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

by J. A. Rock

  Balfour arched an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on the buttoned fall front of Warry’s silk breeches. Warry felt a rush of cold flow through him as he reached behind him to loosen the gusset ties. He tugged the laces loose and then paused for a moment with his fingers on the buttons of his waistband.

  “Tease.” Balfour stepped closer.

  Warry screwed his courage and dropped his breeches, leaving him standing in nothing but his drawers and his clocked stockings.

  “Very nice,” Balfour said and began to untie his cravat. “What pretty pale skin you have, Joseph. I do look forward to discovering every inch of it.”

  Warry’s stomach clenched, and bile rose in his throat at the thought of the hours to come.

  Balfour yanked his cravat free and threw it to the floor. He circled Warry, and Warry gave himself credit for not bolting. But then Balfour lunged, grabbing Warry by the shoulders and sinking his teeth into the mark Hartwell had left. The pain was so great that Warry cried out through clenched teeth.

  At that moment, he heard hurried footsteps from somewhere outside and then, before he could even make a grab for his discarded shirt, the bedroom door was shoved open, and Hartwell, his expression fiery, burst inside.

  “Warry!” he exclaimed as he stared in disbelief at Warry’s state of undress, then at Balfour and back to Warry again. And then, just as Warry realised with growing horror that Hartwell wasn’t alone and that other people were crowding through the door as well, Hartwell dashed forward and punched Balfour in the face.

  Balfour dropped to the floor with a howl.

  “Well,” said Lord Christmas Gale from the doorway where he was standing with Lady Agatha as well as a tall man Warry did not recognise and—Good Lord, no!—Becca, “I said it would all end in violence, didn’t I? Too many quadrilles, my dear Hartwell. Too many quadrilles.”

  “Warry!” Hartwell roared. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Warry had no answer for that at all. He could only shake his head and clap his hands to his mouth to keep his sudden, panicked sobs from escaping him.

  “I’m sorry.” Becca momentarily paused in her pacing, her eyes flashing to Warry with such ferocity that Hartwell almost pitied him. “You must recount this tale again, in its entirety, for I cannot comprehend what I am hearing.”

  “Ah, Becca,” Hartwell said. “You’re normally so sharp. Warry has simply told us that in a deeply misguided attempt to preserve your reputation, he promised himself to Balfour first as a husband and then, when he realised how dreadful it would be to spend a lifetime called to heel by that disgraceful excuse for a man, he decided the next best thing would be to offer his body to the fellow for one night. Hoping, naturally, that a single night of carnal pleasure would prove an adequate substitute in Balfour’s eyes for a lifetime of matrimonial bliss.”

  Hartwell ought to have kept the sarcasm from his voice. Just as he ought not to have shouted at Warry in Balfour’s bedchamber. In Hartwell’s defence, Warry’s self-described actions of the past two weeks were, it turned out, quite beyond belief. And, in his further defence, Hartwell had ceased thundering when he’d witnessed Warry’s vain attempt to contain his sobs. At that moment, he had, with no regard for the huddle of witnesses, crossed the room to Warry, giving Balfour a good kick in the head as he passed to render him satisfactorily unconscious, and taken Warry in his arms.

  Warry was now propped in the guest bed at Hartwell house before a roaring fire, a very large quilt pulled over him. He had attempted to push it down moments ago and had received such a bark from Becca that he had immediately tugged it back up to his chin. He did not flinch at Hartwell’s words. He’d seemed in a trance since they’d left Balfour’s home. This worried Hartwell, which made him increasingly sarcastic, as though perhaps enough sharpness could spur Warry back into normalcy.

  He himself could not cease revisiting the events of an hour ago, when he had stood in Balfour’s bedchamber, Warry pressed shaking to him, heat and cold both seeming to emanate from his bare skin. He had turned them so his own body sheltered Warry from the onlookers.

  Lady Agatha, whose short stature and aging eyes kept the nuances of the situation from her, believed the scandal in progress had to do with Warry and Hartwell, and had crowed about this being precisely the sort of gross impropriety she had been awaiting all evening. When she saw Balfour on the floor with his cravat beside him, she could have soared through the roof in her excitement.

  “The Warrington boy caught up in a web of lust with Lord Balfour and Lord Hartwell! Oh, his name will be bandied about for years to come!”

  “I will wed him myself before that happens!” Hartwell snapped over his shoulder, paying no mind to Gale’s groan.

  Lady Agatha had turned her attention to Balfour, declaring with a cry of alarm that the man looked to be dead.

  Then Becca had raced forward and fairly pried Warry from Hartwell’s arms, taking him in her own and demanding answers with a speed and fervour that Hartwell found dizzying. He’d listened with vague gratitude as Gale urged Lady Agatha out of the room, assuring her that Balfour had not been murdered. Gale then informed Hartwell that he and his tall companion, a Bow Street Runner, were there to confront Balfour on charges of stock fraud, having finally obtained the last bit of proof they’d needed over the course of the ball, but that they would wait outside until Warry was decent and Balfour was conscious.

  Hartwell had located Warry’s clothes and managed to prise him from Becca’s grasp just long enough to guide the shirt over his head and help him into his breeches. Balfour had moaned on the floor but did not rise, and Warry had made weak protest that he could put on his own shoes, though one attempt to do so with shaking hands, and Hartwell had taken over the task.

  They had left the room, Warry supported between Hartwell and Becca, his face buried in Hartwell’s shoulder as though if he could not see anyone, it followed that they could not see him. Hartwell had nodded his thanks to Gale, who had managed to store Lady Agatha somewhere out of sight. Becca’s assertion that she and Warry were going home had brought on another paroxysm of panic from Warry, and Hartwell had his hands quite full calming him. Gale had leaned toward him and whispered, “I would say you may take him to my private apartment, but the last time I permitted that, something unspeakable happened to a jug I was rather fond of. If you take him to Hartwell House, I have it on good authority your father intends a late night at Bucknall’s, and your mother is on her way home to bed where even cannon fire would be unlikely to awaken her before noon.”

  “Hartwell House?” came Becca’s sharp rejoinder. “Do not be absurd. Warry will come home and be looked after there. Warry, I will handle any questions from Mama. You have nothing to be concerned about.”

  Yet Warry’s terror at the idea of facing his household came from a place quite beyond reason, and in the end, Becca had to concede—under the condition that she too would come to Hartwell House.

  And there they were.

  “Do I have it about right?” Hartwell demanded, still unable to keep the sharpness from his tone.

  Warry nodded mutely.

  Becca stepped to the bed and leaned forward. Warry appeared to be fighting the urge to squirm under her gaze. “He tried to blackmail you into marrying him, and you decided you would endure a lifetime with him in order to save me some embarrassment?”

  “It would have ruined you!”

  Becca sat down on the bed and clasped Warry’s hands. “No, Warry! No! If I am to be ruined in the court of public opinion, then let it be so! I am responsible for my own actions, always, and I am not afraid of a bit of gossip.”

  “A bit of gossip? Becca that letter was…It was unspeakable! The things people would say about you…You would not be able to brush it off. It would affect your entire future and—”

  “You mean that no one would wish to marry me? I have never in the whole of my life wanted to marry. Not even for one second. And now, more than ever, I am certain that I would die first.”

&nbs
p; “Our family—”

  She huffed. “Oh, so it was your own reputation for which you were concerned? Now we come to the truth of it.”

  “No, Becca! I feared for you. But—”

  “Have mercy, Becca,” Hartwell said quietly. “He did what he thought was right. He was only trying to rescue you.”

  Becca said nothing for a long moment, merely studied her brother with her formidable blue eyes. Then she reached out and flicked him sharply on the forehead. “If ever you feel the compulsion to rescue me again, please consult me first, and I will let you know whether or not I am in need of rescue. Are we very clear?”

  Warry glanced away and nodded.

  “No, look at me.”

  Hartwell could see the effort it took for Warry to comply.

  “I told you not a few days past that I could see you were not yourself, and I wished to know why. You could have told me then.”

  “I did not know what to do,” Warry muttered to the quilt. “I feared you would despise me.”

  “When I told you that I would still love you whenever you were ready to be truthful with me, did I say, ‘unless the truth is something very unpleasant’?”

  Warry squeezed his eyes shut, and the last of Hartwell’s own anger fled. How confused Warry must have been, he thought. How frightened. He’d been as shocked by Warry’s tale as Becca, but the more he thought on it, the easier it was to see how it had all unfolded. In fact, it suddenly seemed more or less inevitable that Joseph Warrington would have done the thing he feared most—risk his reputation, pollute his body—in order to save the sister he loved so dearly.

  Warry gulped as though it pained him to breathe, then opened his eyes, a new anguish in them. “You do not understand. It was my fault.”

  “What was?”

  “That Wilkes was able to get hold of that letter!”

  Hartwell started, but he remained silent, waiting for Becca to proceed.

  She allowed Warry an attempt to even out his breathing, then said quietly, “Explain.”

  Warry cast a glance at Hartwell, who was not certain whether the panic in his gaze pled for rescue or for Hartwell to leave and not bear witness to what he was about to say. “I took the letter from your bedroom. I meant to return it. I had taken your diary to give you a scare. I don’t even remember what I was angry about. But the letter fell from it. I…I did not mean to read it.”

  She held up a hand. “If you had not wanted to read it, you would not have read it.”

  Warry paused, his mouth open. “You are right. I started to read it, and I could not stop. It shames me that I read it, and—and honestly, it was quite shocking, quite horrifying, to think of my sister doing any such…”

  “Yes, yes,” Hartwell waved his hand, urging him on. “We are all aware that Becca’s way with the written word can be…disconcerting.”

  Becca fixed Hartwell with a glare, and he went silent at once.

  Warry took a breath. “I did not know how, precisely, two women could…as a man and a woman do. And though I did not fully understand myself then, I was beginning to awaken to the truth that I wished one day to do such things with a man. With a husband,” he added quickly. “But I did not know what it would be like for two men either, and I—Oh, I cannot explain!”

  “I think I understand.” Becca spoke quietly. “I suppose, when there is no other information available to you besides your sister’s sordid, half-finished letter to a former governess—”

  “Or your sister’s lewd novel collection,” Hartwell added helpfully.

  Warry shot him a look that Hartwell supposed was intended to strike him dead. Hartwell might have grinned if it weren’t so painful to imagine Warry’s confusion. Perhaps the same confusion he himself had felt when his father had slapped him and declared that kissing a boy was not acceptable for his only son. The same confusion Becca had felt when she’d first realised what she wanted from Miss Lilley went beyond French lessons.

  Becca blinked rapidly several times. “Well, yes, I knew Warry snuck into my room to thumb the pages of my copy of The Maiden Diaries.”

  “And perhaps to thumb something else.” Hartwell raised his brows. He did not know why he continued to prod at Warry, just that he felt so very useless at the moment.

  “I never did!” Warry shouted.

  “You, hush,” Becca snapped at Hartwell. “You are nowhere near back in my good graces.”

  “I saved your brother!”

  “Stop!” Warry shouted, his eyes on Hartwell, his voice damn near loud enough to wake the duchess from her drunken slumber. “Is it not enough that you have made me feel small all these years? Was it not enough to tell me how morally destitute I am yesterday after we lay together?”

  Becca’s gaze shot to Hartwell, and she hissed, “You what?”

  “And is my disgrace tonight not enough for you? Still you must mock me? I cannot…I cannot stand the sight of you!”

  The words cut so deeply that Hartwell could make no response. Perhaps this was what it was like to receive a fatal wound on the battlefield—so much damage done so quickly one did not know the scope of it until one looked down and saw the severed limb, the excised entrails. He did not wish to be the boorish creature Warry described. Had he not also been a rescuer? Had he not—no. What he had been, first and foremost, was unkind. Cowardly. Jealous. And too proud to admit it.

  With his sight turned so far inward, he had missed the glaring truth of how much he cared for Warry and how much Warry was suffering, caught in the trap Balfour had laid. Yes, Warry had lied to him, kept the truth from him, but Hartwell had never presented himself as a confidant to Warry. Quite the opposite. He had overlooked his own cruelty in teasing Warry without outwardly tempering it with the admiration he felt, in pushing the pup away in a misguided attempt to protect him. From what, precisely? From scandal? Or from Hartwell’s own inconstancy? He now recalled the Gilmore rout in far more detail than he wished to. The way his tongue—normally quick to tease but just as quick to soothe the sting away—had sharpened to a blade, and he had spoken with the veriest intent to wound Warry. To punish him for Hartwell’s own inability to say what he felt.

  Becca turned on him. “If you feel you have done quite enough damage, you may leave the room. Otherwise please, do stay, and let us see what else you manage to botch.” She turned back to her brother. “It is all right, Warry. I knew that you sometimes snuck my books of late, and I was rather proud of you for it. I did not realise you had seen that letter. So you kept hold of it…”

  Slowly, Warry tore his livid gaze from Hartwell’s and faced Becca. “I truly meant to give it back, but I left it in my bureau, and Wilkes must have…I did not know what had become of it, and I was terrified. Months went by, and nothing happened, so I thought perhaps…perhaps it was simply lost. It must have been during that time that Wilkes and Balfour concocted their plan.”

  “Wilkes and Balfour,” Becca mused.

  “I did not know they had an association. Honestly, I had no opinion of Wilkes. He was never friendly with me, and when Father called him a thief and dismissed him, I thought no more of him except that it made for quite a story. But he is an old associate of Balfour’s. And Balfour told me he…he used to pay Wilkes to snoop through my possessions and send details to him.”

  Hartwell half expected Becca to rise off the ground and unfold great wings like an avenging angel. Balfour would do well to sail for the Continent as quickly as possible before Becca tracked him down. “When Wilkes was still with our household?”

  Warry nodded, and his cheeks needed no help from the firelight to burn red. “Balfour noticed me at the end of last Season. Desired me from the first he saw of me, he claimed. I…thought highly of him at first. That is the most ludicrous part. If he had not tried to blackmail me, if he had simply courted me…I might have been enamoured. I am such a fool.”

  Becca tilted her head first one way, then the other, like a bird. Warry visibly braced himself for her censure, and Hartwell held his
breath, hoping she would not be too harsh with him. “I wish that you had not taken my private property. I wish that you had possessed more sense than to leave something of such a personal nature lying about, but what Wilkes and Balfour did with that letter is not your fault. And a man like Balfour…He did not want your willing attendance, do you understand?”

  Hartwell could not read Warry’s expression. The fire let loose a spray of sparks.

  Finally, Warry spoke. “I do now.”

  “He wanted you under his thumb. And he would have found a way to achieve that with or without that particular letter.”

  “Because I am so weak?” Warry blurted furiously.

  “Because a man like Balfour practises manipulating people.”

  Warry looked for a moment as though he might break and begin to shout out all his misery and anger and shame, but then he sagged back against the headboard. “I am sorry.” His voice was hoarse, and he looked very, very small underneath the quilt. Hartwell should have liked to come up with even just one thing to say to ease his pain, but he did not trust himself not to make it worse.

  “It is Balfour who should be sorry. Though he never will be.” Becca’s tone did little to hide her rage. “At least he is the Continent’s problem now and not ours. It’s a shame that people may never know the truth of why he was overtaken by a sudden urge to travel at Gale’s very strong suggestion. I would quite like the entire world to know what a snake he is.”

  The weight of memory struck Hartwell as he saw a very young Becca holding and rocking an even younger Warry at the edge of the frog pond while the boy shivered, water dripping from his mop of hair. In the memory, Hartwell dripped water too. He had pulled Warry from the pond, driven by a terror so vast he could not quantify it. Terror of what his parents would say, what the Warringtons would say, if they knew Warry had nearly drowned under his and Becca’s watch. But the terror went deeper than that. It was his own—his fear of losing Warry. The same terror he had felt tonight, throwing open that door and seeing Warry in Balfour’s grasp. He let out his breath in a rush.