The Ruin of a Rake

by Cat Sebastian

  Time with Julian had done something to help that, but he couldn’t let his pride rest entirely with one person. Well, he would just have to get himself in the habit of doing things he was proud of, and he would start with Carrington.

  It took Julian about a week to realize that Lady Montbray was very carefully sheltering him from any gossip she thought he might find distressing. There were conversations that broke up as soon as Julian entered the room, letters hastily thrown into the fire. He was too preoccupied with his own matters to care.

  Julian hadn’t told anybody where he was going, so he assumed his own correspondence was collecting dust in London. He wrote to Eleanor, informing her that he was well on the road to recovery and that he wished he had never her questioned her judgment about her choices nor failed to trust her when he ought to have. He didn’t mention where he was staying. It was a wholly inadequate letter, and he knew it as he sealed it and gave it to Lady Montbray’s footman to post. But there was no adequate letter he could have written, and not sending a letter would have been cruel.

  There was no letter at all he could have written Courtenay, at least not without exposing them both to criminal prosecution. If he could, he’d tell Courtenay that the time they had spent together had meant more to him than anything else that had happened in his life, that his greatest regrets were not only writing that book but also ever thinking that Courtenay was anything other than what he was—a thoughtful friend, a generous lover, a man Julian cared for more than he had thought he was capable of.

  During his week at Lady Montbray’s house, it dawned on him that he had been in love with Courtenay. Or, rather, that he still was and likely would continue on in that state for quite a while. He had spent so long telling himself that he wasn’t capable of love that he had started to believe it. But Courtenay had been with him when he was sick and not only had Julian not minded his presence, he had actually wanted it. He wanted Courtenay with him always, even if that meant letting him in past Julian’s defenses.

  He got into the habit of sleeping late, of walking in the gardens and not doing much of anything. This was a proper convalescence, of the sort Eleanor had always tried to insist on, and which Julian had always rejected as needlessly indulgent. He had always wanted to be doing things, solving problems, being useful. Now he drifted, he meandered, he took up space without feeling like he needed anything to show for his days.

  Children were exceedingly good for using up time, and Lady Montbray had no scruples about pressing her houseguest into service as a childminder. Julian didn’t protest. Playing knights of the round table with the young Lord Montbray was no less amusing than many tea parties he attended, and he didn’t know if this was because this child was particularly droll or because Julian perhaps had never enjoyed tea parties so very much in the first place. Perhaps he had never really enjoyed anything until he had met Courtenay. Perhaps he had never tried to.

  He was in the summer house, attempting to whittle an elephant for young William—it had to be an elephant, the child was quite clear on this matter—despite never having whittled anything before in his life, when Lady Montbray approached, waving a piece of paper. Her white muslin dress floated around her like the petals of a flower.

  “Quite a to-do over your friend Lord Courtenay,” she said carefully.

  “Oh?” Julian replied, pretending to interest himself in the misshapen knob of wood he held in his hands. “What’s he been up to now?” An affair, presumably. A countess. A diplomat. Could be anyone, he supposed. Julian determinedly did not care.

  “Apparently, your brother-in-law called him out.”

  Julian dropped the knife. “For what?”

  “For interfering with Lady Standish’s honor.”

  “But Standish knows perfectly well—” Julian couldn’t finish that sentence. Standish knew that Courtenay and Julian were lovers; he knew that Courtenay and Eleanor had never been involved.

  “It’s taken Anne and me days to piece this together. I suppose we could have asked you but we really wanted to honor the spirit of convalescence and not bring up anything sordid. However, with this latest news we simply have to keep you informed. As hostesses, you see. Apparently, you discovered Courtenay and your sister in flagrante.”

  “I did?” Julian asked, not sure whether to deny or confirm until he knew what the devil was going on.

  “Yes,” Lady Montbray said. “You did. There was a good deal of shouting, which the servants overheard. Then, if Anne and I are right, you left your sister’s house and came here. Your brother-in-law felt that he had to challenge Courtenay.”

  “Has this duel taken place?” Julian felt his blood run cold even though logically he found the idea of Ned Standish and Courtenay fighting a duel over Eleanor’s honor to be the most preposterous thing he had heard in his life.

  “Not yet. But that’s what’s interesting. Courtenay went to Carrington Hall.”

  “What?” Julian was on his feet now, still clutching the piece of wood in his hand.

  Julian didn’t doubt Lady Montbray’s intelligence. If her sources said that Courtenay was on the surface of the moon, it meant Courtenay was on the surface of the moon. And even if he were, Julian would find a way to get to him. How long would it take to get to Carrington? One hour? Two? It didn’t matter. “May I borrow a horse?”

  He needed to go to Courtenay. If Courtenay was cooking up a scheme with Standish, and—if as he suspected—it was for Julian’s own benefit, he needed to see Courtenay and find out if there was anything salvageable left between them.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Only when Julian was within sight of Carrington Hall did he realize he didn’t have a plan. He didn’t even have the shadow of a plan. After so many years of calculating his every move several steps in advance, he hadn’t the faintest idea what to do or say once he saw Courtenay.

  He was spared any immediate decision when the butler who answered the door solemnly announced that his lordship was at Nettle Farm.

  “What about the mistress of the house? Is Mrs. Blakeley not present?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Blakely have left for their new home in Somerset rather earlier than expected, Mr. Medlock.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t go with your mistress.”

  If the butler thought Julian was being rude, he didn’t let on. “My duty is to whoever Lord Courtenay chooses to invite to live in his house.”

  Clever man, to know where his bread was buttered. Julian nodded approvingly and headed in the direction the butler had indicated.

  He found Courtenay in a cluster with other men, one of whom was gesturing at the ground, and then at a spot in the distance. He would have bet that one of the men was a surveyor or an engineer, and the other, some kind of land agent. The part of his brain that longed for something to do—interest to calculate, investments to multiply—wanted to know exactly what they were planning and how much it would cost. But this wasn’t his affair, so he slowed his horse to a walk and approached the group.

  One of the men noticed Julian’s arrival and said something to the other men that caused them to look up. Julian knew the moment Courtenay recognized him because his mouth twitched into a smile that was replaced immediately with a look of confused dismay. He spoke to the men and approached Julian’s horse.

  Julian dismounted. He opened his mouth to make the expected apology—so sorry to interrupt—but he couldn’t cobble the words together. Instead he stood there, gaping, his horse’s reins in one hand and his riding crop in the other.

  It was Courtenay who spoke first. “You look well.”

  “It’s a new coat.”

  Courtenay took off his hat and ran a hand through his coal-dark hair. “That’s not what I meant. You look healthy.”

  “Of course I’m healthy.” Julian knew he sounded peeved but that was the only note he could manage to hit. It was either silence or irritability. “I’ve been having those . . . episodes for a while now, and I’m good at recovering.”


  “I’m glad to hear it.” For some reason, Julian’s peevishness seemed to amuse Courtenay, because he smiled. “Did you come all this distance to be difficult?”

  No, by God. But he wasn’t sure he could put into words the reason why he had come. “It wasn’t that far,” he said, because he was evidently intent on digging his hole deeper. “I’m staying in Richmond.” He took a deep breath. “I was surprised to hear that you were here, of all places.”

  Courtenay cut a glance to where the surveyor and land agent stood, looking at a large sheet of paper. “Drainage ditches,” he said, as if that explained it. And it did, come to think, because if Courtenay was attending to drainage ditches then he must be planning to do something with the property other than let it go to waste.

  “Are you still going to let the house to Radnor?”

  “Yes. I need the money, as you well know. I’ll stay in the dower house. Then I’ll be near Simon too.”

  That was a thoroughly sensible plan. Some of Julian’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Courtenay said, “I went through the contents of that trunk, and—”

  “Did you really?”

  “Well, I had Beauchamp’s help. He’s the land agent. I’m not a total idiot, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know.” He was far from it.

  “I just didn’t want to think about all that.”

  “Understandable.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. “Why did you come here, Julian?”

  “I had the most improbable story from London about a duel and thought you might shed some light on the matter.” That wasn’t why he had come. He could have written to Standish and gotten a fair account. Hell, he didn’t even need to do that. All he had to do was think about it for ten seconds and he understood what Courtenay and Standish had planned. There were babies in their cradles who could have figured it out. “Since I know you weren’t having an affair with Eleanor, I assume somebody overheard that set-to in the drawing room and wondered if there was another possible pairing of lovers in the house. So you and Standish spread a different rumor to save my neck. In the process, you’ve cemented your reputation as a scoundrel, Standish is now a cuckold, and Eleanor a wanton woman. I owe you a thanks.”

  “I don’t want to see you pilloried,” Courtenay said, so low it was a whisper. “You must know that I’d do more than that to spare you the danger.” And Julian did know, so he gave a brief nod of his head. “Besides,” Courtenay went on, “you ought to thank Standish. He’s the one who has to shoot me next week.”

  Julian tried not to shudder. “Nonsense. You’ll delope. You’ve educated me on this process already, you recall.”

  “Indeed. There won’t be blood. But,” Courtenay said, a gleam of understanding in his eyes, “you already knew that. So why did you come, Julian? I’m not going to ask again.” He was giving Julian a chance to . . . to what? Apologize? Declare himself?

  “I . . .” His voice faltered, and then he said the only thing he could admit to. “I’ve come to discuss the terms of that debt you entered into the last time I visited Carrington,” he said, in case they were overheard, and also because he knew Courtenay would understand immediately. Indeed, Courtenay’s eyes flared. He had promised to fuck Julian, and now Julian thought he had a good chance of collecting.

  “Ah. Well, I do make it a point to pay my debts when they come due.” He held Julian’s gaze for another moment. There was something like disappointment in Courtenay’s eyes. “But is that all?”

  It wasn’t. Not even close. “I . . .” He shook his head. The rest of it would have to wait until they had some privacy.

  Courtenay frowned. It likely said nothing favorable about his character that he was abandoning his efforts at a useful life to once again waste his time in bed.

  But this time, with great determination and the headache-inducing tallying of funds, he and his bailiff had hired people to do the work that needed to be done on Carrington, and had plans to visit his other properties and do the same. So, Courtenay’s momentarily stepping away wasn’t abdicating his responsibility.

  And fucking Julian was about the farthest thing from a waste of time he could imagine. Even if they never saw one another again, even if Julian truly believed the worst of Courtenay, Courtenay couldn’t believe that a moment spent with the man he loved was truly a waste. Some other time he’d figure out how to love more wisely, but for now he loved Julian and that was all there was to it. However long he had with Julian, he’d accept those hours and minutes like a gift from a God who hadn’t always been overly generous with him.

  If Julian had ridden over an hour for a fucking, then that’s what he’d get.

  Julian turned his horse over to a stable hand and Courtenay led the way to the dower house, the backs of their hands occasionally brushing together. Courtenay didn’t even try to make conversation.

  “Here,” Courtenay said gruffly when they approached the path that led to the dower house.

  “Here?” Julian echoed, in that way Courtenay had once found irritating and now found endearing beyond all belief.

  “I’ve been clearing the cobwebs and making it habitable.” It wasn’t grand, wasn’t nearly as fine as Julian’s London lodgings. He held the door open, watching with surely disproportionate anxiety as Julian entered.

  Courtenay had pulled the dust covers off the furniture himself, and had assigned a few of the housemaids his mother had left behind the task of making the place reasonably ready. It was spare but tidy, with few furnishings but fresh paint and plenty of light. Although he was still staying at the main house until Radnor arrived, he had his books shelved here, and it felt like a place that could be his home in a future that didn’t feel bleak. But for now all that mattered was that it was private: no servants, no chance of anyone intruding on them.

  Julian turned around in a slow circle and Courtenay found that he was holding his breath, waiting for a reaction.

  “This is the house your mother declined to live in? It’s perfectly lovely. I suppose she has terrible taste along with all her other flaws.” He looked over his shoulder at Courtenay, an adorably amused expression on his face. “How long did it take for the lot of them to clear out of here after you arrived?”

  Courtenay laughed, giddy again with the thrill of Julian’s thorns and prickles being used to protect him. “Less than two days.” He took hold of the sleeve of Julian’s coat and pulled him close so they were chest to chest. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I do.” He was looking so intently at Courtenay that it seemed he was referring to more than the dower house.

  “Now, I have a debt to discharge, it seems.”

  Julian’s gaze cut away. “I wasn’t being quite serious about that, you know.”

  The bulge in his breeches argued otherwise. “Too bad. You rode all this way for my cock and I intend to give it to you.”

  Julian made a sound low in his throat. “Is that something you’d like to do today? I don’t want to presume.” He sounded like he was talking about borrowing a book or staying for supper.

  Courtenay tried unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. “I’d very much like to fuck you,” he said into Julian’s hair. “I’d like it excessively.” Another helpless hum of interest from Julian. Courtenay turned them both around so the bright spring sun shone on Julian’s face and examined him at arm’s length. He really did look well, as if he had never fallen ill. Thank God. He kept one hand on Julian’s elbow and brought the other to cup his jaw, then did what he had longed to do since seeing Julian’s horse approach. He leaned in and brushed his lips against Julian’s, and it felt like the continuation of that tragic kiss in Eleanor’s drawing room, gentle and undemanding, the unhurried touch of two people who had all the time they needed, infinite stores of love, and absolutely no fear.

  It was a lie, of course. But it was nice to pretend.

  He deepened the kiss, making it into the desperate and urgent embrace that it truly was, the kiss of a man who shouldn�
�t even take this time with his beloved but who would steal it anyway.

  Julian pulled away. “Before we do this, I have to tell you something. If I could go back and choose not to write that book, I would.”

  “I know that,” Courtenay said quickly. He tried to pull Julian closer but Julian wouldn’t cooperate.

  “I never want you to feel any pain or sorrow. Ever.” Julian sounded both fierce and sad. “Least of all by my hand. But, Courtenay, I also don’t want you ever to believe that I could wish you harm. I want only good things for you—happiness and acceptance and . . .” He waved his hand, as if unable to find the right words. He looked agonized.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Courtenay said, stroking Julian’s cheek with his thumb. “I know you regret it.”

  “You deserve an apology, Courtenay. Even if you don’t think you do. Even if you never want to see me again after today, please understand that I wish you only the best and that you deserve the best.”

  Julian looked like he’d fight to the death any person who thought Courtenay didn’t deserve all the finest loveliest things. Courtenay had never seen him so angry and so vulnerable. “I . . .” Courtenay cleared his throat. “Thank you. I accept your apology.” Wordlessly, he led the way up the stairs to the room he intended to make his own in the vague future where this was his home. The windows were bare, so the room was bright with unfiltered spring sunlight. The bed was only covered by a plain sheet, but it was large and soft.

  He let Julian shove him onto the bed, relishing the show of strength, the proof that he was wanted, maybe even needed, by this man, now, despite everything. Then he returned the favor, tugging Julian down hard on top of him, so they were sprawled together across the bed.

  They made a graceless scramble out of their clothes, hungrily devouring one another with their gazes, as if they both knew this would be the last time they could see one another like this. “I love you,” Courtenay said, because he might never get another chance to say so.