The Lawrence Browne Affair

by Cat Sebastian

  “I liked your beard,” Georgie blurted out. “But you look so very well without it.” He reached out as if to touch Lawrence’s newly smooth jawline, but then snatched his hand back.

  Lawrence captured Georgie’s wrist and kissed his palm, sending a rush of warmth up the length of Georgie’s arm. “Is that why you’re being so odd? I thought you were displeased with me.”

  Far from displeased. If only Lawrence knew how impressed, how proud Georgie was. “Distracted is more like it. I’m afraid that if I look at you for too long, I’ll lose all semblance of decent conduct. The clothes fit, I see.”

  “Perfectly. How did you manage it?”

  “I took some of your old clothes with me to Falmouth and gave them to the tailor to use for measurements.”

  “You thought of everything.” Lawrence took a sip of brandy, another unfamiliar gesture that made Georgie take notice of his . . . lordliness, or whatever this quality was that made Georgie feel like the street urchin he had once been. “The child likes you.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  “I hope I’m . . . ” Lawrence’s voice trailed off.

  Georgie squeezed Lawrence’s hand. “You’re doing wonderfully.” He didn’t say that Simon’s life had been an exercise in lowered expectations, and that all Lawrence had to do was show up in order to secure a place in the child’s inner circle of loved ones. “You were everything you needed to be. You were marvelous.” And he had been—calm, engaging, patient. “What you said about his mother was exactly what Simon needed to hear.”

  Lawrence bumped his thigh against Georgie’s. “Why don’t you look pleased with yourself? You’re the one who brought this about.”

  Georgie chanced another sidelong look. The earl’s jaw seemed chiseled out of rock. Expensive rock. All that beautiful hair, unfashionably long though it was, had been combed and wrangled into a tidy queue. And that wasn’t even mentioning the superfine wool coat, the perfectly polished leather boots, the immaculate linen. He looked precisely what he was: a wealthy country gentleman, a titled aristocrat, possessing every privilege to be had. “Frankly, because I only now realize that I strong-armed an earl into giving me free reign with upwards of a thousand pounds.”

  Lawrence was silent for a moment. “Ah. You mean now that I’m dressed the part you finally think you owe me some respect?”

  Georgie shifted on the sofa. “Not exactly—”

  “Bugger that. I wouldn’t have thought you gave a damn for rank and privilege.”

  “I don’t. That’s the point.” He searched for a way to explain without coming too near a truth that couldn’t be unsaid. He wanted Lawrence to know what it meant for Georgie not to steal from him but didn’t want to risk saying so much that Lawrence was repulsed by his character. “I ordinarily wouldn’t think twice before taking every advantage of an earl.” Even now, Georgie’s worst angels were urging him to steal and thieve, to swindle and connive. Wasn’t that what he had planned when he came here? To help himself to whatever Penkellis had for the taking? He had only altered his course when he decided that it was unsportsmanlike, unworthy of him to trick a man as unworldly as Lawrence. But looking at Lawrence now, groomed and polished, Georgie felt predatory stirrings and didn’t know how to reconcile those urges with his fonder feelings. His thoughts were a tangle he couldn’t unpick.

  Lawrence’s hand had strayed to the nape of Georgie’s neck, where it drew idle circles. “Did you profit from these expenditures? As far as I can tell, you didn’t buy yourself so much as a flower for your buttonhole.”

  “No.” Not this time. But it would be so simple to slip that ring off Lawrence’s finger later tonight. It would be the work of seconds, and he’d be on the stagecoach back to London before he even had any regrets.

  “I wouldn’t have minded if you had.”

  Georgie sighed. “You’d mind.” Being stolen from was a blow to a man’s pride, but he had never given a damn about that before.

  “If someone I cared about was in need, I might wish to help.”

  “This isn’t charity that we’re talking about.”

  “What precisely are we talking about, Georgie?”

  Georgie winced. “Let’s not.”

  “Have it your way.” The words might have sounded harsh if he hadn’t had his fingers tangled in Georgie’s hair. The intimacy of the touch, the gentleness of his voice, transformed the words into permission for Georgie to keep his secrets. “Come upstairs. I want you in my bed.”

  Georgie half wanted to leap to his feet and run up the stairs two at a time. But when he tipped his head against the back of the sofa and turned to face Lawrence, he saw the man in all his aristocratic splendor: the earl in full panoply. “I need you out of those clothes,” he said, running his hand along Lawrence’s thigh.

  “That’s rather the idea.” Lawrence’s voice was low and amused. “Unless you have something else in mind?”

  Georgie licked his lips and saw an answering flare of desire in Lawrence’s eyes. “No, no. I mean, of course it is. But . . . Lawrence, I don’t want to be fucked by the Earl of Radnor.”

  A wrinkle appeared on Lawrence’s forehead, and his hand went still. Georgie held his breath, but only the barest second passed before he felt the earl resume those slow circles on the back of his neck, heat like a brand. And then, finally, Lawrence asked, “Is that what you want me to do? Fuck you?”

  The words sent a thrill of lust through Georgie’s body. “Yes.” It was a whisper. A plea. A confession.

  “But not as the Earl of Radnor.”

  “As yourself.” Georgie resisted the urge to smooth away the worried crease that appeared between Lawrence’s brows.

  “I’m not sure I know the difference.”

  “But I do.” With Lawrence, Georgie had discovered a chance to be himself; with the resplendent Earl of Radnor, Georgie was simply a thief waiting for a chance. Or, worse, he was a thief who had lost the instinct, and without that he didn’t know what he even was. “You go upstairs first.” He kept his eyes fixed on Lawrence’s to make sure his meaning was received. “Take off your ring and lock it up.” Lawrence’s eyebrows shot up, but he nodded. “Someplace safe. I’ll be up in a quarter of an hour.”

  That was truth, of a sort, but without having to say the ugly words. Alone in the parlor, Georgie finished Lawrence’s brandy and then reached for the decanter to pour himself another glass. He could already feel the warmth seeping through his body, smoothing the jagged edges of guilt and shame and need.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Snowflakes fluttered past Lawrence’s window, illuminated by the moon. The clock—now keeping reliable time, thanks to his secretary—had struck the quarter hour, then the half hour, but still there was no sign of Georgie.

  Lawrence didn’t know what had gotten into Georgie but gathered it had something to do with money. That, as far as Lawrence cared, was easily remedied. By the time he heard Georgie’s light footsteps on the stairs, he was wearing his ratty old dressing gown and an ancient pair of trousers. He had, as requested, removed his signet ring. He’d have tossed it into the sea if that was what Georgie required. For that matter, he would throw the entire contents of Penkellis into the sea and it wouldn’t make much difference to him. He had mines; he had money in the funds; he had land spread across this part of Britain. And for all his faults, he wasn’t foolhardy enough to dispense with the services of good stewards and land agents. He had kept the Browne fortune safe for Simon and had wealth to spare.

  He heard a rustling in the corridor, and he smiled when he realized that he knew what it was—Georgie’s habitual smoothing of his lapels and straightening of his cravat. The next moment Georgie had pushed open the door, bolted it behind him, and promptly launched himself at Lawrence. The two of them landed helter-skelter on the sofa.

  “You smell like brandy,” Lawrence pointed out, as Georgie buried his face in Lawrence’s neck. “Are you drunk?”

  “Nothing so dire as that. Two glasses. Half
-sprung at best.” His eyes were as sharp as ever, but his mouth quirked up in an uncharacteristically silly grin. Perhaps it wasn’t intoxication so much as his usually rigid self-control having slipped a bit. Lawrence sat up, taking Georgie with him. “There’s something I wanted to show you.”

  Georgie made a sound of prurient interest.

  “No, that’s later,” Lawrence said sternly. He reached over to the table beside him and brought out a soft leather pouch. Without explanation, he dumped its contents onto Georgie’s lap.

  For a moment the room was utterly silent except for the sound of ivy brushing against the window, and farther away an owl calling in the night.

  “What nonsense is this?” Georgie finally asked, his voice strained.

  “Some jewels I don’t need, and which I thought you might find useful.”

  “Bollocks.” He was holding his hands up and away from the jewels, as if they might be dangerously hot to the touch.

  “This was my father’s ring.” Lawrence indicated a large emerald set in heavy gold. “I have no fond memories of it. Quite the contrary, in fact. It’s yours now. Sell it, if you like. Or wear it.” Georgie’s fine fingers were half the diameter of the late earl’s meaty digits, but rings could be resized, and Lawrence might get an indecent thrill out of seeing his father’s ring on his lover’s finger. “It’s yours to do with as you please.”

  “Like hell it is. This is ridiculous.”

  “Not as ridiculous as you telling me to lock my ring up so you don’t accidentally rob me blind, or whatever flummery you were spouting downstairs.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Oh, and this vulgar number is my grandfather’s watch fob.” Using his index finger, he lifted a chain bearing several jeweled seals and pendants. “Grotesque. Your sensibilities are no doubt offended by its very existence. Take it and dispose of it how you will. I believe those are real diamonds, not paste.”

  “They’re real,” Georgie said promptly. Of course he would know paste from the real thing. “You’re mad.”

  Lawrence raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t mean that,” Georgie quickly said. “You know I don’t.”

  He did know. Georgie’s confidence in Lawrence’s sanity had changed Lawrence’s own opinion of himself and was worth more than diamonds or gold. “In that case, here’s a cravat pin. Diamond, of course. This,” he said, holding out a necklace, “was a present from my brother to his wife. And matching ear bobs. It has no value to me, except to remind me of the lady my brother harassed to an early grave.”

  Georgie let out a low whistle. Hesitantly, he reached towards the jewels, sifting the strands of gold and rubies between his fingers. The gems glimmered and flashed in the candlelight even though the pieces hadn’t been cleaned in years. Smaller rubies were arranged in an intricate flower pattern punctuated by larger rubies. It struck Lawrence that this must have been his late sister-in-law’s choice, because Percy couldn’t possibly have good enough taste to commission something so delicate.

  “These belong to your family.” Georgie let the necklace drop heavily onto Lawrence’s lap. “They’ll be Simon’s. I can’t.”

  “They aren’t heirlooms. The family pieces are still in a bank vault. These are bits of frippery that mean nothing to anyone, least of all me. I had quite forgotten the necklace even existed.”

  “I can’t,” Georgie repeated.

  Lawrence swept up the jewels into one big hand and crossed the room, flinging open the window. “In that case, you won’t mind if I dispose of them.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Georgie cried, jumping to his feet. “What if a crow flew away with that necklace?” Lawrence was about to protest that he didn’t give a damn if that was precisely what happened, when Georgie took a step forward. “That necklace,” he repeated. “My God. Who made it? It wasn’t Rundell and Bridge, I don’t think,” he murmured with the air of an expert.

  “So you’ll take them.” Lawrence didn’t know the value of any of these jewels but figured the necklace alone would be enough to provide for Georgie in reasonable comfort for the rest of his days.

  “I’m trying so hard not to take from you.” An adorable crease had appeared on Georgie’s forehead.

  “It’s a gift. You’re meant to take it.” When Georgie didn’t answer, Lawrence moved his fistful of jewels closer to the open window.

  “Stop! Damn you. This is—you’re holding a pistol to my head.”

  “Would you like me to hide them someplace for you to pretend to steal? I could put it all back in the jewelry case—I assume you’re capable of picking a lock?”

  Georgie choked back a laugh. “If you had acted half so daft a month ago, I would never have tried to convince you that you were sane.”

  Lawrence took Georgie’s hand and slid the jewels into his open palm, then closed each of Georgie’s fingers around the gems, before wrapping his own hand around Georgie’s fist.

  “I’ll concede that this might not be the moment I’d want brought up if my sanity were called into question.” He settled a palm against Georgie’s hip, satisfied by the way his hand nestled against the smaller man’s body.

  Georgie brushed a kiss against Lawrence’s newly smooth jaw. “I suppose any decent person would protest about it being sordid and transactional. Payment for services, that sort of thing.” And that was Georgie’s way of telling him that he knew this not to be the case.

  Lawrence pulled back just far enough to pull his watch from his pocket. “It’s still technically Christmas. Consider it a Christmas present.”

  “Madness.” With his empty hand, he was pushing open Lawrence’s dressing gown.

  “So I’ve been telling you.” His dressing gown fell to the floor, and he was standing before Georgie, bare chested.

  “I’ve wanted you from the beginning, you know. Since you thought I was a housebreaker.” Something of the irony of that situation must have occurred to him—whatever he was must not be so different from a housebreaker, after all—because he smiled candidly up at Lawrence, crinkles forming around his eyes, such an unstudied expression of joy that Lawrence hardly could keep from laughing with happiness.

  Georgie traced his fingers along Lawrence’s chest, hoping the feel of taut skin and coarsely curling hair would distract him from the jewels he clenched in his other hand. But even when Lawrence kissed him in a confusion of lips and tongues and teeth, all Georgie could think about were rubies and diamonds, his mind calculating value and interest and contemplating such mundane matters as insurance.

  None of that was surprising in itself; this wouldn’t be the first time Georgie had focused on personal gain instead of . . . everything else. No, what surprised him was the wonderful, awful, sickening realization of what those jewels meant. No matter how he turned the numbers over in his mind, even if he were to sell them to an unscrupulous jeweler—hell, even if he were to use a fence—he would make enough money to stay far from the gutter for the rest of his life. He’d be safe. All he had to do was take Lawrence’s offering, and he would never need to steal, swindle, or cheat again.

  And if he weren’t doing those things, if he didn’t always have one eye open to every dishonest opportunity, what the holy hell was he supposed to do with himself? Another fifty years of . . . what? It was more than the question of how to fill the days and years. Georgie didn’t even know who he would be if he weren’t a swindler. He had been a clerk, an apothecary, a man about town, the younger son of minor peer. He had been one of Mattie Brewster’s best men.

  But he had never simply been Georgie Turner.

  “Where did you go?” Lawrence asked, pulling back from the kiss, leaving Georgie blindly seeking, bewildered.

  Half a dozen flippant answers sprung to mind. Half a dozen different ways to deflect and distract. Instead he tried for something nearer to the truth. “What will I do? Now that I’m to be a man of leisure, I mean.” It wasn’t possible to entirely do away with flippancy.

  Lawrence looked down at him
, misty blue eyes going wide with understanding. “Whatever you like, I hope.”

  If only he knew what that was. Georgie Turner swindled and connived to put as much distance as possible between himself and poverty, starvation, and humiliation. Absent that goal, what did he even want?

  “You could stay here,” Lawrence said carefully. “If you like.” Georgie thought he heard a note of wistfulness, as if Lawrence didn’t really believe that would come to pass.

  “I want you to kiss me,” Georgie said, because at least it was true. It was a start. And Lawrence did kiss him, soft and patient. Georgie pressed his back hard against the wall, and Lawrence took the hint, leaning forward against him so that Georgie had nowhere to go, nowhere to move, no choice but to kiss and be kissed.

  Georgie squirmed, and Lawrence promptly eased away. That would never do. Georgie tugged him back.

  “You like this,” Lawrence said, unnecessarily, because surely at this proximity he could feel the evidence of Georgie’s arousal.

  “I like this,” Georgie managed, squirming again, relishing the feeling of being gently trapped.

  Lawrence worked a hand in between their bodies and started to untie Georgie’s cravat. “Well then, if walls and . . . roughness are what you have in mind . . . ” Georgie let out a sigh of pleasure. “I see that they are,” Lawrence went on. “Then I’ll see what I can do.”

  He tugged off Georgie’s clothes without the least bit of finesse until they stood chest to chest, Georgie’s head tipped back to properly enjoy the look of intent interest on Lawrence’s face. Lawrence braced his forearms on the wall beside Georgie’s head and brought his mouth down in a hard kiss. The harder Lawrence kissed, the harder Georgie kissed him back. The more aggressively Lawrence crowded Georgie, the more Georgie felt like he was melting against Lawrence’s stone wall of a body.