by KJ Charles
“Oh. Robin.”
“Well, Robin, I— Wait, what? Robin Loxleigh?”
“That’s me.”
“The devil it is. You and your sister are Robin and Marianne Loxleigh, of Nottingham?”
Loxleigh’s mouth curved. “Ah, you noticed.”
“I’m surprised everyone hasn’t. Are those your real names?”
“Oh, what’s in a name? What do I call you?”
“Hart.”
“Do you mind Sir John? Appropriately used, of course.”
“Call me what you want.” Hart was still reeling from the absurdity of it. He’d grown up on tales of Robin of Locksley, Maid Marion, and the Sheriff of Nottingham. “Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor?”
“I wouldn’t say stealing. But Marianne and I are definitely the poor, so...”
“Good God.” He started laughing. “Good God, you’ve a nerve. Are you always like this?”
Loxleigh—Robin—shrugged, grinning. Hart shook his head.
This was absurd, and wildly outwith his experience. He really didn’t want to consider what he was doing, still less ask himself how he, a plain-spoken sort of man, found himself in this situation with a rogue of a very different stamp than he’d realised.
It was too late for quibbling. He was launched now and the tide would carry him where it pleased.
Chapter Twelve
One of Miss Marianne Loxleigh’s most admired features, at least by the kind of people who catalogued beauty rather than reacting to it, was her noble and lofty forehead. She usually emphasised it in the way she dressed her hair. Currently she was emphasising it by banging it on the breakfast table.
“Yes, all right,” Robin said.
Marianne lifted her head, glared incredulously at him, then thumped it again, making the cups jump.
“Look, you told me to grovel.”
Bang. Rattle.
“Well, I couldn’t pay him! What else was I supposed to do?”
“What else?” Marianne repeated. “Well, yes, true, what else could you possibly do but offer to fuck him for a month? I’m sure you’d tried all the other options!” She thumped her head so hard that milk splashed from the jug.
“You’ll bruise yourself,” Robin said.
“Shut up.”
She did, he was forced to concede, have a point. It might not have been the most considered move of his erratic career, but—well, it had worked, hadn’t it?
“Suppose he makes a complaint,” Marianne added.
“He’ll be hard put to do that without incriminating himself.”
“Suppose he becomes afraid you’ll make a complaint.”
Robin lifted his hands. “That’s how it always is. Can’t be helped.”
“Which is why you should be careful who you fuck!”
“Easy for you to say. I really don’t think you need worry. If the poor bastard’s ever had a decent tupping, it isn’t recently. I’m going to fuck him till he doesn’t know which way’s up, he’ll love it, spit spot.”
Marianne put her elbows on the table, and her noble and lofty forehead in her hands. “Let me try to make this clear to you, Rob. Granted, I didn’t want Hartlebury telling people you don’t pay your debts. Granted, you have dealt with that issue with remarkable expediency. But—and I dare say I should have spelled this out—I didn’t mean that he should be able to tell people you molly for money instead.”
“There’s no need to be rude.”
Marianne gave a strangled scream. She was definitely taking this with less than her usual aplomb.
“You wanted a month,” Robin told her. “You have one, and more, because I think Hartlebury will play fair. He doesn’t give a damn for Tachbrook; he only cares about Alice.”
“And about getting his hands on your arse.”
“Well, I do have a fine arse.”
“Rob.” She looked up. “I can’t ask you to do this. Not for me, not for a month.”
“You didn’t ask me. He didn’t ask me. Nobody had to ask me because it was my idea. God’s sake, why wouldn’t I want to?” He recalled the way Hart had said, Shouldn’t you pay me?, the sudden humour that lit his grim-set features and told Robin that his gamble had paid off. “Really, those thighs, I’m sure I’ve mentioned them. And we agreed I can’t possibly pursue another heiress this Season, so I need something to do that isn’t drifting around endless tedious events.”
“Something to do,” she repeated. “Have you not heard of watercolours?”
Robin sighed. “Marnie, it’s not hostile. He didn’t force me into this. It’s more like—we wanted to fuck, and now we can, do you see? It was already there. The money is just his excuse.”
“What’s yours?”
Robin fluttered his eyelashes. “Brotherly love, of course.”
“God damn you, Rob.” She slumped back in her chair. “Just be careful. If he hurts you, I’ll never forgive you.”
ROBIN AWAITED THE EVENING with a certain trepidation. Hart had told him, brusquely, to come to dinner. That seemed a civility the situation didn’t merit. Maybe he needed to pretend this was something other than it was. Robin didn’t mind that, but he spent much of the day wondering if a note would arrive revoking the invitation, or the agreement. He imagined Hart was having quite a lot of second thoughts.
Second thoughts would be perfectly acceptable—if accompanied by an assurance that he didn’t need to pay the money and Hart would not meddle with Marianne’s ambitions, of course. But Robin would unquestionably be a little disappointed.
For one thing, he hadn’t had a good bout in months. For another, he rather thought he could like Hart. The glimpses he’d had of the inner man were appealing: the humour, the kindness, the protectiveness of his loved ones. Robin had often prayed for someone to protect himself and Marianne; he was a grown man now and looked after himself, but it was still a trait that struck a chord somewhere deep within him, at least now it wasn’t standing directly in his way.
He saw no reason this shouldn’t be a mutually satisfactory arrangement. There had been a spark between them from the start, and that didn’t happen often enough to go around wasting it. Perhaps it was a little bit depraved, but that was all part of the fun. Or at least it was for Robin, who liked to play. Hart gave every impression of never having played in his life, and it occurred to Robin that he might be able to do the fellow some good. Leave him better than he found him. That would make a nice change.
Hart didn’t look like a man anticipating fun when Robin arrived, dressed to the nines and with a flask of oil in his pocket. He was remarkably severe, mouth tense, brows knotted and dark, standing stiffly by the window as the manservant showed Robin in.
“Thank you, Spenlow, that will do for the night,” Hart said. “We will serve ourselves. I wish to be undisturbed, so you may clear the plates in the morning.”
“Certainly, Sir John.”
Robin waited for the door to shut. “You have a good arrangement here.”
“Spenlow lives upstairs with his wife. It’s more convenient than maintaining a second staff or moving my household from Aston Clinton. Sherry?”
“Thank you.”
Hart poured them both drinks. His fingers were tense on the cut crystal glass, enough that Robin wanted to warn him not to smash it. “There is a dinner laid out but— Curse it. Last night, you were in a vulnerable position, albeit entirely of your own making. I did not intend—”
“I haven’t changed my mind,” Robin said.
“I hadn’t finished.”
“I realise that, but you have remarked on the tiresome nature of rehearsed pompous speeches and now I see you were quite right.”
Hart’s lips parted. “Cockish bastard, aren’t you?”
“Am I wrong? Were you not going to ask that?”
“No. That is, no, you aren’t wrong, and I was going to ask that.”
“Then we’ve saved some valuable time. Very valuable, if you consider what mine is worth to you.”
“Speechifying,” Robin told him.
“Will you shut up and let me finish!”
Robin folded his arms, looking Hart in the eyes. “I haven’t changed my mind. You are not forcing anything on me. If you don’t want to fuck, nothing obliges you to do so, but I made a proposition which you accepted, so kindly don’t treat me like a helpless victim of your wiles. There is only one person in this room with wiles, as we both know.”
Hart stood a moment, mouth moving slightly, then he said, “But your wiles are terrible.”
“They are not. I’ll have you know, I’m extremely wily.”
“It didn’t get you your marriage.”
“That was just bad luck.”
“You aren’t easily defeated, are you?”
“Well, I’m not often squashed,” Robin said. “I like to face every situation with a spring in my step and a song in my heart.” He observed the revolted look on Hart’s face with satisfaction. “Did you mention dinner?”
“I think I’ve lost my appetite,” Hart muttered, and led him through.
The food was laid out, with chafing-dishes to keep it warm. There was a chicken pie, cabbage, parsnips and potatoes, as well as a good ham. Hart poured glasses of rich red wine, and said, “Tell me something.”
“What?”
“Anything. Tell me something of yourself.”
“A topic of absorbing interest.” It was anything but. There was very little he wanted to tell.
“Where are you from?”
“Cheshire, originally.” He really didn’t want to talk about his childhood. They’d left it behind them: that was the whole point. “Something about me? I learned to play cards from a nobleman who lost his family home at the gaming tables to his own brother, and was obliged to pretend he was dead and live under a false name.”
“I beg your pardon?” Hart demanded.
“That’s what he said when he got drunk enough. He insisted he was actually an earl and his brother had stolen his title. Now I think about it, I’m not sure it was true.”
“You amaze me.”
“He was terribly gentlemanly when he was sober.”
“And you learned to play cards from a man who lost everything? That explains a lot.” Hart had a bite of pie, chewing ruminatively. “Tell me something. How did you find out about Alice’s portion? I know you asked the lawyer, but how did you know to?”
“You are aware of how two people can keep a secret, yes?”
“If one of them is dead.”
“Quite. There are information brokers who provide hints and tips on possible”—he considered and discarded ‘targets’—“heiresses, for a fee.”
“Great God!”
“Oh, you can have anything for money.”
“As we have established,” Hart said, then grimaced. “I beg your pardon.”
“Why? It’s true.”
“It was belittling. I didn’t intend insult by it. I too often speak before I think.”
“I do almost everything before I think,” Robin assured him. “It keeps me on my toes. Tell me where you learned to play piquet like that. I refuse to believe you have a story nearly as interesting as mine.”
“I learned thanks to being repeatedly and humiliatingly beaten by a small girl.”
“Ah. Maybe not.”
Hart told him of his piquet-playing with Alice. Robin, on a wave of benevolence, praised her ability with numbers and led Hart to applaud her skills, and thence to explain his family.
“Edwina married Fenwick, a widower, as a practical proposition while Alice was a baby. Our mother didn’t approve.” He sounded a little distant. “She—many people felt that Edwina was marrying beneath herself. We are a very old family, and Fenwick was a tradesman, many years her senior, with a child. And yet their marriage was one of the happiest I have known.”
“She seems an excellent mother to Alice.”
“She is. And to George, her son by her second husband, a delightful little rascal. He’s at school.”
“And you are breadwinner for the whole family?”
“Not at all. The brewery is Edwina’s; I merely manage it.”
“If it’s hers— Sorry.”
“What?”
“It’s none of my business,” Robin said. “It just seems a little hard on Alice that her father’s property should go to her stepmother, who I suppose will leave it to her son, and that she has nothing of her own until her marriage.”
“I quite agree with you,” Hart said, somewhat to his surprise. “Fenwick’s will was trusting to the point of foolishness, and could have been disastrous for Alice with a less kind or principled stepmother, but Edwina was entirely worthy of his faith. She is very concerned to ensure the well-being of both children, and we talk a great deal about what is fair and equitable. As it happens, she need not worry, since the baronetcy can descend through the female line so George will be heir to my title and lands. She doesn’t expect that, since she hopes I will marry one day, but it is no bad thing if George doesn’t grow up taking too much for granted.”
Robin felt a stab of envy of Alice and the absent George, with adults who took it on themselves to love and look after them and think about their well-being. He wondered if the stepsiblings would grow up like Edwina and Hart, in what seemed a highly practical relationship of quiet affection and respect. Probably better that than like himself and Marianne, clinging desperately to one another because there was nobody else.
He didn’t want to think about families any more. “Do you enjoy the work of running the brewery?”
“More than anything.”
They, or rather Hart, talked of brewing and the iniquitous price of Kentish hops, and his intention to form a partnership with another brewer and expand his business. Robin knew nothing of business or beer, but he knew how to listen, and to read the signs of a speaker fascinated with his subject. He asked intelligent questions, and drank wine, and by the time they had finished the meal with good apples and strong cheese, he’d learned a great deal. That Hart’s heavy brows didn’t move much, but his deep-set blue eyes wrinkled at the edges when he was amused. That he smiled more when he was less conscious of himself. And, mostly, that he could have simply tupped Robin and sent him home, but that wasn’t what he wanted to do.
Finally the meal was over, and they were at the table together. Understanding one another better, no doubt, very much aware of the other’s presence, and still in this absurd situation.
“Well,” Robin said.
“Well.” Hart looked just a little uncertain. He was really not confident at all. It was quite endearing.
Robin drained his glass and licked a drop of wine off his lips with a deliberate tongue, noting how Hart’s eyes followed the motion. “Tell me something.”
“Whatever you like.”
“You told me to please you, yesterday. Did I?”
“Christ, yes.” Hart’s words were flatteringly unguarded.
“I mention it because you could say that again, if you chose. Pleasure me, and I will. I wouldn’t do it the same way each time, of course, so it rather depends if you like variety. If what you want is me kneeling in front of you again, you should simply tell me to come over and suck you.” Hart’s lips moved, just slightly. Robin would have put money he was trying the words out, and felt a tingle of satisfaction. “But if you don’t care to decide, or you prefer to give a general instruction and let me fulfil it as I think best, I can use my imagination. I do have a very good imagination.”
“I realised that yesterday.” Hart’s voice thickened notably when he was aroused, putting gravel in the deep tones. “It’s remarkably vivid. Perhaps you could use it again?”
“My pleasure. Would you care to know what I dreamed of last night?”
Hart leaned back in his chair. “Tell me.”
“We
were in your sitting room, where that big desk is,” Robin said, watching his eyes, his lips. “I say ‘we’, but you know that people are often different in dreams. I told you I couldn’t pay my debt, and you told me that I was ruined. I begged you for time, and you refused. I begged you for mercy, and you refused that too. ‘You are entirely in my power,’ you said, and I told you I would do anything—anything at all. And you pointed to the desk. You stood over me and told me that I had no choice but to surrender to your demands—”
Hart recoiled in his chair. “What? No!”
That was not the effect Robin had expected. “In the dream only,” he hastened to explain.
“That is not a dream. That is a nightmare.”
“It’s just a game. There is no harm in it. A lot of people like to play games of that sort.”
“I don’t.”
Hart sounded uncomfortable to the point of unhappiness. Hell’s teeth, Robin had misjudged this. Especially since he had said he wanted willingness, and Robin had nodded along without thinking twice, and now he’d made the man uncomfortable and ruined the atmosphere. Idiot. He’d promised to give Hart exactly what he wanted, and failed at the first hurdle.
“Understood,” he said. “I’m sorry. My fault for not listening better.”
“No, but—Robin, if that—that sort of thing is what you like—I don’t wish to be difficult but I cannot—”
“You don’t have to! I like to play, that’s all, but if you would rather not play in that way, or at all, we shan’t. And of course it isn’t being difficult to say if you dislike something. You made me promise to do that, so why should you not?”
Hart didn’t look convinced. “Yes, but if you want such things—I am not experienced at this, at ‘play’. I don’t know how to proceed.”
He sounded miserably self-conscious. Under the table, Robin dug a punitive heel onto his other ankle. He would have liked to believe this wasn’t his fault—who would have guessed the imposing Sir John Hartlebury was so uncertain? How was he to know the poor sod had never had any fun?—but he should have known, and he had nobody to blame but himself, again.
Well done, Rob, good job. That four thousand must seem like a bargain right now.