by J. A. Rock
Warry was staring helplessly at Becca. “Do you despise me now?”
She touched his quilt-covered arm. “No. But do you have any idea why I’m furious with you, brother?”
“For nearly allowing Balfour to ruin my reputation. Our family’s reputation. For trying to rescue you when you did not wish—”
“For putting yourself in danger!” she barked, making both Warry and Hartwell jump. “When William told me you were in trouble, I have never known such fear. I shouted to the carriage driver, and I was out before the vehicle had fully stopped. Warry, I do not even know how I reached the top of Balfour’s stairs as fast as I did. You mean the world to me. You are my younger brother, and it is my job to protect you, not the other way around.” Her voice shook slightly, and she dashed her fist under her eyes.
Hartwell’s chest contracted. Even more the fool Warry for not realising, as he sought Balfour’s attention and approval, as he listened to the man go on and on about sherry, that he already had someone who cherished him completely.
“Should it not work both ways?” Warry made a valiant, if unsuccessful, effort to steady his own voice. “I would not sit back and let that man decide your future. You did not deserve to be publicly humiliated. What you wanted with Miss Lilley—I know it is impossible because of your different statuses—but you should not ever have to be ashamed of it.”
“I am not,” Becca said simply.
“He would have made you ashamed of it.”
“Nobody can make me anything.”
Then Warry did snap, and Hartwell watched it from what felt like a vast distance. “Are you not ever scared? Do you always know precisely what to do? It is not so simple for me. I have always been ashamed of what I want. Trailing after you and Hartwell reminds me perpetually of what I am lacking. Balfour made me feel as though I mattered, completely separate from either of you. Up until he made his bargain with me, I dreamed of being his husband. So you see, I am just as stupid as you have always believed. People can make me anything they want. I have no backbone.”
Hartwell at last found his voice, though he was unsure of its welcome. “You have always stood up to me.”
Warry and Becca both turned toward him. Hartwell continued, surprised by how calm he suddenly felt.
“Around me, you have been yourself—sweet, vexing, goat-obsessed.” He attempted a smile, but the moment held too much truth for jesting. “Until you began spending time with Lord Balfour, that is. Then you closed yourself off, and it was…it was unbearable to me.”
Hartwell slid his hands deep into his pockets.
“I…I have been cruel, I know. You are right to despise me. I teased you all these years for two reasons. First, because I feared to examine my own flaws, and so it was easier to pick apart yours. And second, because I knew I would never change you. No taunt of mine could have stood up to a spirit such as yours. It is not an excuse for the way I treated you. But I would like you to know right now, I cannot imagine ever having meant a single unkind word I spoke about you.”
He took a step closer, and Warry stared at him, the fire casting fingers of shadow over his throat, darkening the bruise on his neck. “Whether you meant your words or not, you still spoke them.”
“I know. And Warry, I am so very sorry for it.”
Becca smoothed the quilt over Warry, then stood up. “You two are both such idiots. I fear for your futures.” There was no rancour behind the words. “I am going home. You two may discuss whatever you need to discuss. And remember, Warry dear, if you ever endanger yourself so again, especially for my sake, I shall put an arrow clean through you. And I will not miss.”
Hartwell was glad for the dimness of the room, for he could feel himself colour up nicely. “Take my carriage,” he said to Becca.
“Oh, I intend to. I will see you both on the morrow.”
She left, still muttering about idiots.
Chapter 18
When the door shut after Becca, Warry fully expected to find himself tongue-tied. Instead, he surprised himself by looking Hartwell directly in the eye and saying what he should have said long ago. “I care for you a great deal. But I do not trust you. Nor am I certain right now that I even like you.”
Pain flashed across Hartwell’s face, although Warry had not spoken the words to wound. He only wanted Hartwell to know where they stood.
“I do not fault you for that,” Hartwell said.
“You fault me for much else.”
Hartwell stepped forward. “No.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “The fear Becca spoke of, I knew it too tonight. When I thought you might come to harm, I…there are no words, Warry. And to know that it was my doing…”
That startled Warry. “Your doing?” he asked with suspicion. “You credit yourself with far too much influence on the universe, Hartwell.”
“Had I paid any attention these past few weeks, I would have known something was wrong. I saw only my dissatisfaction with the life I was being pushed toward. I saw my jealousy over your match with Balfour. My fear that I would bring about your ruin with my desires. My behaviour toward you has been unpardonable, and you ought to reserve your affection for someone who has earned it. After tonight, I promise, you and your sister may have nothing more to do with me.”
Warry straightened, livid once again. “Is that what you think I wish?” Hartwell was not a stupid man, but good Lord, he could play the part well enough.
“I…am afraid I do not know what you wish?”
“You planted a facer on Balfour like none I’ve ever seen. And yet now, when it matters, you will not truly fight for me, is that it?”
Hartwell appeared utterly desolate. “I have hurt you.”
“And I you.”
“You were never such a coward as I.”
“I certainly was. Becca is right. I could have told her at any time. I could have told you the truth of my desires. You did know something was wrong. You did see. You asked me to tell you, and I stayed silent. Time and time again, I chose to lie because shouldering the burden on my own seemed preferable to needing help. To proving yet again that I was mere baggage.”
“You have never been that.”
Warry listened to the crackle of the fire, frustrated beyond all reason. Hartwell’s whipped-dog look brought him no satisfaction. The man’s apologies were something, but was he willing to carry the two of them past the bleakness of tonight? Would he not, like the rake Slyfeel, take Warry in his arms and kiss him bruisingly until Warry could have no doubt that his love was returned and that things would be different between them henceforth?
He supposed there was a reason Slyfeel existed only on the printed page.
When no bold declaration was forthcoming, Warry changed the subject, ignoring the bitterness in his stomach. “Lord Christmas said they were arresting Wilkes, and that Balfour is in such disgrace he must leave for the Continent at once. The letter…”
“I have no doubt Gale will locate it and return it to Becca.”
He nodded, trying to assemble his thoughts. His next words were sure to disgust Hartwell, and he was not certain he could bear any more censure tonight. “It was a relief, in a way, to…to tell Balfour I would go to his bedroom tonight.” He was aware of the jerk of Hartwell’s shoulders, but he pushed on. “I am tired of being naive. I don’t…I don’t know what duties will be expected of me on my wedding night. I have read The Maiden Diaries, yes, but many of those scenes do not seem at all realistic. I thought at least through Balfour I would gain some idea of…of the act…”
“If you marry for love, it is not a matter of what duties you are expected to perform or what services you can provide. It is about what feels right to both of us. To both of you,” Hartwell corrected hastily. “You and whomever you end up marrying.”
“I shall never marry for love,” Warry said severely. “It is my second Season, and the only people who have offered are Balfour, in order to humiliate me, and you, in order to silence Lady Agatha. To everyone else, I am not
worth looking at.”
Hartwell appeared scandalised in a way he had not when Warry had confessed his shameful hope that a night with Balfour would have educated him. “How can you speak such madness? Did I not just say that I care for you?”
“No. I told you I cared for you, and you implied I should not.”
Hartwell shifted forward, making the bed creak. “I have cared for you all our years together. A fine job I have done of showing it, and I fear any apology I can make now will lack even the weight of air, my sins are so many. But I did not say what I said to silence Lady Agatha.”
Warry’s ribs seemed to tighten around his heart. “You did not?”
Hartwell reached out and tucked Warry’s hair behind his ear, just as Balfour had done that afternoon on the terrace. Except there was no guile in Hartwell’s gesture. It was pure tenderness, and Warry’s throat tightened painfully.
“Warry.” Hartwell seemed not to know what to say. He simply breathed the name again. And then again. Warry thought he would never tire of hearing it. “Do you wish me to leave?”
“No,” Warry whispered.
“Might I make a promise to you then, with the understanding that you are under no obligation to trust my words until I act to fulfil them?”
Warry nodded slowly.
Hartwell reached under the quilt and found Warry’s hand, pulling it out from under the covers to kiss first the back of it, and then, ever so gently, Warry’s palm. “I vow never again to make you feel small. To make you feel as though you are a burden rather than a treasure.”
Warry prayed it was not the product of his chronic naivete that he believed Hartwell. For never in his life had he felt such wild, dangerous hope. “I promise to tell you…” He stopped, unable to think what he wanted to say. “I promise to tell you,” he repeated with more finality.
“Yes,” Hartwell kissed his palm again, the sensation sending a jolt between Warry’s legs. “You will tell me if you are sad or hurting. You will tell me the moments that you adore me and the moments you cannot stand the sight of me.”
Warry tried to laugh. “There will be many of those.”
“A great many,” Hartwell agreed with the shadow of his familiar grin.
Warry shifted, suddenly aware of Hartwell’s thumb resting lightly on his pulse. He did not know that desire could be so forceful. He had thought it, up until now, a relatively passive sensation. Something a man resigned himself to, a secret. But the feeling inside him held all the power of a pending storm. “You were right. I ought not to have lain with you when I was engaged to another man.”
“Stop that. You did not owe Balfour any such loyalty or honesty.”
“No. But I owed it to you.”
Hartwell rubbed his thumb along Warry’s skin. “I wish I had known.”
Warry nodded, and they were silent a few more moments while Warry gathered his courage. “Hartwell—William—Could we…?” He licked his lips.
Hartwell looked surprised at Warry’s use of his given name. Then he seemed to realise what Warry was asking, and even by the light of the fire, Warry could swear he saw the man’s cheeks pinken. Then Hartwell smiled ruefully and reached out to brush the mark on Warry’s neck with a gentleness that stilled the storm inside Warry for an instant.
Warry swallowed, letting Hartwell touch the spot.
“Much as I desire you…I do not feel it would be right so soon after your ordeal. Give yourself time, Warry.”
“But I want to forget him,” Warry said fiercely. “That is what I want. I am telling you what I desire.”
Hartwell moved his hand to Warry’s cheek, and Warry flinched in spite of himself, a sudden memory of Balfour seeing Hartwell’s mark for the first time and the slap that had followed clouding his mind. He could not allow that memory to make its home within his body. Hartwell paused with his fingertips just above Warry’s cheek. His gaze softened further, a shadow of regret passing through his eyes. “No,” he said quietly. “None of that. It is me, Warry. It is only me.” He stroked Warry’s cheek, and Warry released the breath he’d been holding.
“I know,” Warry said with no small amount of embarrassment.
Hartwell kept his hand there, and Warry forced himself to hold the man’s gaze. Hartwell said, “I would not have you regret this later. It is not your reputation I fear for now. Simply the strength of your conscience. I will not take advantage when you have had such a disorienting night.”
“You mistake your own uncertainty for mine.” Warry clasped Hartwell’s hand, easing it from his face and lowering it to the quilt over his lap. There, he gripped it tightly, and spoke with quiet urgency. “Make me remember your touch again, not his.”
Hartwell studied him for a long moment, shadows from the fire flickering over his face.
“Please?” Warry whispered. His courage nearly retreated in the face of Hartwell’s silence.
“Ah, come here,” Hartwell spoke at last, and it was as though he had reached some place of peace within himself where inner torment acquiesced to the truth of what he craved. “And allow me to show you how very much I care for you.”
Warry slipped the quilt down and leaned into Hartwell’s embrace, and for several moments, that was all it was. An embrace. He rested his forehead on Hartwell’s shoulder, afraid he would begin sobbing and be unable to stop. Hartwell tightened his arms around him and rubbed his back with a warm palm until prickles of pleasure crept up Warry’s spine to his scalp.
Then Warry turned and kissed Hartwell softly on the neck. Hartwell sighed and dipped his head to meet Warry’s mouth with his own. Warry was struck nearly dumb by the warmth that poured through him. It seemed such an immense discovery, the knowledge of how it felt to be touched by one he desired and to know he was desired in turn. How could this act ever have seemed a shameful thing? Hartwell kissed the corner of Warry’s lips, the line of his jaw, the edge of his ear. He slowly began to undo Warry’s dressing gown, pausing in his kisses to rest his forehead against Warry’s and regain his breath.
The gown slid easily from Warry’s shoulders. He tensed for an instant, but Hartwell’s palms swept his bare chest, raising gooseflesh in their wake and taking away any fear he had of being exposed in front of this man. Hartwell placed his hands on his shoulders and ran them down his arms as they kissed.
“You are so very beautiful,” Hartwell whispered. “Have I said that already? I feel as though I could never say it enough.”
The kisses continued down Warry’s chest to his navel. Warry sighed and lay back on the bed, his spine bowing as the man’s tongue flicked out, tracing a line from navel to hip. Hartwell’s touch was new and yet somehow wonderfully familiar. For even when they had done this in Gale’s room, when they had been at each other’s throats before and after, Warry had been able to feel the affection in Hartwell’s touch. He felt it now too, as though Hartwell were sculpting him from clay, pouring his whole soul, his love, into this work of art.
Hartwell planted a soft kiss on Warry’s hip bone, making Warry shiver so hard it drew a laugh from his companion. Deft fingers undid the string of Warry’s drawers and helped him slip out of them. He didn’t dare breathe as Hartwell gazed at his erect prick. Warry simply bit his lip, letting Hartwell look his fill.
“So very beautiful,” Hartwell repeated, his voice low and gentle. He eased Warry’s legs apart, and Warry gasped. It was too much, the newness of it, the pleasure, the shock of Hartwell opening him up like this. He tensed again, his belly knotting as Hartwell leaned down once more. Teeth grazed his hip, and another sharp inhale was lost in the crackle of the fire.
Hartwell licked very lightly at the sore spot he’d left, then glided his tongue across Warry’s belly at an angle, to the hair at the base of Warry’s prick. “Hartwell!” A chuckle blew warm air against an already sensitive place. Hartwell slipped one thumb behind Warry’s balls, and then lowered his head to press a series of kisses to Warry’s inner thighs. His hair was soft against Warry’s cock, and Warry feared he w
as about to embarrass himself by spending too quickly.
He could think on it no further as Hartwell went to work again, lightly nibbling the tender spot on the innermost part of Warry’s thigh. He squirmed so hard he nearly jerked his leg out of reach, and then Hartwell bit down, tugging firmly on the skin. Warry bolted upright, his fingers tangling in Hartwell’s hair, a whimper nearly becoming a wail. Hartwell’s tongue was immediately there to soothe the spot. He stroked behind Warry’s balls with his thumb, leaving Warry struggling to contain his choked gasps, concerned that his cries might be enough to wake Hartwell’s mother from her stupor.
And then Hartwell took his prick in his mouth.
It was sheer luck that Warry did not immediately lose his battle to contain himself. The pleasure was beyond anything he could have imagined. Hartwell alternated sucking lightly and laving Warry’s prick with his tongue. When Hartwell flattened his tongue against the length of his prick and began pressing rhythmically against the side of it, Warry’s own tongue finally loosened, and out spilled a great many half-gasped encomiums detailing the wonders of William Hartwell. Hartwell, to his credit, did not lose focus. He continued to roll Warry’s balls gently in one hand, occasionally humming around his length, a sound that drew answering, albeit far more desperate, noises from Warry. Warry tightened his thighs around Hartwell’s head, struggling not to squeeze. He had no wish to hurt Hartwell, but how on earth was a man supposed to cope with this sensation without gripping something and roaring as though he were being slain?
Hartwell anchored the nails of his other hand in Warry’s belly, then dragged upward to his chest. He took one of Warry’s nipples between his thumb and finger and rolled it lightly. Then, with no warning whatsoever, he sucked hard on Warry’s prick, increased the pressure on Warry’s nipple and twisted it firmly as he lapped the very head of Warry’s cock.
Warry folded forward, his fingers tangled in Hartwell’s hair, his thighs trembling, his throat clamping on a cry torn from the very centre of him. His prick spent itself in Hartwell’s mouth, and Hartwell’s tongue continued its feather-light beat until it had teased every drop from him.