Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances (167 page)

He twisted his shoulders; his skin still felt wrong, and his stomach hurt. That little stab of homesickness he’d felt before returned. It wasn’t his own home, Fairbrook, he missed, but Rudley Court, for which he longed. There had been nothing wrong with his own home, per se, but the happiest times of his childhood had been spent with the Baxters, free and accepted in a way he’d never quite experienced at Fairbrook. A dose of that loving acceptance would be most welcome right now.

While sitting there, on a borrowed bed in a borrowed house with a borrowed woman, Henry thought wistfully of tree forts and foot races, picnics and riding, charades and dancing lessons. And he yearned.

All you have to do is step through that door,
he told himself,
and you’ll be there.
He could picture it now, an endless summer day at Rudley Court spent with Claude and Claudia, the people he might just love best in the world, alongside The Honorables. In his imagination, they were all children again, and everything was easy and fun.

With his mind’s eye full of lily pads and skipping stones, Henry released the counterpane, instead holding close those feelings of warmth and safety. He made quick work of dressing.

Kitty, he noted, did not protest his impending departure.

“You won’t … you won’t
tell
anyone, will you?”

“Discretion is at least half the reason my services are so expensive. None will hear of this from me, upon my honor.” She gave a dry laugh. “For whatever the honor of a woman like me is worth.”

At last, he made himself lift his eyes. “Thank you for your time and company,” he said. “I do apologize.”

The courtesan gave him a wan smile. “Fortunately, I brought another pair of slippers with me. Good evening, Mr. De Vere.”

• • •

When he flung open the door of the little house, it wasn’t Rudley Court on a summer’s day that greeted him, but the blustery night of an unfamiliar Oxford street.

As he wended his way back to more familiar stomping grounds, the worst of his ordeal slid off his skin to the pavement, from whence he hoped it would be swept up and buried in a dust heap, there to rot into oblivion. But an oily residue of shame remained in his gut, churning and mixing with the discomfort that had plagued him all night, transforming into some acidic poison that trickled into his veins.

What if he wasn’t normal? What if he could never truly be with a woman?

Before tonight, Henry’s lust had been an unfocused thing he barely comprehended. Women were all big eyes and pouty lips and creamy skin and the impossibly soft, decadent pillows of flesh that plumped over the edges of their bodices. To be sure, he’d heard plenty from the fellows, and he’d pored over dirty pictures like they’d unlock the secrets of the universe, but women—real, flesh-and-blood women—had remained a cypher he couldn’t puzzle out, just wanted in the most ferocious, generic way imaginable.

And now that he knew what, precisely, was under those many layers of silks and satins and petticoats, now that he knew what a real woman looked like, felt like, and, God, tasted like—now that he
knew
, his humiliation was all the more shattering. How could he ever bring himself to even approach a woman again? What if this same embarrassment were to befall him?

He was lost in such turbulent thoughts until the lights still blazing in the windows of The Hog’s Teeth caught his eye. A dram of something wet and brain-numbing would be most welcome. Ducking into the tavern, he shook droplets of mist from the brim of his hat and clapped his hands before a fire blazing in the huge hearth.

“Henry!” he heard.

Turning, he saw Harrison Dyer at The Honorables’ table, waving him over. It seemed ludicrous for them to reserve the large table for themselves now, what with Brandon off in Spain with the Army, Norman living at the Inns of Court in London, and Sheridan flitting about doing whatever it was lazy rich boys did with their days. But Henry and Harrison, younger than the other men and still attending the university, maintained their claim on the table like they were the last survivors of a battle, making their stand.

He plowed through the crowd and took a seat. After catching the attention of the barmaid and ordering a bottle of gin, he started to relax. A frisson of something good and welcome went through his limbs. It wasn’t Rudley Court, but in its way, this blasted table was every bit as familiar and safe.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you back at our rooms until tomorrow,” Harrison said. The caramel-hued eyes of Henry’s friend gleamed with interest; a lascivious grin split his face. “What are you doing here? Did you wap her into oblivion, make her plead for a reprieve from the ministrations of your
arbor vitae
? What was it like? What was
she
like?” With the back of his hand, Harrison slapped at Henry’s arm. “What were her bubbies like? Use plenty of adjectives.”

Henry winced. “You sound like Sheri. I don’t want to talk about it.” He tipped back a kick of liquor, grimaced at the sharp burn, then poured himself another.

After tossing that one down the hatch and reaching for the gin again, Harrison put a restraining hand on the bottle. “Easy does it, friend o’ mine. Sorry if my questions offended. Why the race toward oblivion?”

Propping his elbows on the age-darkened plank of the tabletop, Henry pressed the balls of his hands into his eyes, wishing he could scour the vision of Kitty’s horrified expression from his mind. “Something happened,” he muttered miserably.

“Did you …” Harrison began in a low voice. “Did you fail to sail the ship into port?”

Henry’s head snapped up. Glowering darkly, he poured more of the clear liquor into his glass, then offered the bottle to Harrison. His friend shook his head, pointing out his own mug of cider.

“No trouble at sea,” Henry reported. “Good winds, full sail, all that.”

Scratching idly at his stubbled chin, Harrison made a thoughtful sound. “Came off too soon?”

Henry hunched over his glass. “No.”

“Then what the hell was the problem?”

“I fell asleep,” Henry said. “Things got … queer.” Sighing in resignation, he spilled the whole, sordid story.

Making good use of Sheri’s birthday gift, Henry had happily rid himself of his virginity with the delectable Kitty. Submitting himself to her tutelage, he’d indulged in hours of bed play and achieved multiple climaxes, each more intense than the last, until, finally, he fell into an exhausted slumber beside his buxom companion. He’d come to abruptly at the sound of Kitty Newman screeching. “Stop! Stop! What are you doing, you disgusting gony? Get away from my slippers! I paid a fortune for those!”

He’d blinked, surprised to see that he was clear across the room from the bed. Had this been his own lodging room, it occurred to Henry that he’d have been in the exact location of his chamber pot. But he wasn’t in his room. Instead, he was doing something unspeakable to Kitty Newman’s expensive slippers.

“Just a moment,” Harrison interrupted. “You took the piss on her shoes?” he tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well that’s certainly not the worst thing she must’ve seen in that profession, chap. In fact, I bet she’s gotten any sort of strange request—”

Henry’s cheeks flamed. He shook his head emphatically. “I didn’t …” He took a deep, calming breath. “That wasn’t it.”

Harrison’s eyebrows rose, but despite the curiosity on his face, he gave Henry a small, sympathetic smile. The two young men had shared a lodging for some months. In that time, Harrison had retrieved a half-naked Henry from the quadrangle, stopped him from attempting to climb out the window, and prevented several other fiascoes. Harrison always treated Henry’s episodes with care and discretion. Even now, he didn’t pry for more details than Henry was willing to share.

“I see,” he simply said. A lengthy silence fell.

“I’m never going to sleep with a woman again,” Henry vowed.

Suddenly, his mind once more returned to Rudley Court. In his mind’s eye, Henry saw Claudia Baxter’s sweet, guileless face smiling up at him. Her fun-filled schemes never failed to raise his spirits when they were low. A painful yearning pinched his heart.

I want to go home
.

Harrison rolled his eyes. “Come on, Hen, it couldn’t have been
that
bad.”

“It was,” Henry insisted, once more hearing Kitty Newman’s berating voice ringing in his ears, resurrecting all the night’s humiliation. “I mean it, Harry. I will never sleep beside a woman again. I’m broken.” A lump formed in his chest. “Who could ever want me?” he challenged his friend. “Who could ever want this?”