The Lawrence Browne Affair

by Cat Sebastian

  And all the while, the jewels were heavy in his left hand, warm now with the heat from his palm.

  Lawrence, holding him close, never breaking the kiss, steered him towards the bedchamber door. Georgie still clutched the jewels.

  Lawrence pushed him onto the bed. Georgie still clutched the jewels.

  Lawrence tugged off Georgie’s shoes and trousers and then his own. Georgie clutched the jewels even tighter, until he felt gold filigree biting into his fingertips.

  He watched Lawrence scan the room, his eyes finally alighting on something near the washstand. Georgie propped himself up on his elbows in time to see a tin box being placed on his bare chest. This was the tin the shaving soap had come in, the soap Georgie had bought in Falmouth with the notion that Lawrence would like it. The tin still bore the scent of sandalwood and cloves, which was how Lawrence’s skin smelled tonight, masculine and expensive, rich and powerful—but still somehow Lawrence. It was into this box that Georgie placed the jewels that would buy him his freedom, his independence, but rob him of the only purpose he had ever had. They slid out of Georgie’s hand and into the box, stone and metal colliding jarringly in the otherwise silent room. Lawrence placed the box on the bedside table where Georgie could see it.

  And then Lawrence kissed Georgie hard, almost hard enough to be too much. Georgie ran his hands over Lawrence’s arms, relishing the flex of his muscles as he braced himself over Georgie, loving every ounce of weight on top of him. Lawrence shoved Georgie’s legs apart with a forcefulness that would have seemed dangerous if it hadn’t been precisely what Georgie had asked for, if his eyes weren’t carefully trying to read Georgie’s face for signs of distress.

  “Yes,” Georgie breathed, to clear up any confusion in the matter. “Like that.”

  “You still want to be fucked?” Lawrence’s voice was raspy and rude, and it went straight to Georgie’s cock.

  “Oh God, please.” He had been thinking about it for weeks, with obscene frequency. Since arriving at Penkellis, every time he had let his thoughts wander, he imagined Lawrence inside him, on top of him, strong and sure and his. He dreamed of being fucked hard enough to not worry about the future or the past or anything else. He knew it wasn’t possible, but he shut his eyes and pretended this moment, these touches and kisses and whispered words, were all that mattered.

  “Am I sufficiently unlordly?”

  Georgie made a sound that he had meant to be a laugh, but came out more like a sob. “Never.” The man was a peer of the realm, a man of wealth and consequence, and Georgie had been a rank fool not to have properly considered him in that light. What a lackwit Georgie was to only see it after having spent a tidy sum on finery and fripperies.

  But now, thanks to the contents of the soap tin, Georgie’s predatory instincts were gone, and without them he felt like a compass without a needle. There was only desire, and something more. Something worse.

  “I love you,” he said, because now—naked, aroused, and with thousands of pounds worth of rubies on the table beside them—felt like as good a time as any to let the man know, if he hadn’t figured it out already. He couldn’t think of a single reason not to say it, which only went to show how addled his faculties were at the moment.

  “And I love you,” Lawrence said. He made it sound more like an action than a sentiment.

  He caged Georgie in with his arms, he kissed his neck, he pressed Georgie into the mattress, as if all of those things were somehow acts of love. Georgie wriggled out of Lawrence’s grasp, momentarily dispensing with the fiction that he was powerless beneath the larger man. He knelt over Lawrence’s lap, straddling him. Then he took Lawrence’s hand and guided it around to the cleft of his arse. He felt the rough pads of Lawrence’s fingers skimming over his entrance.

  “Like so?” Lawrence murmured.

  “Yes.” Georgie buried his face in Lawrence’s neck, kissing and sucking that sensitive flesh as he tried to push back against Lawrence’s hand. He heard Lawrence grunt in appreciation, felt Lawrence’s hard prick touch his own.

  Lawrence shoved him backwards onto the mattress with that combination of unchecked strength and watchful concern that had done away with all Georgie’s defenses. The man knew what Georgie wanted and wasn’t going to hold back, but he also wouldn’t let Georgie be hurt. Georgie rolled onto his stomach, tilting his hips up as Lawrence crawled over him. “Yes,” he repeated, his head buried in his folded arms. “There’s oil in the bedside table.” Yesterday, when he folded Lawrence’s clothes and arranged them in the clothes press, he had also hidden away a bottle of oil he had swiped from the pantry. There were advantages to being the sort of conniving soul who thought three steps ahead, the kind of man who thought hiding an object was the same as stealing, only in reverse. He heard Lawrence remove the stopper, and just that sound was enough to send a thrill of anticipation coursing through him.

  A moment passed, the only sound being Lawrence sliding his hand over his oiled prick. Georgie’s own cock ached with need, his body cried out for more, now. Lawrence’s hand rested on the small of his back before moving lower. Georgie felt the tip of a finger enter him and moaned at that first strange intrusion. And then nothing. Lawrence was still, barely breaching Georgie’s entrance. Georgie pushed back, felt Lawrence shudder.

  “I want to see you.” Lawrence leaned low over Georgie, pulling his arms away from his face. “I need to see your face.”

  Georgie turned his head, resting his cheek on the smooth bed linen. Over his shoulder, he saw his lover’s face, so unexpectedly young and sweet without the beard. He flicked a reassuring smile. “I need you inside me.”

  Lawrence added another finger, readying Georgie with painstaking care. Unable to take any more, Georgie reached back and wrapped his hand around Lawrence’s shaft, guiding it to his entrance. “Please. I’ve been thinking about this for so long.”

  Lawrence’s hands looked unsteady as he reached for more oil. Georgie gave a little moan of anticipation, willed himself not to push himself entirely onto the cock that was only barely touching him. Finally, Lawrence locked his hands on Georgie’s hips and thrust all the way in with one steady, inexorable push.

  Georgie made a mindless sound of pleasure mingled with intensely realized fullness. He felt like the head of Lawrence’s cock was impossibly deep, further into him than made any sense at all. Lawrence, hands digging almost painfully into Georgie’s hips, pulled back and then thrust back in.

  “Fuck!” Georgie cried, his body on fire with sensation.

  “Is that all right?”

  It most definitely was. “God yes.”

  And he did it again, and again, settling into a rhythm. Georgie desperately arched back, sliding his hand underneath his body to take hold of his own needy prick. Georgie didn’t know what he was saying, whether it was words or just nonsense syllables, but knew Lawrence wouldn’t hold it against him.

  He felt safe.

  He was safe.

  His climax was bearing down on him, and when he came, it was with Lawrence’s arms around him, with the sounds of Lawrence’s own pleasure ringing in his ears.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Lawrence woke to the sound of wheels crunching on gravel and the icy chill of a cold breeze. It took him one sleep-addled moment to realize that this meant he hadn’t properly closed the window last night after threatening to throw the jewels outside.

  Lawrence tucked the quilts more firmly around Georgie, who was still fast asleep, burrowed beneath layers of quilts and Lawrence’s own body. He eased out of bed and crossed into the study to shut the window. That would take care of the cold, but left the problem of the carriage wheels. Peering out the window, he saw a chaise and four swiftly approaching. He could discern the outline of a coat of arms on the carriage door.

  He couldn’t think of a single good reason why anyone, let alone a peer, would be arriving at Penkellis the day after Christmas with a winter storm brewing over the sea. Hell, he couldn’t think of any reason why anyone w
ould come to Penkellis on any day. His heart started to pound with anxiety over the unexpected arrival.

  “Georgie,” he said, nudging the man awake. “There’s a visitor. A carriage is outside.”

  “Eh?” Georgie opened one sleepy eye. His hair, normally so tidy, was ruffled into wavy dishevelment. “Delivery?” he mumbled, his words swallowed by the pillow.

  “There’s a coat of arms on the carriage door.”

  Georgie sprang out of bed, flung open the clothes press, and threw a few garments onto the bed. “You. Dress.” He retrieved his own clothes from the floor and readied himself; a few economical movements later he looked much the same as he always did—tidy clothes, smooth hair, an air of implacable coolness. If it weren’t for the flicker of green on Georgie’s finger, Lawrence might have imagined last night.

  Lawrence’s heart gave a thud that was equal parts satisfaction and disorientation. Last night, sated and happy, Georgie curled next to him, Lawrence had dumped the contents of the soap tin onto the mattress. He had found his father’s ring and slid it onto Georgie’s thumb, where it almost fit. Heavy, old-fashioned gold surrounding a large, strangely dull emerald, Lawrence’s father had worn that ring every day.

  Seeing that clunky emerald on Georgie’s hand filled Lawrence with a dozen different kinds of pleasure, ranging from the basic joy of adorning his lover, to the dark thrill of doing something that would have enraged his unlamented father. Giving his father’s ring to Georgie might have been the first time Lawrence truly felt like the Earl of Radnor. If he wanted to give his father’s precious emerald to the man he loved, he could and would do precisely that.

  Georgie caught the direction of his gaze and flashed a smile ten times brighter than the stone. Pointedly, he turned the ring so the jewel faced his palm. This was their secret.

  He hadn’t taken the ring off. He was going to keep it.

  For a fleeting moment, Lawrence felt capable of anything. Strange carriages, housefuls of servants, none of it mattered.

  Georgie looked away, breaking the spell. “You’d better get dressed.”

  “I . . . ” Lawrence hesitated. The walls were closing in and the blood rushed in his ears, the sound of oceans and broken floodgates and raw, elemental panic. “I’m not sure I feel equal to . . . ” To leaving his tower. To meeting new people. To dealing with anything unexpected.

  To living a life.

  Ashamed and angry with himself, he let out a long, miserable breath.

  But then Georgie’s hand was on Lawrence’s arm. “Of course,” he said gently. “I’ll run downstairs and do what needs to be done. But get dressed just in case.” They stood like that, Lawrence’s hand wrapped around Georgie’s smaller one, Georgie looking up at Lawrence with an unreadable, nearly bashful expression. Then Georgie skimmed a kiss along Lawrence’s now-stubbly jaw and slipped out of the room.

  For a moment, Lawrence had seen how things might have been if he had been a normal man, if his mind worked in the ordinary fashion. He could fall in love with his secretary, he could dare to hope that they might fashion some sort of life together. He could be a father to his neglected child. He could have a house that wasn’t a crumbling ruin.

  But he could not even go downstairs. No, he could not even think about going downstairs without the paralyzing certainty that his heart would pound through his ribcage and his mind devolve into primal chaos.

  What Lawrence really wanted to do was bar the door, tinker with his battery, and pretend there was no carriage, no visitor, no world beyond to interfere with his peace. Every nerve in his body told him to hide. There was no way, despite Georgie’s faith in him, that this could be anything other than madness, for what better word was there to describe a man who could not hear carriage wheels without panicking, who could not conceive of leaving his study without the sense of imminent doom?

  Still, blood rushing in his ears, Lawrence set about the foreign rituals of shaving his face, tying his cravat, and putting on his ring. These felt like the rites of a strange religion, superstitions as laughable as the villagers sprinkling salt on their windowsills.

  “I’m not certain I understand precisely who you put in the parlor,” Georgie repeated to the flustered footman he had met in the hall. He had rushed downstairs, convinced that he was about to meet whichever of Lawrence’s relations had threatened to dispute the earl’s competence—one of Simon’s uncles, presumably. But instead, the footman was saying something about the Standish carriage. “If Sir Edward Standish is not present, as you say, who arrived in his carriage?”

  “Lady Standish, sir, and her brother.”

  In itself, that might not be remarkable—it wouldn’t be so very odd for a man to pay a visit on his correspondent, even one living in such an out-of-the-way place as Penkellis—except that Georgie was convinced that Sir Edward Standish did not exist, and therefore his wife could not be in Lawrence’s parlor. He entered the room fully expecting to be met with a fellow confidence artist, or an assassin, or possibly armed robbers.

  Really, anybody except a prim-looking woman in a high-necked traveling costume, sitting rigidly on the settee beside a man Georgie recognized immediately as Julian Medlock. Georgie schooled his expression to bland neutrality. The last time he had seen Mr. Medlock, Georgie had been helping to persuade one of Medlock’s friends to invest in a thoroughly imaginary canal company. Georgie had been grave and clerkly with his sober attire and deferential manners, and of course he had used a different name. With any luck, Medlock wouldn’t recognize him.

  But just to be safe he stayed clear of the light that streamed through the newly cleaned windows.

  “I’m George Turner, Lord Radnor’s secretary. I’m afraid we weren’t expecting the pleasure of your company, but—”

  “I told you it was devilish bad ton, Eleanor,” Medlock interrupted. “Can’t you tell the place is at sixes and sevens?” Medlock’s gaze landed on the wainscoting, where a hasty coat of paint barely concealed rot. These details had been obscured in last night’s candlelight but now seemed painfully obvious. “The poor chap is likely still in his bed.”

  “Mercy, Julian. Radnor and I have exchanged letters by nearly every post for the better part of two years. A fine friend I’d be not to check on—I mean to say call on him when I’m in the neighborhood.”

  “Which would have been all well and good if you had been in the neighborhood, but you were not.” He turned to Georgie. “We were visiting a relation in Barnstaple, which has to be a hundred miles away, although I’ll be dashed if it didn’t feel like five hundred. Two days on the road, and very muddy roads they were. Speaking of which, Mr. Turner,” Medlock said, his voice now weary and beleaguered, “I trust that someone will tend to the horses. My sister did not lead me to expect any of the niceties.” His gaze alit on a length of curtain that the maids hadn’t had time to hem properly.

  “His lordship keeps no horses, but the stables are clean and well-provisioned. One of the gardeners used to be an ostler, so your horses will be well cared for.” Yesterday, Georgie had inspected the stables and other outbuildings himself, to make sure there were no casks of brandy or other smuggled goods.

  Medlock looked dumbfounded by the existence of a man who kept no horses of his own.

  “Very sensible,” Lady Standish said briskly. “But there’ll be no need for that. As soon as I see Lord Radnor, we’ll be on our way.”

  Earlier, she had nearly said that she had come to check on him. She had also said that she—rather than her husband—was Lawrence’s correspondent. Georgie regarded her appraisingly, and rang the bell for tea.

  “Lord Radnor doesn’t receive visitors,” Georgie said. “And while he has the greatest respect for your husband—”

  “About that,” Lady Standish said, smoothing out the folds of her skirt.

  “Truly, Eleanor, I would have sent you by yourself on the stagecoach”—Medlock’s tone suggested that traveling by stagecoach was a fate equal to being burnt at the stake—“if I had known
you meant to embroil me in this havey-cavey business. If this ever got back to London, I would positively sink into the earth.”

  “What my brother is alluding to is that my husband is away on diplomatic business. I’ve been handling his correspondence in his absence.”

  Medlock let out a strangled laugh. “His correspondence!”

  Georgie narrowed his eyes. “The letters are signed by your husband. The signature and handwriting have been the same for several years now.” Not for nothing had Georgie read through and sorted stacks upon stacks of letters. He had been looking for evidence of fraud, suggestions of a swindle, and instead, he had found—what, precisely? He narrowed his eyes and regarded the woman. A scientific mind, one with an understanding of business as well as explosive devices, lurked under that drably serviceable bonnet. He cleared his throat. “Lord Radnor has said that your husband had a head for business. That he handled his lordship’s patents and licenses.”

  “That was me. Truly shocking behavior for a woman, I know.”

  The only thing that shocked Georgie was that she might not be cheating Lawrence.

  “Don’t be daft, Eleanor,” Medlock said. “The man isn’t shocked by your . . . unwomanliness, or whatever notion you’ve gotten into your head. You’ve just confessed to forgery, my girl.”

  “Not at all,” Georgie said quickly. “I feel certain that Lord Radnor wouldn’t object to Lady Standish using her husband’s name.” He still hadn’t thrown Georgie out when he first realized his secretary wasn’t what he seemed.

  The tea arrived, carried in by a very correct Janet. Georgie sent her a grateful look. Even though the house might seem in disarray to a man like Medlock, who was used to country houses humming with activity, with butlers and footmen permanently stationed in the hall and grooms and stable hands at the ready to tend to visitors’ horses at all hours, Penkellis was perfectly respectable, in a quiet sort of way. And now that two unexpected visitors—however duplicitous—had arrived, Georgie was even more relieved that Penkellis was fit for company.