A Husband for Hartwell (The Lords of Bucknall Club Book 1)

by J. A. Rock

  Hartwell smiled. “What a lucky man I am,” he replied, voice low and roughened by an unexpected surge of emotion he did not care to examine too thoroughly. He trailed two fingers down Warry’s belly, nearly to the base of his prick.

  Warry’s back arched as he made an attempt to pull free of the shirt, one tail of which was still twisted in Hartwell’s grip. Hartwell growled a warning at him, which set him panting hard, a challenge in his eyes as he seemed to debate whether to obey and lie still. Hartwell had not thought his prick could get any stiffer, but Warry’s desperate squirming, the need in his gaze, the sight of him half-bound and helpless beneath Hartwell all conspired to bring Hartwell to a nearly unbearable level of arousal. And then Warry’s parted lips curved up, ever so slightly, as his harsh breaths came and went, and Hartwell lost all sense of reason.

  The whole world be damned; he had come too far to stop now. He lowered himself over Warry until their bodies nearly touched. Warry’s prick was rigid against his taut belly, and with his hands caught above his head, he could do nothing as Hartwell lowered himself further still so their cocks pressed together. He let go of the shirt and slid one arm beneath Warry, supporting himself with the other, then began rocking slowly. Warry gasped and shuddered. The poor fellow started to bring his bound hands down but stopped himself, instead giving a sweet, shuddering sigh of surrender. That was precisely the sound Hartwell had longed to hear, and it was even more beautiful in reality than in any of his fantasies. Hartwell kissed the very edge of Warry’s underarm, a spot that proved just as sensitive as he’d hoped—especially when Hartwell rasped his unshaven cheek against it. This drew another whimper from Warry, who arched again, then wrapped his legs around Hartwell and crossed his ankles over Hartwell’s backside.

  Oh, this man. This beautiful, breath-stealing man. There weren’t enough hours in the day to take him apart as slowly and thoroughly as he deserved. Hartwell would need weeks, maybe months to learn every inch of soft skin, every moan and whimper and cry that could be drawn from that elegant throat. Yet as glorious as it was to imagine taking all that time, his desire was urgent. He was not certain he could bear the pleasure of teasing Warry’s perfect, lithe body a second longer, not when his own body was fairly trembling with need.

  Somehow he survived the act of kissing the swell of Warry’s chest, just above his nipple, and then laying his lips, butterfly-soft, between each of his ribs. Warry turned his head to press his mouth first into his own shoulder, then Hartwell’s, in an effort to stifle his cries. There was stickiness between them, and Warry’s body suddenly fell slack. Hartwell finished an instant later, surprised by the force of it. He slid his arm gently out from beneath Warry and braced his elbows on the bed, his hips still pressed to Warry’s. His arms shook so hard he nearly collapsed onto his companion. Instead, he let his head drop, his dark hair hanging before his eyes, a vision of absolute beauty beneath him. He pressed a kiss to Warry’s chest, which glistened with sweat. Then another on each of his collarbones. Warry’s gasp this time was softer, the sort of sound one made at the edge of sleep—though his dazed eyes roved the ceiling, and his next inhale was enormous, like the first breath of a half-drowned man after the water had cleared from his lungs. Hartwell shushed him gently. Warry’s narrowed eyes found his, his brow wrinkled, and a whimper squeezed from his throat as he sighed out. Hartwell rested his chin, with its prickly stubble of whiskers, in the hollow of Warry’s navel just to watch the lad squirm—which he did, to Hartwell’s delight.

  At last, Hartwell shifted to lie alongside him.

  Warry turned to gaze at him. He still appeared stunned and breathless. Undone. And yet there was now an affection in his gaze as pure as a dog’s. Hartwell had not been prepared for that. How artless Warry could seem. How adoring.

  Guilt pushed away the warmth in Hartwell’s belly. In a few more moments, Warry would lose that awestruck look, and the truth of what they had done would hit him. The truth of it was just now hitting Hartwell. He couldn’t bear to witness that shift in Warry, to see adoration turn to wariness then contempt. He reached out and stroked Warry’s cheek, understanding that it would likely be the last time. From now on he would well and truly stay away from Joseph Warrington. He did nothing but harm when he was near him.

  But instead of horror dawning on Warry’s handsome face, he smiled slowly. Then he tilted his head and nipped gently in the direction of Hartwell’s thumb, an echo of Hartwell’s earlier gesture.

  Hartwell’s stomach plummeted gracelessly.

  “What happens now?” Warry whispered.

  Panic seized Hartwell. Warry was looking to him for an explanation, a solution. How could they have done this, and how could they ensure Warry’s reputation remained intact? Hartwell’s mind raced. They must leave the building at different times, for a start. Perhaps there was a back entrance—

  But then Warry said, “Might we try this again sometime? Do you think Gale would allow—”

  “Again?” Hartwell echoed sharply. His shock was genuine. Might we try this again sometime? Might I casually risk my entire future so that we, two unwed gentlemen, may continue to swive in your friend’s apartment? Was Warry serious?

  It took Hartwell several seconds to find his voice again. “What happens now is that I will go and make things right with Becca, you will return home, and we will never speak of this again.”

  Warry’s brows knit together. And then horror did dawn. “Was it not…Was I not…?”

  “Oh, stop it,” Hartwell said in exasperation. “Do not tie yourself in knots thinking on this. It was a bit of fun is all. Do not spoil it by making it something bigger than it is. You are courting Balfour, are you not? Then there is nothing to be done except to return to our lives.”

  He was already climbing out of bed, not wishing to see Warry’s expression. Protect him. The way you have failed to do again and again these last days. Perform this one last cruelty so that you might finally keep him safe.

  Warry was beside him in an instant, gripping his elbow. “No. You will not do this to me again. I know your feelings for me, and I feel the same for you. You and Becca were already planning to allow each other your freedoms. And if I am discreet, Balfour need never—”

  Hartwell threw off his hand. “Enough!” he roared. “That is enough. Do you hear yourself?” He laughed, the sound high pitched and nearly hysterical. “Our feelings? What use are feelings? Think! For once, Warry, use that head of yours. Think of your—”

  “If you say my reputation, there is a jug of vomit and piss just outside the door that I shall crack over your head.”

  Hartwell had not realised there was a jug of vomit and piss just outside the door, but it did not take a man of much learning to imagine how that had come to be. He had no doubt Warry meant the threat.

  Warry went on, as furious as Hartwell had ever seen him, with that break in his voice that Hartwell remembered well from childhood when Warry would get so angry at Hartwell and Becca’s teasing that it would bring him to the brink of tears. “You’re always going on about my reputation. But I am not the one who began something he never meant to finish!”

  “Yes, I know,” Hartwell snapped. “Nobody need tell me that I am black of soul. I have known this for a long time. You, however…” Hartwell softened in spite of himself and had to turn away again. “You are good-hearted. I shall not corrupt you any further. I must not.”

  “I will decide if I wish to be corrupted!”

  Hartwell whirled. His chest drew tight as he spoke. “You already are.” He glanced at the drawers still pooled at Warry’s ankles. At the slickness that still clung to the hair about his soft prick. “Just look at you.” Hartwell turned away and began searching for his clothes. “Where the devil are my breeches?”

  “To hell with you.”

  “Did you…put them somewhere?”

  Warry made no answer, and Hartwell’s agitation grew until he finally snapped his gaze up. “Warry—” Warry’s glare was fierce and grimly satisfied
as he stood there, naked, his hands curled nearly to fists. Hartwell forced himself to take a breath—to keep from saying something he’d regret or to keep from tumbling Warry back onto the bed, he wasn’t sure. “You don’t understand. You will despise me when sense overtakes whatever you are feeling now.” Where were his clothes? Surely he had not arrived in just his shirt?

  “Will you listen to me?” Warry shouted.

  Hartwell stopped dead.

  “I do not despise you.” Warry stepped closer to him. “Do you hear me? I do not despise you, Hartwell.”

  The words sank into Hartwell, bringing warmth back into his body, but the sensation lasted only an instant. “You will.” He was not even sure he had spoken the words aloud.

  Warry sat back on the mattress, not covering himself, and stared at him.

  Hartwell knew the only proper choice was to turn away. And yet he could not prevent himself from taking in Warry’s mussed and sweat-dampened hair, the hard muscles of his legs, the downy gold hair on his thighs. He gazed hungrily at Warry’s prick, imagining it hard again, imagining it in his mouth, its shaft velvet and iron against his tongue.

  “Only if you do not get back into bed with me at once.”

  Good God. What man could resist a request such as that? Or perhaps it was a demand. Still, he hesitated.

  “Come, Hartwell.” Warry gentled his voice as though he were speaking to a small child. “I know you must think I lack pride, but I assure you I do not. I will not implore you again.”

  Hartwell could not. He should not.

  And yet…

  Slowly, as though his body were quite independent from his mind, he climbed back onto the bed and obeyed Warry’s clumsy attempts to position him so they lay facing each other. His heart pounded, and the tips of his fingers were numb. Oh God, help him.

  “I do not despise you,” Warry said again.

  Hartwell closed his eyes briefly.

  “I knew what I was partaking in. You are not responsible for my moral upkeep.”

  “Where are my clothes?” Hartwell whispered, for that seemed preferable to responding to Warry’s statement.

  “They are lying outside the door, covered in shit.”

  Hartwell flinched. Sometimes Warry and his sister were damnably alike in their directness.

  Warry stroked his cheek.

  “I am sorry.”

  “Hush.” Warry’s thumb passed lightly under Hartwell’s eye.

  Hartwell did not know how many moments of silence passed, only that his own breathing began to slow, and he did not feel quite so panic-stricken. “You know we cannot do this again.”

  “Stop talking.”

  Hartwell tried his best. After a few more moments of Warry’s thumb drifting hypnotically over his cheekbone and along his jawline, Hartwell placed an arm around him and kissed his brow with resigned tenderness.

  Warry exhaled. “I do not despise you…” he trailed off, and Hartwell’s stomach tightened. “But I must confess, I am a bit…”

  “What?” Hartwell asked finally when Warry could not seem to find the words he wanted.

  “Dash it, Hartwell, you must know I’d not done this before.”

  “Yes, that is precisely the source of my concern.”

  “I’m a bit nervous.”

  Damn it all. First he had corrupted Warry, and now Warry was afraid, as he had every right to be, that Hartwell had ruined him. “It is all right,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “I will speak not a word of this. As you said, Balfour need never know. It is not so bad as all that, I promise.”

  As though Hartwell had not spoken, Warry asked, “Was I…satisfactory?”

  Hartwell froze, confused. Then it dawned on him. This was what had Warry nervous? Not the thought of Balfour and the rest of the ton learning of his indiscretion but the question of his prowess in bed? Hartwell very nearly laughed, but the sincere anxiety in Warry’s expression stopped him. The fellow truly had no idea, did he? That alone was enough to banish the vestiges of Hartwell’s earlier panic. This was Warry, with whom Hartwell had shared much of his childhood. And despite some of the mystery Warry held for Hartwell now that he was a grown man, there was much about him that was purely familiar. The way he could be both sweet and sharp—all but demanding Hartwell stay, calling him a coward, but now looking at him with an uncertainty that might have burst Hartwell’s chest had he been a more sentimental man.

  Hartwell smiled gently. “God help Society if you ever learn your own power.” He brushed Warry’s hair from his forehead. “I envy Balfour, but I cannot blame him. He is a fortunate man.”

  A shadow passed over Warry’s face then. A second later, his expression reverted to that inscrutable mask Hartwell had seen too often of late. Hartwell’s first thought was that the reminder of Balfour had prompted a flood of remorse within Warry after sharing a bed with Hartwell. But perhaps that was not it? Perhaps what Warry regretted was his choice to court Balfour in the first place? There was something quite satisfying in that thought, though it was likely wishful thinking.

  “The courtship has been…to your liking?” Hartwell asked awkwardly.

  “I…”

  That was hardly a resounding yes. “I apologise. We should not speak of it.”

  “I do not mind.”

  And yet he clearly did. Or else…Warry was holding something back, and damned if Hartwell didn’t want to shake him until it came forth. He thought of that night in the library. Warry’s vehement denial that Balfour’s overture at the Four-in-Hand had been unwelcome. But Warry was not happy. He was not! Of that, Hartwell was sure.

  “You may break it off, you know,” Hartwell said on an impulse. “It is okay to court someone and then realise they are an unsuitable match. It is not too late to reclaim your freedom.” He tried to grin. “Unlike me. If you are correct, and there is a path for me back into Becca’s good graces, well…I suppose it is my fate to be a husband.”

  Warry sat up, winding his arms around his knees.

  Hartwell slowly sat up as well. “Warry?”

  There was nothing but stony silence, silence Hartwell did not dare break.

  “If I did, would…?”

  Warry did not finish, and Hartwell was left to imagine that perhaps the unspoken question matched the one in his own heart. Would you have me?

  Would he? Ah, the idea of it…

  Yet the thought of his father’s displeasure quelled the hope rising in his chest. “You know I could not.”

  “Nor could I!” Warry said savagely. “Really, Hartwell, what did you think I meant?”

  Chagrin and no small amount of frustration welled in him. Was it not just as he had said? Warry was beginning to see the potential consequences of their dalliance, and now he regretted it. God forbid Hartwell attempt to comfort or advise the temperamental little devil. This was precisely why he had stopped their kiss at the Marchland ball and sent him back to Balfour, and yet instead of a Thank you, Hartwell, for urging me to do the right thing, he got, You’re such a coward.

  Warry spoke at last. “He is suitable. I wish our engagement had not been quite so sudden, but he—”

  “Engagement?” Hartwell interrupted, stunned.

  Warry might as well have clapped a hand over his mouth in dismay.

  “You are engaged?” Hartwell repeated.

  “I—Yes. We have not—publicly—”

  “You did not feel this was something I needed to know before I shared a bed with you?”

  Warry appeared at first stricken, but then fire returned to his gaze. “Would it have stopped you?”

  No. Hartwell had to admit defeat there. Nothing would have stopped him once they’d started, save word from Warry.

  “That is irrelevant.” He rose and went to the door. Opened it, grabbed his pile of shit-stained clothes, then shut it roughly again. He began to dress, trying to ignore the smell. He could feel Warry watching him.

  “Hartwell…”

  It was a bit difficult to maintain
any sort of dignity as he pulled on his soiled breeches, but he did succeed in not looking at Warry. “Seems to me I am not the one who cannot decide what he wants, Warry.”

  “You said there could be nothing between us!”

  Hartwell faced him now. “And I did not know at the time how much I meant it. You are not merely courting another man. You are engaged!”

  Warry’s face took on its familiar flush of shame. He hugged his knees tighter. “If the knowledge would not have dampened your desire, then…then is this really about propriety, Hartwell? Or is it jealousy?”

  Hartwell tried not to let the truth show on his face. “Ah, yes,” he said sarcastically. “That must be it. I am jealous of Balfour’s engagement to a man who takes his promise as lightly as he takes the matter of his own good name.”

  Warry and Becca both had the same wide-eyed expression of betrayal when dealt a verbal blow. It was enough to make a man feel utterly wretched, even when he was in the right. Hartwell would concede he had perhaps not needed to say anything quite so harsh—yet his feelings raged within him in such a conflicted jumble, he knew not what to do. He stamped out his fantasy about Warry breaking off his courtship with Balfour with violent haste. The little fool wished to ruin his life by binding himself to Balfour? Very well. It was not as though Hartwell had desired him for anything more than a tumble in the sheets. Warry wished to jeopardize what he apparently shared with Balfour by lying with Hartwell? That was none of Hartwell’s concern either.

  “As lightly as you took your promise to my sister?” Warry demanded.

  “She broke off the engagement, not I.” Hartwell stumbled a bit pulling a stocking on, and quickly righted himself. “Do you even love this man, Warry?”

  “Of course I do! We have tremendous affection for one another.”

  “Oh, good Lord.” Hartwell reached for a shit-covered shoe, somehow resisting the urge to lob it at Warry’s head. “You are beyond anything. And that is not a compliment.”

  “Hartwell, will you not…stay a minute and let us just talk?”

  “I have already far outstayed my use.”

  “Your use?”