duke of Thorne with every fibre of his being. But Vincent was not asking the same thing of Thomas; he did not suggest the man keep himself secret, only that he make his life easy for himself.
"The Duke of Thorne will pay for his crimes," Vincent said eventually, his tone not allowing for debate, "All of his crimes, but-"
"Would you give me up," Thomas asked suddenly, "if it meant acceptance and an easy life?"
No. The answer came so easily that it hurt, erupting in his chest and threatening to spill out. But his situation was not the same as Thomas'; he knew now that he could never find happiness with a woman. Not like Thomas could.
Thomas watched him think â watched him hesitate â and shook his head. He let out a bite of laughter once more, his hands raking his curls out of his face. He locked his stormy black eyes with Vincent's, refusing to look away.
"I am sorry I hurt your feelings," the vitriol in his tone took some of the sincerity out of his apology, "I am sorry that you think so little of yourself that your feelings are so easily hurt. But I am not you, and I cannot do what you so easily suggest. I will not sacrifice my chance at happiness because-" he cut himself off with a bitter laugh, looking heavenward and appealing to the saints, "because the man I love told me I deserve it."
Vincent frowned, mouth open in preparation; who was this man who-
Oh.
OH.
Thomas loved hi-
There was a knock at the door behind Thomas, startling them both. Thomas, with red-rimmed eyes and fury in his step, stalking across the room, reefing open the door and sending up a breeze that flapped the curtains throughout the room.
He all but barked out the question. "What?"
The footman cleared his throat, offering a stilted bow. "Forgive the interruption, Lord Thorne. A letter arrived for you and the messenger said it was urgent."
Thomas paused, not a hesitation but a moment to take a deep breath, before taking the envelope from the man's outstretched hand with a nod of thanks. He tore the seal and unfolded the paper quickly, his gaze scanning the text. His spine straightened, his chin dipping slightly to the side to address Vincent.
"It's time."
~~~
Hello Lovely Readers!
What an absolute emotional rollercoaster! I'm sure I will revise and review this chapter infinite times before I'm happy with it - but here's where it stands now!
So what do we think? Who's in the wrong? Thomas? Vincent? Neither? Both? I'd love to hear what you think!
xx Flo