Turner was silent a moment. “And your brother?”
Lawrence lifted and tossed another heaping shovelful of dirt. “You mean when he wasn’t imposing himself on the servants or beating his mistress?” he asked, his voice ragged with exertion. “He died a few years ago in a riding accident in the shires. I suspect he was drunk.”
“And then you inherited and promptly closed the house up.”
“Yes.” More dirt. More pain. If Turner kept up his inquisition, Lawrence would have the trench complete before nightfall.
“I don’t mean to make light of your concerns, Radnor. And to have lost your father in such a way—I really can’t imagine what that was like for you.” Turner fell silent for long enough that Lawrence began to hope this ill-advised conversation had come to an end. “Your mind isn’t typical—”
Lawrence snorted.
“No, I’m serious.” Turner’s voice was earnest, pleading, devoid of the detached cynicism that was usually there. “Listen. Your mind isn’t like other men’s minds, and I know it can’t be easy for you. But you don’t seem anything like your father. As for your brother, it seems to me that nobody would have thought him deranged if he were a commoner. He was a villain, not a madman.”
Lawrence felt certain that most people would think his own tinkering with explosives and electricity stranger than mistreating a mistress, but he wasn’t going to argue the point.
Turner was close behind him now. Lawrence buried his shovel in the ground and stepped on it to keep it in place. He couldn’t work with Turner this near. Too dangerous.
“I’ve been thinking about what you told me. Do you completely deny your urges, or do you think about them in private?”
Lawrence swung around, whacking his arm against the upright handle of the shovel. “What the bloody—”
“Oh, you’ve cut yourself.”
Turner was right. There was just enough light to see the line of blood trickling from where Lawrence had scraped his forearm on the metal handle. Before he could protest, Turner had taken out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the cut, holding the makeshift bandage into place with both his hands in a way that made Lawrence feel like an oversized brute.
“What I was going to ask,” Turner murmured, “was whether you—”
“I know what you were asking. What the hell kind of question is that?”
“Well, I was curious. I’ve never been partial to shame and self-denial, and I was wondering how far you take it. I mean, sometimes you just have to scratch an itch.”
Lawrence hoped it was dark enough to conceal his flaming cheeks. “Are you seriously asking about that? Good God, man. I thought I was the one without any manners.” And then he felt one of Turner’s hands come to settle against his cheek.
“It really is soft,” Turner murmured.
Surely Lawrence ought to protest, but he couldn’t find the words, and he didn’t want to find them anyway. Instead he settled for somehow not rubbing his cheek against Turner’s palm like a cat.
“Listen,” Turner said, his voice silky. “I’ll spell this out for you. I want you badly. I won’t try to persuade you to do anything you might regret, but I also won’t hide how much I want you.”
Turner didn’t step any closer. He left a sliver of space between their bodies, and Lawrence knew that was for him. Turner gave him that space to do with as he pleased. Lawrence could leave that space empty, for the cool night breeze to blow between them, or he could close the gap. Neither choice would be wrong.
Lawrence didn’t know whether it was nerves or desire that was causing his pulse to thunder so, but surely Turner could feel it. Good God, the man could probably even hear it, it pounded so loudly in Lawrence’s ears. But Turner stood still, his only movement the slow and rhythmic stroking of his thumb along Lawrence’s cheekbone.
It could have been a minute that passed, or maybe it was an hour. The sun was quite set by the time Lawrence got used to the idea of Turner’s touching him, when the proximity of the other man’s body seemed . . . not quite comfortable, but not dangerous either. Christ, but he wanted this. And however much he feared that this desire was madness, Turner didn’t seem in the least deranged, and that seemed enough to hold on to.
Perhaps some things were simply easier in the dark, because when he felt Turner’s stance shift, tilting ever so slightly towards Lawrence’s own body, he knew it for an invitation, and didn’t move away. He felt the other man’s breath on his face, soft against his beard. Turner’s hand slid to the back of Lawrence’s head.
And then it was only a matter of Lawrence leaning mere inches forward, skimming his mouth against lips that were already there, waiting for him.
Georgie felt Radnor’s soft exhale. Not capitulation but agreement. He pushed up onto his toes and wrapped both arms around the earl’s neck.
Their lips met, a whisper of flesh against flesh. It was more the suggestion of a kiss than an actual kiss, but Radnor gasped anyway. Georgie forced himself not to ask for too much, not to plunge his tongue into the earl’s hot mouth, not to grind their bodies together. This had to be at Radnor’s own pace or not at all.
Slowly, tentatively, Georgie brushed his lips across the other man’s mouth. The scratch of the earl’s beard sent a shiver of desire coursing down Georgie’s spine. Radnor must have felt it too, because Georgie felt the man’s huge hands clamp down hard on his hips. Taking that as assent, Georgie teased his tongue along the seam of the earl’s lips.
He found himself being steered backwards, then pressed unremittingly against the tree trunk. One of Radnor’s arms was braced on the tree near Georgie’s head; the other hand grasped Georgie’s hip.
Georgie groaned in pleasure, and Radnor abruptly stilled.
“Damn it.” The earl’s voice was rough but gentle and Georgie felt his heart clench. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Georgie managed. “Don’t stop.” Please, he wanted to say, please press me into every tree and wall in the kingdom. He ran his fingers through Radnor’s long hair, tugging the other man’s head down to meet his own. He kissed the corner of the earl’s mouth, sucked on his soft lower lip.
Radnor growled and one of his hands slipped lower, cupping Georgie’s arse and drawing him close. Georgie gasped at the pressure of the other man’s jutting cock. They were outside, in the dark, utterly alone. They were two men with nothing to worry about but a pair of rampant cockstands.
Georgie allowed his tongue to slip into the other man’s mouth, probing, teasing. Radnor tasted of cider and salt, smelled of sweat and dirt. Georgie moved his hips in the hint of a rhythm, nothing fast or hard enough to bring relief, only enough to let Radnor know what he was thinking. To let him know it was an option.
“Fuck,” Radnor growled into Georgie’s mouth.
Radnor crowded Georgie’s body, one of his massive legs coming in between Georgie’s. Georgie dipped his head to kiss the other man’s neck. He ran his tongue along the soft skin where neck met beard, and Radnor must have liked it because Georgie felt an alarmingly hard cock being pressed into his hip. He managed to get a hand between them and grasp Radnor through his buckskins.
“Do you want me to—”
Radnor grabbed both of Georgie’s hands and pinned them to the tree on either side of his head. That would be a no, then. But this, being held in place and—oh yes—kissed ruthlessly, relentlessly. This would do very well. Now it was Radnor’s tongue slipping into Georgie’s mouth; it was Georgie gasping and writhing in pleasure.
The bark of the tree bit deliciously into the backs of Georgie’s hands. Radnor’s grip was bruisingly tight on his wrists. Being held against the tree by such a large man had a lot in common with being crushed by a ton of bricks. An almost painful surge of want hit Georgie when he realized Radnor was finally owning his desire. He was letting himself go, just a bit, but Georgie wanted to be there when Radnor let himself completely off the leash. He wanted to get to his knees and take that thick cock into his mouth; he wanted Radnor
to bend him over the nearest desk or table or fence and—
“Wait.” Georgie wrested his mouth away. There was a sound that didn’t belong out here in the still, bleak Penkellis garden. For the briefest moment he thought he heard wheels crunching along the badly graveled path.
Radnor stopped immediately. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling against Georgie’s. “What do you want?” It might have sounded rude if Radnor’s mouth weren’t against Georgie’s ear, if his voice weren’t low and needy, raspy with desire.
“Listen,” Georgie whispered. “Is that a cart?”
Radnor let go of Georgie’s hands, then stepped away. The night air felt bitterly cold as it came between them. “I don’t hear anything.”
Georgie didn’t hear it anymore either. But he had heard something similar the other night when he was prowling about the house. After a lifetime of skulking about at night, Georgie knew better than to doubt his hearing. He also knew better than to ignore his instinct about something being amiss, and there was something decidedly amiss at Penkellis.
CHAPTER NINE
It rained all bloody night and straight through into the morning. When Lawrence woke he threw back the curtains and saw his trench filled with water. It would drain, but not today. After a good night’s sleep, he was doubting the wisdom of burying the wires after all. Perhaps there was a better way to have wires span a great distance. Or perhaps this project was doomed. Standish certainly seemed to have his doubts about its practicability. But Lawrence wanted to hold out hope. He didn’t know if it was because having Turner here had given him an inkling of what life would be like with a little less loneliness, but he found that he needed this device to work. He was prepared to spend the day puzzling over that matter, when he pushed open the door to his study and discovered Turner at his desk.
Somehow he had thought the man wouldn’t show up after last night, that he would have vanished, like a dream. Like a madman’s delusion.
But instead, he was sorting a stack of papers.
“I found this under the sofa, Radnor,” Turner said, waving a sheaf of papers, “along with a ham hock. Although Barnabus was delighted to discover the bone, I was less pleased to discover the correspondence. Some of it dates from months ago.”
There was nothing in the secretary’s voice to suggest that twelve hours earlier they had been in one another’s arms. Turner sounded as casually caustic as ever. Lawrence was unspeakably grateful. He knew—more or less—how to treat a secretary. He did not know how to act with a lover, or whatever it was Turner was now. If indeed he was anything.
“Burn it all,” Lawrence suggested. “If any of it matters, they’ll write again.”
“Oh, a fine secretary I’d be.” Turner held up a thick sheet of creamy paper. “There’s also a letter from an Admiral Haversham, thanking you for some unnamed service to your nation and asking about your progress with the telegraphic machine. Quite official looking too. All manner of seals and whatnot.”
Lawrence grunted. “That’s for the powder.” Browne’s Improved Black Powder, useful in mines but even better at destroying ships.
“I see.” Turner tilted his head to the side. “Do you have any other accomplishments or accolades you’d like to share?”
Lawrence thought about it. “No.”
Turner was giving him a strange little smile, the sort of smile Lawrence’s late wife used to give the men who flocked around her. Was Turner flirting with him? Well, if so, he was quite on his own. Lawrence shouldn’t be thinking of flirting at all. Not when last night had put him into such a muddle, not when he had felt—
Lawrence couldn’t complete the thought without a rush of blood to his prick. Right here in his study, in broad daylight too.
But perhaps he hadn’t behaved too disgracefully last night, because Turner wasn’t treating him like a fool or a degenerate. Instead he was behaving quite unremarkably. Except for that smile. Did he even realize he was smiling like that?
“What’s that letter?” he asked brusquely, pointing at the topmost paper in the pile Turner was sorting. He let his hand drop to the table next to Turner’s, so close their little fingers were a hair’s breadth apart. He didn’t move his hand away, and neither did Turner.
“Oh, that’s our friend Standish again. He never runs out of questions, does he?”
Lawrence snorted. “He needs things explained in minute detail, often with sketches.” This was a part of their process; once Standish could successfully replicate Lawrence’s invention, Standish handled the business end of things. It was Standish who arranged for the safety fuse and the black powder to be patented and widely produced, and presumably he would do the same with the telegraph.
Turner tapped his pen on the desk. “I’m surprised you indulge him. I understand what he stands to gain from this endless correspondence, but what’s in it for you, Radnor?”
Radnor hadn’t thought of it in those terms. “It isn’t everyone who takes an interest in explosives and electricity. When he asks one of his questions, I sometimes have to work through the answers in my own mind. And he’s better at implementing ideas than I am. I cobble something together, and he refines it.” That was more or less how they had stumbled onto the safety fuse. Lawrence, as an aside in one of their letters, had mentioned that he was working on a fuse that would burn more slowly and more predictably, to make it safer for miners. Standish had suggested coating the fuse with various substances, and several explosions and dozens of letters later, they had a safety fuse.
Their letters were prone to that sort of digression. Standish would mention some problem he had encountered in installing new water closets, and Lawrence would sketch out a solution. After a few years of correspondence, Lawrence felt they had established a sort of friendship.
“And the money?” Turner inquired.
“Standish deals with it.” Business was not something that amused Lawrence, but evidently Standish enjoyed it, so Lawrence let him have his way. Lawrence already had enough money—Percy died before he managed to run through the entire Radnor fortune—so he didn’t pay much attention.
A long moment passed, during which Turner regarded Lawrence curiously. “I see,” he finally said. “I don’t suppose you’ve met Standish?”
Lawrence turned his head to fully face his secretary and raised his eyebrow. He didn’t meet anybody, and Turner bloody well knew it.
“I didn’t think so,” Turner said.
Lawrence looked to where their fingers nearly met and saw that the back of Turner’s hand was scratched, red scrapes livid against the secretary’s pale skin. Lawrence took the man’s hand in his own, fingering the angry marks. He felt his heart drop. “Is that from—”
“The tree.”
“I’m so sorry.” He ought to have guessed that he was too big, too rough. He had no business even touching a man like Turner, smooth and polished and fine. “If I had known I was hurting you . . . ”
“I liked it.” Turner’s voice was low. “I liked everything about it, actually.”
Lawrence felt his cheeks heat, and when he looked at Turner he saw an answering flush on the other man’s face. “Sometimes I fear that it’s part of my madness,” he murmured.
“Desiring men?” Turner’s voice was steady, his hand still in Lawrence’s own.
Lawrence nodded, avoiding the other man’s gaze.
“I’m not mad. Nor are any of the men who’ve been my lovers. You aren’t mad either, but even if you were, this”—he squeezed Lawrence’s hand—“would have nothing to do with it.”
Last night, under the tree, he hadn’t felt mad in the slightest. Kissing Turner had felt like the suddenly obvious answer to an equation he had been trying to solve for years. Hell, every minute he had spent not kissing Turner seemed evidence of an unsound mind.
Georgie knew a swindle when he saw one. He would have bet his life that Radnor was being duped by this Standish bastard. The man was using all the tricks Georgie himself would have used: aski
ng too many questions, paying too many compliments, insinuating his way into a mark’s life.
He was outraged by the idea of Radnor being cheated, even though he had hoped to do precisely that. Outraged, as if there were a swindlers’ code of professional ethics, for God’s sake. But he was absolutely certain that any proper confidence man ought to be ashamed of stealing from such a complete innocent. Radnor had spent too long in isolation to develop the sixth sense that alerted most people to fraudulence and connivance.
Hell, if he had any sense he wouldn’t trust Georgie. Georgie hardly trusted himself at this point. He didn’t know whether he was more annoyed with himself for wanting to deceive Radnor or for taking so long to do it. And it wasn’t simply that a couple of kisses had clouded Georgie’s judgment. No, his judgment had been dangerously fogged to begin with and had been for months. Time with Radnor had obfuscated it completely.
He took out a clean sheet of paper and wrote a letter to Standish, or whoever he was, purporting to keep the fellow apprised of Radnor’s latest experiments and making sure to get all the details catastrophically wrong. With any luck, the bastard would shock himself to death if he tried to recreate the device. At the very least the man’s plans would be useless, and it would buy Georgie a little bit of time.
Time for what, though? Georgie hardly knew. Time to put the device through another series of tests? Time to get to the bottom of village gossip about stolen cauls, time to figure out why Penkellis hadn’t been looted? Time to kiss Radnor some more, time to feel the press of those strong hands? God, but he wanted that time. He wanted to ignore the rest of the world, everything that had ever mattered to him, and instead crawl into bed with Radnor, just to find out what it would be like.
But he knew what it would be like, didn’t he? Radnor, strong and demanding, on him and in him and making him crave things that were best left alone.
No. Georgie steeled himself, forced himself to think with the part of his brain that had seen him through cold nights and hungry winters. He doubted whether Radnor’s device alone would be sufficient to purchase Mattie Brewster’s clemency. But now, if he were clever, he might be able to trade information about Standish as well. Brewster hated competition. He liked to have his hands in all the right pies. That was why he had acquired Georgie’s services, after all.
The Lawrence Browne Affair Page 9