by J. A. Rock
“You are far above Balfour.”
Warry shifted, knocking the table with his knee, making the checkers slide. “Don't be absurd. You think me quite below everyone.”
“Is that truly what you believe?” Hartwell asked softly.
Warry looked up. “Don’t you?”
“No,” Hartwell whispered, quite horrified that Warry could think it. “That's not the truth of it at all.”
The lamp cast such strange shadows on Warry's face, Hartwell could not be quite sure what he was seeing. But it seemed that something hard and sharp inside Warry was dislodged, and his eyes were suddenly pleading in a way that made Hartwell desperate to mend whatever was wrong between them.
“I don’t like to see you hurt.”
Warry’s expression shifted. There was something dazed about it. Then uncertain. And then, quite possibly, angry. And after that, he seemed determined to appear as though he felt nothing at all.
Then he grinned suddenly, though it was a shadow of the smile Hartwell could remember seeing on him years ago. He moved a checker, winning the game. “You are easy to distract,” he said triumphantly.
Hartwell stared at the board, tongue pressed between his front teeth, fighting a grin of his own even though he had a feeling this was the real distraction—a change of focus, luring Hartwell away from the subject of Balfour. Still, he played along. “You false little beggar.”
“I should think you’d have learned after all these years not to trust me.”
Hartwell thought again of holding a laughing Warry in his arms, the lad triumphant after the deception he had pulled off with Becca. He ached somewhere so deep within himself, he had not a clue how to heal it. “It is not my fault you use those lovely, innocent eyes to manipulate me.”
“Lovely? How much did you have to drink tonight?”
Hartwell cracked out a laugh that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room, leaning back in his chair. “Not nearly enough.”
“I wish you would simply admit that I am your superior.”
“I shall speak no such falsehood.” Except that it was the truth, Hartwell realised. It had always been the truth.
Warry rose, leaning over the table, shadows shifting and turning the pale skin of his throat red-gold. Hartwell momentarily stopped breathing. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Whatever he was feeling, it could not possibly bode well for his future. Warry tilted his head. “Do you wish to play again, or would you find it too humiliating?”
Hartwell rose too. “I wish, brat, that you would come just a step closer.”
Warry laughed and pulled back. “You are threatened by my prowess at backgammoning.”
Hartwell's brows lifted, and they both stared at each other for a moment. Warry looked a bit shocked at himself, but soon he was snickering again, biting his lip to contain his amusement. Hartwell smiled briefly, looking down at the checkers. “I shall damn myself any way I choose to respond to that.”
The silence returned between them, and with it, a tension that filled the room.
“What is it?” Hartwell whispered, not sure what he hoped Warry would say. That he did not care for Balfour at all? That he would like to backgammon Hartwell right here in the Duke of Ancaster’s library? That he wished for Hartwell to lie with him and hold him until he slept? God, Hartwell would have done it. Anything to keep them from sliding back into the coldness that had existed between them these last few weeks.
“Nothing. I have made fool enough of myself tonight.”
Hartwell's brow furrowed. “I rather thought we were enjoying ourselves.”
“Not now. At the hell.” Warry braced his hands on either side of the game board, gazing down at the evidence of his victory without seeming to see anything at all.
Hartwell finally said, “Warry, if this is about money...If that is what draws you to Balfour...”
Warry shook his head as though trying to throw off the very suggestion. “Stop.”
“Well what is it then?” Hartwell’s voice rose.
Warry’s expression grew as angry as Hartwell had ever seen it. “‘What is it then?’ You think I owe you an explanation for the company I keep? You think I am so greedy, so shallow as to want his money? You don’t believe me capable of making my own decisions, for my own reasons, about who I...wish to spend time with?”
“That is not what I said and you well know it,” Hartwell protested.
“Yes, it is. And it is what you believe. If you wish to know what I see in Lord Balfour, perhaps it is the fact that he listened to me that day at the Gilmores’, instead of humiliating me.” Warry’s voice was alive with hurt. Hartwell tried to recall precisely what he’d said that afternoon. Closed his eyes briefly, shame bolting through him. He’d been casually cruel to Warry, and now he could not think for the life of him why. Because he had seen Warry and Balfour gazing at each other with such intensity, and that had hurt for reasons he had not understood but was very afraid he was beginning to understand now.
He stepped around the table and held out his arm, unthinking. Warry raised his own arm as though to fend him off, and then somehow ended up stumbling into him. Hartwell placed his arm around him. Rubbed his shoulder, then pulled him into a full embrace, moving his hand slowly up and down Warry’s rigid back.
Gradually, Warry’s shoulders dropped. He shook slightly. “If you don’t like to see me hurt, then why did you say that to me?” He whispered into Hartwell’s dressing gown.
“Quite right,” Hartwell murmured. “You’re quite right.” Because I am a coward. And a jealous fool. And I cannot say the things I want to say to you, for I must say them to your sister. “I should not have. And I am very sorry.”
“Let me go,” Warry begged softly.
Hartwell obeyed with some reluctance.
Warry scrubbed his face with his hand. His eyes were dry, but his breathing was shallow. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does.”
Warry stepped away from Hartwell. “Balfour respects me. He sees me as a man. He does not mock me for my interests, nor question every decision I make. You could learn much from him, I think.” He snatched up the lamp. “I'm going to bed.”
He strode from the room without so much as a glance at Hartwell, closing the library door firmly behind him.
Hartwell’s head pounded. Was it true? Had he, with his casual cruelty, pushed Warry into the arms of a man who made Hartwell’s stomach turn?
Did the man only make Hartwell’s stomach turn because he had held Warry’s hand tonight and kissed it?
You could learn much from him. Shame was too hard to sit with, and so he let it give way to frustration. Warry was the one who could not be honest with himself. Who did not quite believe that he was no longer a child, that he was a man, beautiful and intelligent and worthy of someone far superior to Balfour. Perhaps not Hartwell, for Hartwell did not deserve him either. And why was Hartwell even thinking it when he was going to marry Becca?
His annoyance grew. Let Warry make his foolish mistake then. Maybe he would learn something from it. Warry’s words came back to him: “…nor question every decision I make.”
Hartwell was damn well going to question this one. Not out loud; he’d learned his lesson there. But fucking hell, he had a right to his thoughts about Warry and Balfour. Balfour, respect Warry? Lord Balfour respected Lord Balfour and no one else.
He slapped the table. Not particularly hard, but with just enough force to make the backgammon pieces jump. Then he rose and went to bed.
Warry didn’t join Hartwell for breakfast the next morning, and Hartwell poked petulantly at his Scotch egg until he’d rather ruined it. He set it aside and ate his seedcake instead. It was dry and tasteless. A note had come for Warry an hour ago; he’d had his valet take it up to him, trying not to care that the seal bore a large, swirling B. He was vexed by the way he’d left things with Warry last night. And yet the memory of Warry’s smile yesterday as they’d fooled about with the paint, as Warry had declared victory at the
backgammon table, was on his mind like a brand. It now seemed a waste to spend his life doing anything other than coaxing that smile again.
Perhaps he had pushed too hard last night. There was certainly nothing stopping Warry from spending time with Balfour if he so chose. What Hartwell needed to do was focus his efforts on courting Becca. If his father had not the decency to talk to him before making threats behind his back, Hartwell could play that game as well. By the time his parents returned, he and Becca would be prepared to announce their engagement. And it would be a decision entirely of their own making, uninfluenced by the elder Hartwell’s meddling, the matter settled before the awful ultimatum could be delivered.
Hartwell had devoured a significant portion of The Maiden Diaries yesterday, but it had brought him no closer to knowing how to prove himself a husband to Becca. It had only served to make him feel ravenously desirous, ashamed of said desirousness, and deeply confused as to whether this fellow Slyfeel was truly what women wanted.
So he had decided to go with cake for now as a means of winning Becca’s favour. He’d had Cook create a confection of strawberries and cream and pack it up for him along with a picnic lunch. Then he had written to Becca, informing her of his intent to call at noon. They would take his carriage for a drive through the park and stop to picnic.
He started at the sound of footsteps. Warry entered the room, fully dressed, and for a moment Hartwell’s breath caught. He looked worse than he had three nights past when he’d been dragged, unconscious, to Hartwell’s doorstep. Worse than he had when Hartwell had first caught him in the library. But there was a determined placidity about his expression that let Hartwell know he could not expect a straight answer were he to ask how he was.
Unbidden, the image of Balfour kissing Warry’s hand flared in him like fever, and he had not the stomach to dwell on it.
“You’re late,” he said coolly. “But there is still enough here to make a meal of.”
“I’m going out. Balfour is taking me for a drive in his curricle. After which, I will have him drop me at Warrington House.”
That hit Hartwell quite like a blow, but he made no reply.
“I thank you for your graciousness in allowing me to recover here, but I shan’t take further advantage of your hospitality.”
Hartwell leaned back, tapping his fingers on the table. “So you and Balfour are courting, then?”
Warry nodded, his movements stiff. “Yes. He has been paying me attention for some time, and he has sent word this morning that he should like to strengthen our acquaintance.” He paused. “I know that I am not well versed in courtship. To you I must seem awkward and ignorant. But I do care for him.”
“Well, isn’t that lovely.” There was nothing to be done about the ice in Hartwell’s tone. Curse it, he had sworn last night that he would make no further remark on the subject of Warry and Balfour. Yet he could not stop himself. “So that was why you wished to go to the gaming hell? I thought it perhaps a chance for us to spend time together, but you thought only of whether you might arrange a meeting with Balfour there.”
Warry’s eyes widened in what looked like mingled shock and regret, but he quickly mastered himself. “I appreciate your taking me. It was…I had fun. But yes, I arranged to see Balfour as soon as I knew where we were going.” He paused, his teeth tugging his lower lip. “This feeling I have…I cannot cease thinking of him. I suppose at first I was afraid of Society knowing my true feelings, but I am no longer afraid.”
That was a bald-faced lie if Hartwell had ever heard one. “You still have your bruises to explain to Becca.”
“They’re not so noticeable anymore. When I wear a hat, it covers most of them.”
All right, you little fool, Hartwell wished to say. Go and have your curricle ride with Balfour. Leave me in peace.
Instead, he said, with an indifferent chill he hoped would linger with Warry for the rest of the brat’s miserable life, “The pleasure was all mine, Lord Warrington.”
Warry flinched slightly but nodded. “Good day, Lord Hartwell.”
And then the little whelp, whom Hartwell should have drowned in the frog pond all those years ago, walked away.
Chapter 8
Becca seemed in low spirits on their ride, which was perhaps convenient as Hartwell was shrouded in bleakness himself and did not wish to be cheered.
Still, as their carriage bumped along, the sun and the familiar company seemed to shake loose some of his bile, and he found himself instead vexed by the lack of conversation.
“You are quiet today,” he pointed out unnecessarily.
“I suppose I’ve been doing a lot of thinking in the past few days.” Her hands were clasped in her lap with a demureness that did not suit her.
“Ah.” He nodded. “Thinking.” He could come up with nothing more to say, which vexed him further. Not wishing to feel like a stranger in the presence of his dearest friend but not certain how to treat her now that she was his future wife, he condemned them both to a lingering and awkward silence. After which point, he picked up the box he had stored under the carriage seat.
“This is for you. It is cake.”
“Cake?” She took the box. “What is the occasion?”
“Need there be an occasion? It is cake.”
“This is most generous.” She opened the box and peeked inside. “It involves strawberries.”
“I thought it would go well with our picnic in the park.” He cleared his throat. “I also wrote you a poem.”
“A poem?” She looked as though she did not know whether to laugh or open the carriage door and leap out.
“Yes. I know poetry is not where my skill lies, but I thought to do something special for you.” He pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and started to hand it to her, then drew it back. “I suppose it works best if I read it to you. Isn’t that how these things are done?” He unfolded it and began to read.
“Becca, your eyes as the sun do light, each blessed day and darkest night. Your hands are pale, your arms are long. When you speak, it seems an angel’s s—”
“William,” she interrupted gently. “What is this about?”
“Hmm?” He glanced up. “It is about your arms and voice and eyes.”
“No.” Her gesture encompassed the cake, the poem, the carriage. “This. Are you trying to frighten me off marrying you?”
He started. “No! No, quite the opposite.”
A smile tugged her lips. “Then it is as I feared. You are trying to court me.”
Hartwell supposed it was a very bad sign indeed if she did not know whether he was attempting to woo her or frighten her away. What would the rake Slyfeel do? It was the wrong question to ask himself, for Slyfeel would inevitably put his head under her skirts right there in the carriage and create a situation in which she took the Lord’s name in vain. Multiple times.
“I do not wish you to fear marrying me.” He spoke honestly. “I know this is not what either of us wanted, but I would like you to feel as though I can be a true husband to you. And I do not wish to see you cheated of being wooed. You deserve that part of it too.”
She laughed, but it was a sound of pure joy—no mockery in it at all. “I don’t think you realise how sweet you can be,” she said to him fondly. “But I do not desire a suitor. I want my friend by my side. I want us to make the life we want. Whatever that ends up meaning.”
“And we will,” he promised.
“I will, however, not protest if you wish to give me cake.”
He laughed, but the sound faded quickly as he gazed at her. She was extraordinary. She always had been. And though he feared he could not love her in all the ways husbands ought to love their wives, there was a sense in which his love for her ran deeper than any vow made before a priest. “Yes,” he murmured.
“You need not trouble yourself with writing poems or praising my arms, which are apparently of a length so significant you felt compelled to mention them in your poem, or organising your fathe
r’s library to surprise me. Let us announce our intention to wed when your parents return. And let us forever be friends who share a home. And cake.”
He nodded, too struck by the reassurance she offered to speak.
After another moment, she asked, “Is that where Warry is? Did you leave him to finish the library? I’ve had a letter from him, but I can’t tell you how strange it is that he has sequestered himself in Hartwell House for days to help you arrange books.”
She was fishing, he knew. His story had been far from convincing, and he could not fault her concern. “He is returning to you today. He was very…generous in his assistance.”
Her eyes narrowed, and while her lips were curved slightly in amusement, she was far from satisfied. “What are you keeping from me?”
Hartwell sighed. This was not his tale to tell, and yet he desperately wished to tell it. “Warry and Balfour are courting.”
Becca’s eyes widened. “What?”
“He says Balfour has paid him attention for some time, and while he knows himself to be inexperienced in courtship, he does care for the man.”
“No. No, we must put a stop to this,” Becca insisted. “That man is…not right for my brother.”
“We’ve treated him as a child for too long, Becca.” Hartwell knew he was arguing the point to himself rather than her. “We must let the decision be his.”
“But you do not approve.”
“No,” Hartwell admitted quietly. “I do not.”
She glanced out the window. Her hands were once more folded in her lap, but now she was clasping them tightly enough that the knuckles whitened.
Hartwell continued, “I do not understand how the boy who followed us around, chattering about anything and everything, has become so withdrawn and unsure. I sometimes think I should give my fortune to listen to him tell me one more time about a goat’s four stomachs. If Balfour gives him back some confidence, makes him happy, then I suppose we must respect that.”
“He was not so withdrawn until he met Balfour,” Becca said firmly. “Even last Season, you remember, there was joy in him.”