by J. A. Rock
“Yes,” Warry rasped, his throat dry.
“Yes?”
Warry nodded. He had a duty. To protect Becca. Protect his family. Face the consequences of his own terrible actions. That letter…it could not be made public. “I will do my best to see you have my father’s blessing.” He pulled back from Balfour at last as though his agreement had broken some spell between them and no part of him remained in the man’s thrall. And yet, wasn’t every part of him now Balfour’s? The thought made him ill.
“Very good. And one day, I shall require you to tell me how your sister’s vulgar billet-doux ended up in your bureau. I gathered that you two were close, but really, Joseph…”
Warry made a strangled sound of protest, and Balfour laughed. “The letter. You will not—”
“The letter, my dear boy,” Balfour said, “shall be my wedding gift to you.”
He reached out and took Warry’s hand without permission and raised it to his mouth. He pressed his lips to it, his dark eyes glittering, and lingered there as though he was trying to parse every warring expression that must have shown on Warry’s face.
“Warry!” someone called.
Warry jerked back, pulling his hand free, both grateful and horrified to have been discovered.
It was Hartwell, striding toward them with a face like thunder.
“What the devil is going on here?” he demanded, glaring at Warry, then at Balfour and back to Warry again.
Warry resisted the urge to wipe the back of his hand on his trousers. “I…”
“Hartwell,” Balfour said with a purr. “What a pleasure.”
“Balfour.” Hartwell cut the name off sharply. “I believe I asked what was going on here?”
Warry blinked at him, unable to think of a single word to say, except for those he could not, under any circumstances, utter, such as Please help me, Hartwell. He gasped when Hartwell reached out and grasped him by the wrist, tugging him close to his side as he glared at Balfour.
“We’re leaving,” Hartwell said. “Now.”
Balfour chuckled and waved them off. “I shall speak to you again soon, dear Joseph.”
Warry felt like a recalcitrant child dragged along by a nursemaid as Hartwell tugged him through the crowded hell, weaving their way between the tables toward the exit. And then suddenly they were outside on the street, in the sharp bite of the cold, and Hartwell released Warry and stood with his back to him as he pulled on his gloves.
“Good Lord, Warry,” he said, sounding somehow uncaring and annoyed at once. “I lose you for five minutes, and suddenly you’re getting cosy with Balfour in a dark alcove. Do you think nothing of your reputation?”
He strode out into the street to whistle down a cab.
Warry waited silently on the footpath, staring down at his shoes and trying uselessly to blink away the stinging in his eyes, sick in the knowledge that, had he truly cared nothing for his reputation, tonight would have gone very differently indeed.
Chapter 7
Hartwell lay in bed well into the early morning hours, trying not to think of Warry in the room down the hall. Warry had not spoken a word to him on the ride home, and Hartwell had not attempted conversation. The Four-in-Hand might have been a hell, but it was frequented by enough of the ton that there was every chance Warry might have been spotted in a compromising position with Balfour. Hartwell had no doubt that what he’d seen had been a seduction in progress. His stomach turned as he remembered the way Balfour had kissed Warry’s hand, while Warry, no doubt frozen with shock because he really was an utter naïf, had simply stared at him wide-eyed like some trembling little fawn.
Yet he could not hold onto any sort of frustration with Warry, for it only turned to shame and confusion at his own behaviour. He still felt, after all these years, as though he ought to be looking after Warry. And, just as when they’d been children, he felt the weight of his own failure in that regard. The reason he did not know how to be a husband to Becca, or a proper friend to Warry, was that he had always been so very assured of his place in the world: at its centre. Every other person was merely a side player in the Story of William Hartwell. He supposed it was like that for everyone, to some degree. But he had always found it enough to simply be William Hartwell, Marquess of Danbury. He might behave like an idiot; his mood of late might be a bit disagreeable, but overall, people had always liked him. Tutors, school mates, his parents, other people’s parents…they’d all generally considered him good-natured, endearing. Crass, at times, but forgivably so.
Now, with things changing so suddenly, he feared that being William Hartwell was no longer enough. If his own father could consider disinheriting him, well, then love was not so stable a thing as he’d thought. And wasn’t it now just a matter of who he would fail most gravely? His parents. Becca. Warry. The harder it became to waltz through life, the more tenaciously he clung to the notion that it was still easy, and the less he wanted to bear witness to the struggles of those around him, lest they prove somehow contagious. Pure cowardice. The same cowardice that’d seen him dragging Warry from the Four-in-Hand, chiding his indiscretion rather than speaking to him as a friend. The same cowardice with which he’d curtailed their interactions after that childhood kiss, so that he hesitated to throw his arm around Warry with affection, or clapped him on the back, or embraced him. Because he could not let his father see that Warry meant anything to him.
Yet he recalled the morning before the Gilmore rout when he’d held a laughing Warry in his grasp. When things had suddenly felt better between them than they had in years. It had echoed, he thought now, a day long ago when they’d been playing soldiers. He and Becca had been twelve, Warry eight. It had started with Becca and Hartwell as English officers, chasing Warry, a French spy, around the Warringtons’ vast country estate. But Warry’s manoeuvres had been clever, and as Hartwell had crept toward the shrub he was certain hid Warry, the lad had shocked him by pelting him with fruit from the highest branches of a pear tree. Hartwell had scrambled up the tree, laughing with abandon and dodging a whole hail of pears, swearing that when he caught Warry, Warry would regret it. Warry’s answering laugh was pure delight and suggested he did not take Hartwell’s threat seriously in the least.
Hartwell could only make it halfway up to where Warry was perched. They had negotiated from their separate positions, Warry assuring him that he knew a way to lure Becca into trap, if Hartwell would join forces with him. Hartwell, who would usually have quailed to even think of betraying Becca in any matter, had agreed.
And so they had laid their trap for Becca, with Hartwell calling her name, pretending to be bleeding from at least a dozen bullet wounds made by that dastardly Frenchman. Yet when the moment had come for Hartwell to spring up and join with Warry in capturing Becca, he found himself instead being dragged across the grass to their makeshift gaol—one of his arms held by Warry, the other by Becca.
“I apologise,” Warry said, not sounding sorry in the least. “I had already persuaded Becca to the French cause before you attempted to negotiate with me.”
Hartwell had begun laughing in disbelief. The little wretch!
“Stay quiet if you know what’s good for you,” Becca told him.
Hartwell swore on the grave of Curtis, the old family cat, that he would come quietly. But naturally he broke away at first opportunity, rounding on Warry with a cry of “traitor!” Warry shrieked and took off running, Hartwell in pursuit. Hartwell caught him easily, wrapping his arms around Warry’s waist, Warry laughing too hard to make any practical effort to free himself.
“Becca, what should I do with him?” he’d called. His chest felt light at the sensation of Warry shaking with laughter in his arms.
“You could try admitting that we bested you,” she called back.
He’d leaned down to Warry’s ear to ask, “And what is so funny about making a fool of me, hmm?”
But he could not stop his own laughter. Nor could he make himself let Warry go. Warry could have twisted from his grasp eas
ily at that point, but he did not. Instead he seemed to lean back against Hartwell, and Hartwell's stomach fluttered madly. Warry’s hair smelled as sweet as the pear tree he’d so recently climbed.
“It is not so difficult,” Warry replied, gasping. “You do much of the work yourself.”
Hartwell squeezed him, digging his fingers into Warry’s ribs and producing a yelp that became another peal of helpless laughter.
“Let me go!” Warry demanded when he could draw breath. “Or else.”
“Or else what, you treasonous wretch?”
Warry strained half-heartedly against Hartwell’s encircling arms. “Or else I shall tell you all I know of donkey bladders until you are so bored you release me.”
“Donkey bladders?” Hartwell tightened his arms around his captive. “I am all ears.”
Becca came to stand before them, her hands on her hips. “Oh William, you will not last half a minute.”
“No, I’m ready to learn.” He leaned close to Warry’s ear again. “Come. Tell me about donkey bladders.”
“Well, they are very…bladder-like.”
Hartwell jostled him, prompting another bout of snickering. “Is that all you’ve got for me?”
“A donkey urinates for an average of twenty-one seconds.”
“Do you hear this, Becca? What are your parents paying for his education? Whatever the sum, it is too much.” To Warry he said, “And?”
“Umm…”
“You do not really know anything about donkey bladders at all, do you?” He caught Warry’s wrists and pulled them behind Warry’s back. “You have made an empty threat. Now you shall have to stay here until you tell me something truly interesting about donkey bladders.”
Warry struggled for a moment, then gave up with a sigh that sounded equal parts amused and indignant. “They are as large as a human head!”
Hartwell scoffed. “That could not possibly be true.” Could it? He supposed donkeys were reasonably large. And human heads fairly small, when one really looked at them.
“Well, probably not so large as your head,” Warry conceded.
“You little…” He released Warry’s wrists to dig his fingers into his sides. Warry squealed and stumbled forward, but Hartwell caught him again and they both fell to the ground, Hartwell on top of Warry.
Warry stared up at him, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. “But truly, how is it that your head is so big when there is so little to fill it?”
“That’s it.” Hartwell straddled him, taking his wrists and pinning them to the grass on either side of his head, both of them laughing too hard to breathe.
“William!” Becca said sternly. “Stop sitting on my brother.”
Miss Lilley, the Warringtons’ governess, had come out onto the lawn and scolded Hartwell and Warry for playing so roughly, then scolded Becca for allowing it. And my, hadn’t Becca’s spine snapped straight at that, and hadn’t she demanded in a voice like a military commander’s that Hartwell get off Warry at once.
He found himself smiling in the darkness. Where was that Joseph Warrington? Who was this fellow who wished to gamble—both in the hells and with his reputation?
He started at the sound of a door creaking down the hall. Then soft footsteps heading for the stairs. His heart thumped. Now, he supposed, was a chance to shrug off his cowardice. To attempt to have a conversation with Warry. He got out of bed and slunk to the door, pulling it open silently. Down the stairs he went, following the wobbling light of Warry’s lamp past the drawing room, the sitting room, and at last, to his father’s library.
He did not follow Warry into the library right away. He was uncertain how to announce his presence in a way that would not startle the other man. At last he stepped into the doorway and gave a soft knock on the frame. “Warry?”
Warry swung round, nearly dropping the lamp. “Hartwell!” he whispered.
Even in the dim light, Hartwell could see that Warry looked wretched. He appeared to have washed the white paint off, and now his fading bruises showed dark in the lamplight. The expression in his eyes was flat and hopeless. His body was tense, one arm curled around his stomach as though he was about to be sick. “I—I could not sleep. I thought perhaps a book…”
Hartwell stepped forward. “You do not look well.”
“I’m fine,” Warry said tersely.
“Is it what I said to you earlier, as we left the hell? I truly am sorry. It really isn’t such a disaster, what transpired between you and Balfour. Many gentlemen have done worse. I have done worse.”
Warry appeared frozen for an instant. Then he muttered, “Please. I don’t wish to discuss it any further.”
Hartwell studied him, and Warry turned his head so that most of his face was in shadow.
“I’m sorry,” Warry said after a moment. “I only meant to borrow a book and then return to bed.” He held up the lamp and scanned the shelves.
“I don't know that we have any books on donkey bladders.”
Warry turned sharply to him. Hartwell’s lips quirked.
Then, to his surprise, Warry’s did too. His expression lost its weary hopelessness, and he looked less like he might eject the contents of his stomach. “You think there is any book on the subject I’ve not yet read?”
Hartwell chuckled. “Are they really as big as a human head? Donkey bladders?”
“Of course not.”
“I knew it!”
Warry actually laughed. “At the time, I did not have much information about donkey bladders. But I have since studied the subject.”
“Of course you have.”
As suddenly as he had opened up, Warry seemed to shut down again. His lips pressed together and he drew Hartwell’s dressing gown tighter around him. Hartwell could have shouted in exasperation. What was it that plagued Warry? The lamp fell briefly on the backgammon set on a small round table near the window. He crossed to the table. “Do you play?”
It seemed to take Warry a moment to comprehend what he was asking. “Oh. Becca tried to teach me once. I was not very good.”
“Fancy a game?”
“I’m a bit tired.”
“Will you be able to concentrate on your book, if you return to bed?”
The answer, Hartwell was fairly certain, was no. And sure enough, Warry shook his head. “I cannot concentrate on much of anything at the moment.”
Hartwell began to set up the board. “This will help pass the time. And when at last you grow weary of losing to me, perhaps then you will feel like sleeping off the pain of your defeat.” He offered a tentative smile and was absurdly relieved when Warry snorted.
“Come,” Hartwell said softly. “You seem as though you’ve had a dreadful night. I’m sorry to have contributed to that.”
Warry jolted visibly. Tugged at the edge of the dressing gown. “I apologise as well. I realise that, with your pending engagement to Becca, I reflect poorly on your family when I reflect poorly on mine.”
Hartwell shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Yes, because that’s what I’m concerned about. Sit down, will you?”
Warry walked over and set the lamp on the windowsill next to them. Took a seat.
Hartwell watched the play of shadows over Warry’s face. “Does it still hurt?” he asked, gazing at Warry’s bruised forehead.
“What?”
“Your head?”
Warry leaned back in the chair. “I hardly feel it anymore.”
Hartwell arranged checkers on the thirteen point. In a way, he envied Warry the risk he'd taken with Balfour. Warry evidently desired the man and was not holding himself back. Innocent little Warry, stammering at the very mention of The Maiden Diaries, was perhaps finding some hidden bit of spine he had not known he possessed. But Balfour was precisely the sort of peer who could mould Warry into something he was not. Who cared only about status, and would never care which direction the hooves of cows grew if you did not trim them properly. Not that Hartwell had ever been much concerned with cow's hooves. But to
hear Warry speak on the subject was more of a treat than Hartwell had ever been able to admit to himself. He often wished he were half so passionate or knowledgeable about any subject. And Balfour would never appreciate it, just as he would never appreciate goat belches or donkey bladders.
They began to play, and Warry quickly gained the upper hand.
“What were you on about, ‘Becca tried to teach me once?’” Hartwell demanded. “You’re quite good.”
Warry shrugged. “It’s just luck.”
“I could have used your luck at the faro table tonight.”
Hartwell noticed Warry’s hand shook on his next turn.
It hit Hartwell then: What if Warry did not desire Lord Balfour? That seemed rather difficult to believe, given that Warry and Balfour had spent the entire afternoon together at the Gilmore rout. He recalled that awful moment he had witnessed between the two of them through the terrace doors, Balfour stroking Warry’s hair and Warry shooting Hartwell such a self-complacent look through the glass. And Warry and Balfour had spent weeks in each other’s intermittent company since then! But what if…
“There’s always brandy,” he offered. “If you still can’t sleep after this.”
Warry placed his hands under the table. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
Hartwell sighed. To hell with it. “Warry, if he—Balfour—was attempting to do anything you did not wish—”
“Stop!” Warry’s voice rose with a rather frantic-sounding anger. “Hartwell, what are you suggesting?”
“I only—”
“He did nothing that I did not also want. It was as you said. I was careless with my reputation.” He studied the gameboard.
“I see.” Hartwell did not see. And so he went on, despite the tension radiating from his companion. “Becca says you have not been yourself of late.”
Warry’s head snapped up, and he glared at Hartwell as though daring him to say something further. Hartwell thought of all he would like to say, but decided upon: “And I must agree.”
Warry’s eyes narrowed just a little, the gold of the lamp creating twin points of light in his pupils. His gaze dropped again.