A Private Gentleman (21 page)
Read A Private Gentleman Online
Authors: Heidi Cullinan
Wes nodded hesitantly, not wanting to encourage him exactly but not
wanting to wound him either. He suspected he needn’t have bothered, for the
boy clearly had something he wanted to say and would not leave until he’d
managed the courage to say it.
The boy shifted on his feet, lifting his chin higher and higher as if courage
could be gained by becoming more vertical. “I—I wanted to tell you, sir,” he
began, his voice shaking a little in his eagerness or fear, or both, “that I’m keen.”
His entire face became red. “I’m not shamed to be a nancy boy. And—and if you
know another gent wh-who wants to pamper a lad like you do our Michael—I
am
keen, sir. Very keen. Or—” He took a deep breath and said the next very
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quickly. “Or if you and Michael ever want a bit of sport with a lad, I’m keen
there as well. Just wanting you to know, sir. How very keen I am.”
Wes had no idea what to say to this. He simply nodded and stammered, “Th-
th-thank you,” exhaling a quiet sigh of relief as the lad bowed and hurried from
the room.
A soft, sleepy laugh came from the sofa, and when Wes turned toward the
sound, Michael was awake.
“Peter’s a good lad,” he said quietly, his voice still sleep-rough. “A bit too
naive, but he’s a good lad. Rodger’s very careful with who beds him. He has
quite a crush on me, but I’ve never been able to stomach the idea of indulging
him of an evening. He’s barely older than I was when—” He cut himself off, his
smile fading, and his gaze lowered to the floor. “Well. Let’s just say I have no
taste for young boys in bed.”
Wes stared after Peter with new eyes, suddenly envisioning his nephew. He
felt slightly ill. Clearing his throat, he shook the image away.
“Sit,” Michael urged him, tucking his feet as he sat up. “You look like hell,
darling. Did your party keep you up too late? You could have given me your
regrets, you know.”
Wes smiled blackly and collapsed into the space Michael made for him. The
cushions of the sofa creaked and bounced at his abrupt arrival. He tried to
summon a dismissive response, but the disjointed shards of memory flashed
before his eyes before piercing his heart, and he swallowed hard.
“Albert?” Michael called softly.
Shaking his head, Wes tried for a brittle laugh, but he choked on it. Panic
rose on a tide inside him. He saw his nephew’s hollow face, heard his brother’s
disdainful rebuke, his father’s flat dismissal.
“Albert?” Michael touched Wes’s arm.
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Wes swallowed, barely managing to push the lump down this time. He
pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. Only the terror of falling
to pieces in front of Michael kept him in check. Weeping like a child was bad
enough, but to do it
now
? He bit his tongue, willing the shock of iron taste to jolt him back. He brushed Michael’s hand from his arm and fumbled against his
waistcoat.
“P-p-p-p—” Self-revulsion flooded his system, and the fury gave him the
push he needed to find the word. “Pills. In my p-p-pocket.”
The sweet scent of Michael’s hair filled his nose. Long, deft fingers pressed
against his abdomen, poked gently at him. He heard the soft
crack
of the pill case as it opened.
“How many?” Michael asked softly.
All of them. Drug me senseless.
Wes’s nostrils flared, and he took several
unsteady breaths. “Three.”
The case rattled, then snapped shut. “I’ll fetch some water.”
“N-N-N-No.” Wes opened his eyes and fumbled for Michael’s hand. “D-D-
Don’t n-n-nee-nee-nee—”
He stopped abruptly as first one, then two, then three pastilles pressed past
his lips. Suppressing a shudder of anticipation, Wes rolled them on his tongue
and shut his eyes as he swallowed.
Should have chewed them,
he thought, too late, but then he felt the gentle brush of lips against his. When he opened his eyes on a
long, slow blink, Michael was there before him, his face only inches away,
looking at him with tender concern.
I love you.
For the first time in his life he was relieved for his stammer. The words
clanged at the back of his throat, not even making it to his tongue. But they
echoed in his head, ridiculous and true.
I love you. I love you. I love you, Michael
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Vallant, my beautiful whore. Run away with me. Marry me. I will buy you every book in
the world.
Laughing at himself, he shut his eyes again.
When Michael brushed sweet, dry kisses against each lid, his heart turned
over.
Michael stroked his cheeks. “I take it the party did not go well.”
Wes sighed roughly and shook his head.
Michael’s hands slid down to stroke his neck. Softly, almost absently. “I’ve
been dreaming again. Remembering.” His fingernails curled briefly against
Wes’s skin. “I hate it. It makes me feel weak. I thought I left these ghosts so long
ago, but now they are back, laughing at me.” He pressed a kiss to Wes’s chin.
“What happened to you, my love?”
Wes opened his eyes, staring at the abruptly blurry ceiling. “W-W-Waste.”
This time he could not swallow the lump. “S-S-Said I was a w-waste.” He shut
his eyes, letting the brief overflow of tears slide into his hair. The opium reached
up and embraced him, easing the pain. “G-G-Good for n-n-nothing. D-D-
Disgrace.” He remembered Edwin, and this pain even the opium could not
contain. Tears slid into his hair, and his voice was thick with more at the ready.
“T-T-Told m-m-my n-n-nephew. N-n-not t-t-to en-en-en-end up l-l-l—” He broke
off, letting the rest out on a shuddering sigh.
Not to end up like me.
This time he could not stop a sob and, despite the opium, it carried him away
on the wave, this sorrow. He covered his eyes, but the damned tears streamed
on. He tried to breathe, but he choked. Michael cooed gently and stroked his
shoulders, and Wes hissed in disgust as he sat up and pushed him away.
“T-T-True,” he sputtered. “It’s t-t-t-true.” He shut his eyes tight and hung his
head. Idiot.
Idiot.
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The firm hand on his chin caught him by surprise. He went slack enough for
it to lift his face, and the sight of Michael staring at him with such a hard
expression made him still.
“You mean something to me.” One corner of his mouth quirked in a flat
smile. “Though perhaps I’m nothing too?”
Wes touched Michael’s cheek.
You are everything.
Michael shut his eyes and leaned into Wes’s palm. Beautiful. So beautiful. So
precious.
“I’m so tired,” Michael whispered.
Wes stroked the line of his jaw with his thumb. “Sleep.”
Michael laughed, letting his head fall against Wes’s shoulder.
Wes kissed the side of his head. Dizzy with opium, he swung his feet up
onto the sofa and adjusted Michael carefully against his body. Michael snuggled
in, hesitantly at first, but with one encouraging stroke from Wes down his back,
he burrowed in like a ground squirrel, positioning himself between Wes’s thighs,
pillowing his head on Wes’s chest, tucking his arm beneath his back. Wes
adjusted as well, and then Michael adjusted again, and eventually they were
comfortable and still.
Michael turned his head enough to press a kiss against Wes’s chest. “You are
good for
me
.”
Wes swallowed a different kind of lump, a full, radiant blockage rather than
a hollow one.
I love you. I love you like a fool. I would give up all the orchids in the
world just to lie for an afternoon like this with you.
He shut his eyes and stroked Michael’s hair.
He floated away on the opium, dreaming of pink clouds and rays of sun he
could catch with his fingers. They briefly faded as someone stuck a pillow
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beneath his head. Michael nuzzled his chest, the afghan was tucked in place
around them, and then he fell back into the dream, holding Michael’s hand and
laughing as they leapt naked through the clouds, swinging around the beams of
sunlight and riding them up to the stars.
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Chapter Nine
Thanks to Michael, the week after the dinner party, instead of marking the
beginning of a black funk, ushered in a period of almost idyllic bliss. The habit
became, after rising, breakfasting and seeing to any needs at the gardens, Wes
would take a day’s worth of pills along and head over to Dove Street, where a
bleary Michael would welcome him with a kiss before settling down with him on
the couch in Barrows’s office to nap. If Barrows’s office was busy, they went off
in Wes’s coach and drove around town, or found a quiet space to park the
carriage.
And there was kissing. There was always a great deal of kissing.
They hadn’t kissed that first afternoon as they slept together on the sofa, not
until the evening bustle began when Wes became unnerved by the noise. Michael
shooed him away, looking rested and happy, and as he’d sent him out the door,
he’d pressed a kiss to Wes’s lips. It was meant to be chaste and quick, but it
surprised Wes so much that he lingered. And then it was done, but it seemed
heavy between them. It lingered all night until he arrived the next morning, at
which point Michael met him in the foyer, pulled him into a dark corner, pressed
his back to the wall and kissed him full on the mouth. By the time the kiss ended
they were both hard and breathless. And smiling.
And so it was every day: Wes would arrive, they would kiss and then they
began a long day of nothing. Michael would nap on him, and Wes would review
notes from the gardens or read the paper or one of Michael’s books, and then
A Private Gentleman
they would drive. While they rode about town, Michael climbed into his lap and
made love to his mouth.
That was all. Sometimes Michael ran his hands over Wes’s chest, but mostly
they kissed. Wes could embrace him, could run his hands up and down his back,
could, sometimes, thread fingers into his hair, but if he slid his hands over
Michael’s backside or ran them over his thighs, Michael shuddered and pulled
back.
“I’m sorry.” He buried his forehead against Wes’s neck. “I don’t know
what’s happening to me.”
Wes wanted to tell him he didn’t mind, but he settled for brushing a kiss
against his ear. When Michael eased, Wes resumed stroking his back, but in a
gentling, not arousing manner. Michael ended up curled up beside him with his
head in his lap, sleeping heavily for an hour.
At each outing they made sweet love like tender young fools meeting in the
meadow in some sort of fairytale. Wes found that he cherished it more than if
they had fucked every afternoon. Certainly Michael seemed to be blossoming
beneath it. He said he hadn’t had a nightmare since their ritual began.
Barrows, however, was less convinced. He frequently worked in his office
while Michael slept draped over Wes, and he did a lot of glowering.
“This isn’t a workable solution,” he grumbled on the third day as Michael
slept. “Ignoring the fact that I have to do my business in the drawing room,
you’ll notice he can’t do this in a bed with you. Only in your carriage or in here.”
Wes had noticed. He said nothing, though, only stroked Michael’s pale hair
as he slept. He didn’t know what to do about it. When Michael curled up beside
him, when he smiled at him, when he pressed his mouth to Wes’s own, he could
forget everything his brother or father ever said to him, every slight he received
at the Society, every whisper at the club. But yes, beneath this veneer it all still
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lurked, just as Barrows said. This wasn’t a solution. Like everything else in his
life, it was a panacea, an escape. He couldn’t fix anything but a dying plant.
When the heaviness of this realization got the better of him, he reached into
his pocket for his pill pouch and took two. He’d have taken three, but it had been
barely two hours since his last dose, and it was getting harder and harder to find
the line between mental ease and unconsciousness. He popped the pills in his
mouth, closed his eyes and rolled the pastilles on his tongue, working up enough
saliva to swallow them, but also anticipating—hoping for—a moment of bliss as
well.
Once he opened his eyes, from the corner of his vision he saw Barrows lean
back in his chair, watching Wes. Barrows’s face was closed and unreadable.
“You’re chasing the dragon.”
Wes blinked at him, genuinely confused.
Barrows rolled his eyes and grimaced. “God above. You don’t even
know
you’re chasing the dragon. I suppose a kindly doctor sends you to your bliss,
