Discreet Young Gentleman (26 page)

Dean raised his head from where it was resting on Rob's chest. "Next time?"

Rob laughed at him. "You didn't think we were finished, did you?" He rose again and Dean heard the small noises of items being moved around the dressing table while Rob felt for the tinderbox. "Ah." Soon, the warm light of a small flame brightened the chamber, Rob setting the candle on a small table by the bed before he climbed back in beside Dean.

"You were gone too long," Dean complained, reaching. They kissed again, a slower exploration possible now that the first urgency was behind them. Dean had already discovered how intense and earth-shaking sex could be; now he was introduced to its playful side. He broke apart long enough to say something important.

"Rob. I want to make you feel good. What can I do?"

Rob's eyes glittered in the candlelight. "There's a very sensitive spot on my neck.

Nuzzle me properly there, and you'll truly drive me wild."

"Where?"

"Find it," Rob whispered.

Sometimes the journey is better than the destination. Dean took his time, first trailing soft kisses along Rob's jaw line from ear to ear, then beginning a systematic investigation of parts south. He made careful note of Rob's reactions along the way, barely

skimming over the areas that got the greatest response, saving them to return to later. There. Just at the base of Rob's throat, to the left, a precise inch above the collarbone. He flicked at the spot lightly with his tongue, the shudder that racked Rob's frame proving his accuracy, then progressed from nibbling to sucking, while Rob writhed beneath him, laughing and gasping.

"Stop!" Rob was breathless, his cock gratifyingly hard against Dean. "I can't stand it." He kissed Dean, long and hard, then released him abruptly. "You're not done yet,"

he said, dark eyes dancing merrily. "There are several other places on my body that are just as sensitive."

"Where?" Dean asked, but he thought he knew the answer.

Rob kicked off the covers and lay back against the sheet, arms splayed, a slow grin suffusing his face with light. "Start looking."

Chapter Twenty-Two

For the first time he could remember, stretching back even into the days before his mother died, Dean woke up happy. The source of this unfamiliar feeling was not hard to find: the invisible line down the center of the bed had been shattered, and Rob was half-sprawled on top of him, one arm flung possessively over Dean's shoulders and a leg entwined with his. For a moment, Dean squeezed his eyes tight, reveling in the feel of Rob's body draped over him. If only... The crudest words in the English language.

Dean allowed himself the brutal joy of imagining what might have been, seeing the false future unfold in front of him. He and Rob, spooned together for warmth on cold winter nights. Rob, sitting across from him in the parlor, face intent with concentration as his quill scratched their doings into the Quarterly, using his talent for storytelling to turn their ordinary daily activities into amusing adventures. Dean, his own pen busy, fair-copying Rob's collected ghost stories for a waiting publisher. The two of them in their shirtsleeves, drowsing with their fishing poles on the bank of the Little Creek on a hot summer's afternoon. Talking, laughing, arguing, making up, kissing, touching...

He opened his eyes to the grey light of day. If Rob wanted to know what real stupidity was, he should just ask Dean. Three months ago, in a single act of carelessness, he had thrown away any chance of such happiness. Useless to wallow in the misery of it now. Gingerly, he disentangled himself from Rob, who didn't so much as stir. A small smile tugged at the corner of Dean's mouth. He needn't have been so careful; Rob could sleep through an earthquake.

He washed, shaved and dressed in his finest morning clothes, refusing to so much as glance at the bed behind him, or its slumbering occupant. Time to look to the future, to think of his responsibilities. Of Carwick, its lands and tenants and history, all of them under his guardianship now. Of Minerva, to whom he would be a good husband, if it killed him. He looked at himself in the mirror, vaguely surprised to see tears on his cheeks. Stupid. Dean scrubbed at them with the back of his hand. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He would go downstairs now, avail himself of Mrs. Waddhams's coffee and rolls, and plan exactly what he was going to say to Minerva when he made his morning call.

Dean paused, his hand on the door. It would be pointless and melodramatic to cross over to the bed and give Rob a last kiss of goodbye. He did it anyway, pressing his lips reverentially to the sleeping man's forehead. Rob smiled in his sleep.

Dean was on his third cup of coffee by the time Rob made his appearance, looking sleepy and subdued in Mrs. Waddhams's parlor. Silently, Dean poured him some coffee, then retreated behind a copy of this week's Bath Journal that he'd found abandoned on a chair.

Rob wouldn't let him go quite so easily. "Dean. Is everything all right?"

"Yes, of course," he said from behind the Journal.

"I thought you might be there this morning when I woke up. I wondered if it meant something that you weren't."

"Don't be silly. I just thought it kinder to let you sleep."

"Then," Rob said, "why won't you look at me?"

Dean crumpled the newspaper and dropped it on the table. "Will you drink your damned coffee so that we can go see Minerva?"

Probably not the words Rob was looking to hear after such a night, but there was little use in sugar-coating the reality of their situation. They'd had their night of magic, like Rob's patron in Venice so long ago, the difference being that there was no choice for them to make in the morning. Back when he had heard the story, Dean had thought the two young men fools to risk the memory of such perfection for the merest possibility that they could build on their experience. This morning, he would have sold his soul for the chance.

Rob, pale and downcast, reached for the Journal and smoothed it out, giving it his fixed attention. Dean didn't blame him. He scowled at himself, wishing he hadn't given up the damned newspaper. Perhaps he should go get the Quarterly, and finish reading the other entries, seeing how he'd almost certainly have something to report by the end of the day. Except, of course, apart from Uncle Silas, his uncles would have no idea that his engagement had been broken in the first—

His reverie was broken by a small cry from Rob, who was staring down at the newspaper with shock.

"What?" Dean said. He rose and circled the table, looking over Rob's shoulder.

"What is it?"

Rob shook his head mutely, and Dean snatched the paper away, scanning the page.

Shipping news: the usual arrivals and departures, something about a shipwreck.

Advertisements: Discreet, able-bodied companion desired for hunting trip to Highlands. Must be handy with a gun. Oh, subtle. Was that what had upset Rob? One of his regular patrons looking for a replacement? If so, the reaction seemed a bit extreme. Rob looked absolutely stunned. Society tidbits, wedding announcements...

Oh, no. It wasn't possible. "Minerva." It came out a strangled whisper.

"What?" Rob blinked as if confused.

Dean stared down at the paper. "But you just read it yourself. At Bath Abbey, Miss Minerva Lewis, to Baron George Keesville..." On Sunday, while he and Rob had been wrestling in the mud with a champion trout, his fiancée had been marrying someone else. His legs collapsed, and he sat down heavily.

"It doesn't matter," Rob said, easing the paper from his hand and squatting down next to him, his hand on Dean's knee. "I don't think your attachment can have been as deep as you once believed." His eyes were lit from within, a false hope kindled by the idea that Dean might be free.

Free to starve together, Dean thought, pushing Rob's hand away. "It does matter, you fool! I haven't just lost Minerva, I've lost bloody Carwickr His head sunk down onto his hands. "Oh, God. It's true. I've lost Carwick. Seven hundred years in the family..."

"I—I don't understand. I thought it was possible you were marrying Miss Lewis for her money, but she's hardly the only heiress in England."

"No?" Dean's head jerked back up of its own volition. "Can you find me one I can marry tomorrow? I might have a week, if it takes that long for Melton to track me down."

"Who?"

"Samuel Melton. The man to whom I lost Carwick at cards, on the very night I discovered I'd inherited it." Dean laughed bitterly. "I felt like celebrating, drank too much. Ended up at a gaming hell in Chelsea, and when I sobered up, I found I'd wagered the estate on a hand I couldn't possibly lose...and lost. Melton was very sympathetic, told me he'd accept ten thousand pounds instead."

"Ten thousand," Rob whispered. "Sweet Jesus." Dean nodded shortly. "Carwick's rents barely pull in half of that in a year, and most of it goes straight back into expenses. But Melton would make a fine profit by stripping the forest and selling it off as lumber, and parceling out the land along the river to sell to factory owners. Hell, even the Little Stream can be dammed for a millpond." He squeezed his eyes shut. "If one doesn't mind displacing the tenants from land their families have farmed since the Conquest. Oh, bloody hell."

"Would he take less? Perhaps your uncles—"

"My uncles live on fixed incomes, from investments and what little their own property produces. The lot of them together couldn't come up with a sum that large.

And Melton was only willing to wait for payment because I was already engaged to Minerva. Once he finds out that she's married someone else, he'll come to collect."

"Oh, blast, Dean. If only I'd known..." Rob blinked, his eyes far away.

"What difference would it have made?"

"It would at least have given you another week to find a rich bride," Rob said quietly.

Dean stared into his eyes, seeking the meaning behind those words. Rob endured his glance without flinching. "Hell and damnation...you knew. Somehow, you knew.

Told me from the start I wouldn't get Minerva back. How did you...? Oh, shit. Shit." It was falling into place. "Magistrate Lewis hired you himself, didn't he? Minerva decided she wanted Keesville instead, but our engagement had to be broken off first, or I might have had a suit to press for breach of promise. That's it, isn't it? My God, Rob. You ruined me."

"I swear I didn't know that—"

Dean gave a bark of laughter. "Did he pay you extra to tag along and delay me as much as possible? Or to seduce me, so that I wouldn't dare call him on the plot? Last night—was that part of it, Rob?"

"No!" Rob grabbed for his hands, but Dean shook him off. Rob hunkered back onto his heels, face flushed with emotion. "Listen. Please, just listen. Two weeks ago, I appeared before Magistrate Lewis." "Right. Despite the fact that you don't walk the streets."

Rob's eyes blazed. "I don't. I had a patron in Worcester, whose daughter objected to him squandering her future inheritance on the likes of me. She arranged to have us found together. My patron was a respectable man, so was let off with a warning. Lewis called me into his chambers and told me he'd let me go as well, as long as I did this one favor. Play the amorous highwayman for a friend of his. It would be a lark, he said."

"So you did it. Without asking questions, without confirming that your subject was actually willing."

"You do realize that Lewis could have had me deported to Australia?" Rob's voice was even. "No, I didn't ask questions. And even if I had—Christ, Dean! He could even have hanged me, if he'd a mind to. But I swear, I had no idea that it was a set up until you mentioned the name of the magistrate you were hauling me to. If you remember, I tried to stop you then."

"Christ." Dean slumped back in his chair. "What do the details matter? I set myself up on the cliff's edge, you just pushed me over. All that really counts is that I'm ruined."

Rob rose and stood behind him, resting his hands on Dean's shoulders. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Dean said wearily. "Go to London. Try to find a wealthy merchant whose daughter wants to be a countess. Sell myself to a stranger.. .perhaps we're not so different after all."

"If I could get the money—"

"Ten thousand pounds?" He laughed shortly. "There aren't so many cocks to suck in all of England."

The hands tightened. "I don't know for sure how much I can raise. I have to find out. But it might be enough. Please, Dean. Let me help you."

Dean's stomach roiled. He must mean Parker, who had offered Rob a fortune for exclusive rights to his body. No, and no, and no. Dean had to end it now, before the urge to save Carwick made him agree to be party to such an abomination as allowing Rob to be owned by that dreadful man. It was ironic, that he should still care so deeply for the man who had conspired to ruin him, but there it was.

"Get your hands off me," Dean said deliberately. "And get out. You stupid bloody whore. I don't ever, ever want to see your face again."

The hands dropped off his shoulders. For a moment, he felt Rob standing motionless behind him. Then, noiselessly, the presence behind him was gone, and the soft click of the parlor door severed the connection between them. Forever.

Dean put his head down on the table and sobbed.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Erich. Another responsibility to see to, another load to bear. Dean wrote a note to Erich's wife Charlotte at her

lodging, asking her to stay put until they returned from a short trip to London. By then, he would either have saved Carwick with another woman's money, or would have to come up with another plan. The house in Worcester was part of the estate, and his rooms in Hampstead had been leased. Should he lose Carwick, he would have to throw himself on the mercy of his friend Peter or one of his uncles—imagining any of them would even speak to him again. Charlotte said she had money, perhaps they could work up a fiction by which she hired Erich away. His shoulders hunched in misery as he sealed the note. Charlotte Westport seemed a nice enough woman, but it was hard to trust Erich's welfare to a stranger.