Any Old Diamonds

by KJ Charles

  “Watch me,” Jerry said. “Now. We’ve brought ourselves to their graces’ attention very nicely. Tomorrow you’ll write a brief note to the Duchess as politeness dictates, expressing your hope the experience wasn’t too distressing, and with no ulterior motive visible. After which, we’ll wait and see. I’m pleased with the night’s work.”

  “It seems like rather a lot of work for very little, to be honest,” Alec said. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but my father barely glanced at me.”

  Jerry was lifting a glass to his lips. He paused at the words, holding it in mid-air, then put it down. “Were you hoping he would? Alec, do you want to achieve something other than what I’m here for?”

  Alec tried, very hard, not to react. He wasn’t sure if he’d succeeded. “How do you mean?”

  Jerry’s brows tweaked in the middle, lifting towards his nose. “Bluntly, then, if what you want is your father’s attention, there are easier and more legitimate ways to go about that.”

  “That’s not what I want. What would I do with his attention? He doesn’t care about me, or any of us, and that won’t change. I just meant that I thought we were bringing me to his notice this evening, and I didn’t feel he noticed me.”

  “He had nothing to be displeased with. He will have expected to be outraged by you, and he wasn’t. That’s a significant achievement on which we’ll build.”

  “Outraged?” Alec said blankly. “Why would he think that?”

  “Because he’s wronged you, and we resent people we wrong. They say Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but it’s not true. Hell hath no fury like the one who did the scorning, especially when they’re made to face up to their actions. Our challenge here is to persuade the Duke that you won’t embarrass him with reproaches, or force him to be conscious of his sins. He needs to know that you won’t be a problem.”

  Alec took a sip of whisky and soda, contemplated the glass for a moment, then drained it. The spirit seared down his throat. He coughed.

  “Steady.”

  “I don’t want to be steady. I want—” Not to be negligible. To be more than an absence. To have someone look at him and see him and think something other than, Don’t embarrass me by your existence or offend me with your injuries.

  He didn’t embarrass people. He didn’t complain about his father’s miserliness with love and money, or bemoan the jobs he didn’t get, or fuss when lovers gave him the cold shoulder. He never made a fuss. He tried to be as unobtrusive and inoffensive as he could, and even then he was found inconvenient simply for existing with a title and no unearned income. Meanwhile, Jerry was a walking insult to civilised rules, yet he sauntered into great houses and got waiters’ attention, and Alec was quite sure he never felt guilty about taking space any more than taking jewellery.

  The hell with it. The absolute hell with it all.

  Jerry was watching him. Alec put his chin up. “So, was our conversation before we left my rooms all talk, or do you mean to act on it?”

  Jerry grinned, a smile with more teeth than was quite safe. “Why don’t you come with me and find out?”

  THEY WENT TO A HOTEL Jerry knew, walking in silence. There were plenty of hotels in London where one could take a room and invite a friend up with no questions asked; still, Alec found his heart thudding unpleasantly as he waited, for fear of a spiteful maître d’ or chambermaid. Jerry showed no such concern.

  They went upstairs. The boy opened the door, lit the gas, drew the curtains, took his tip, bowed himself out. Jerry fastened the door.

  Neither of them had said a word since the cafe.

  Jerry looked at him. Alec looked back. Jerry’s lips curved a little. “Lord Alexander.”

  It was a name, a declaration, a question in its way. Alec said, “Yes,” to all of it.

  Jerry took him by the shoulder and pushed. “Against the wall.”

  Alec half-stumbled over to the wall, hands out against the patterned paper, feeling its tiny corrugations under his palms. Jerry’s fingers slid into his hair, then raked down his neck. Alec could feel breath on his skin.

  A hand came round his waist, a thumb hooking into his waistband, then sliding out, over the front of his trousers, massaging there. Alec’s breath caught, and he heard Jerry chuckle softly. He leaned forward, bracing his forehead against the wall, and simply stood as a knee nudged his thighs apart and hands roamed his body. Fingers pulling across his face, pushing between his lips; fingers between his legs, cupping and squeezing him to hardness through the cloth; breath on the back of his neck from a man he couldn’t see. He was trembling with the tension.

  Jerry leaned in, putting a lot of weight on Alec’s shoulders, making him gasp. “I want to fuck,” he said softly. “And since you’re here, I’m going to fuck you.”

  “Oh God.”

  A hand at his buttons, unfastening the trousers, shoving them and the drawers down. Alec stood, bare and undignified, waiting for a moment as cloth rustled behind him. He jerked as a warm hand cupped his bare buttock, feeling his muscle tense, and Jerry’s fingers slid along the curve that made.

  He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Fingers trailing up and down Alec’s thigh, over his arse, tucking up his coat- and shirt-tails, cupping his hip. Alec pressed his mouth against his forearm to stop himself asking for anything. He wished he could see Jerry’s face, and was glad he couldn’t. This way, the hands on him might have been a lover’s touch.

  Jerry let out a breath, almost like a sigh. “Lord Alexander.” His finger was probing, slicked with something, warm and intrusive. “Look at you. My lord the duke’s son, quivering for it. What a sight.” His teeth grazed Alec’s neck gently, as much bite as kiss.

  Alec swallowed hard. His prick was heavy, the blood throbbing in an uncomfortable demand for attention that Jerry wasn’t giving. The slick finger pushed in, crooked upward. Alec yelped into his forearm. “God. Jerry.”

  “Uh-uh,” Jerry murmured. “You don’t like to talk, so I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. Not a word. Not a sound. Just silence while I do what I want.”

  Alec inhaled hard, feeling the hairs on his skin prickle. Jerry’s finger slid out, and then, finally, there was that blunt pressure, and Alec tried to widen his stance, pushing ineffectually at the cloth trapping his ankles. Jerry was breathing hard, his cock well slicked but still impossibly too large for the space allowed. Alec bit down on his forearm against the burn, breathed out to release his muscles, felt his body give way to the intrusion. Jerry’s teeth were on his neck again. Alec tilted his head to offer more access, felt Jerry’s lips move, and the slow, steady pressure continued.

  So slow. Jerry was taking his time, each thrust barely worthy of the name, pushing into Alec in fractions of an inch. He had one hand braced against the wall; he got the other round Alec’s chest, gripping tight, holding him up even as he invaded Alec’s body, each stroke a little further, until Alec was splayed helplessly against the wall.

  “Christ,” Jerry rasped in his ear. “You titled tart.” He began to move more as he spoke, slowly at first, sliding steadily out and in. Alec’s shoulders were heaving. He clamped his lips together, felt Jerry’s teeth on his neck, his ear. “That’s right. Keep your mouth shut and take it like a gentleman. God. When I rob your father’s home I’ll pile jewels round your neck, and have you wearing nothing but diamonds.”

  Alec couldn’t help a noise at that. Jerry almost snarled, arm tightening. “I said, be quiet while I fuck you.” He moved harder on the words, hips speeding up, and then it was all Alec could do to lock his knees and stand against the onslaught, Jerry taking him with savage command, the upward friction making his toes curl and his prick throb. He wanted to beg for relief but this was Jerry’s turn, Jerry’s pleasure. The thought almost brought him off by itself. He gasped into his arm as he was bumped against the wall by each thrust, and then Jerry’s hand slid down to grip his straining erection and Alec sobbed aloud at the prospect of relief. Fingers slid over his length, fast, sharp m
ovements to match his thrusts, and Alec came, spread and impaled like a butterfly on the wall. Jerry made a breathless noise, and then he was slamming into Alec without regard, brutally hard, and panting as he spent.

  They stood, locked together, chests heaving. Alec’s cheek felt hot against the wallpaper. He was suddenly very aware of the intruding presence in his body, and of Jerry’s face in the crook of his neck.

  “Christ,” Jerry said at last. “Hold on, now.” He pulled out gently. Alec couldn’t help a wince. “Sorry. Just a moment, stay there.” He moved away. Alec leaned against the comforting wall—it felt like an old friend after all this—trying to calm his breath. Jerry returned after a moment, and Alec squeaked at the feel of a cool, wet cloth.

  Jerry made a hissing noise between his teeth, like an ostler calming a horse. “Steady. God, you’re a pleasure. Was that as you wished?”

  “You must have noticed,” Alec mumbled into his arm.

  Jerry’s other hand settled on his hip for a moment, a touch that felt almost comforting. “I saw you liked it. I want to know how to make you love it.”

  Alec lifted his head at that. Jerry blew lightly on his ear, startling a shiver out of him. “I can’t think of a better hold to have over a man than knowing his desires, every little odd turn of them. If I have your desires I have you in the palm of my hand, which is exactly where I want you.” He licked Alec’s neck, a deliberate scrape. “So, if there’s anything I can do to that end, I hope you’ll tell me for next time.”

  Next time. No wonder people skipped happily down primrose paths to damnation. Alec could see everything that was terrifying about this, but all he felt was a quiver of anticipatory excitement and, undeniably, warmth. Jerry might be a manipulative criminal, but he was a manipulative criminal who cared what Alec wanted. Perhaps that was merely to serve his own desires; it didn’t matter at all.

  He tried to turn and realised that, absurdly, his trousers were still around his ankles. He bent to hoist them up and turned then to see Jerry watching him. The thief looked sweaty and dishevelled, eyes bright, face flushed. He looked wild, in fact, as though his usual iron control had slipped, and Alec felt a twinge of satisfaction.

  “That was wonderful,” he said. “Um...”

  Jerry stroked a finger gently under his chin. “Spit it out. How do I bring you to your knees?”

  “You didn’t need to bring me off,” Alec blurted. “Not right away. If you didn’t want to.”

  “Ah-ha. I could take my pleasure and leave you whimpering for yours? What an extremely good idea. Oh, damnation. ‘Had we but world enough, and time’, I should be delighted to experiment, but not tonight; I must go. Soon.”

  Alec had known they’d be leaving—it was one thing to take a room, quite another to both emerge in the morning in full evening dress. It was still a tiny disappointment. “Of course. Uh, what next?”

  “Write that note to your stepmother and wait. I’ll be in touch soon enough. Keep a clean nose, too.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You’ve attracted your father’s attention. It would be wise to imagine his eyes on you when you’re not with me.”

  Alec blinked. “You think he’d have me watched?”

  “If I were him I’d ask questions. It’s merely a precaution. And don’t worry. The long game is going well.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alec wrote to the Duchess as instructed, a strictly courteous note as he would to a woman who had exhibited tender feelings to be distressed. He worked. He went to the Sketch for a drink, but confined himself to one and declined to discuss anything but publishing gossip; he didn’t go to the Gilded Lily or the Jack and Knave. He didn’t try to see George or Annabel.

  George sent him a clipping from a newspaper.

  Lovers of family harmony were pleased to observe that the noble Lord I. seems to be ‘on terms’ with his son Lord A. once more. The two were seen in friendly conversation at the home of Lady S., at the soirée made notorious by the presence of a daring sneak thief.

  It was accompanied by a single line: I hope you’re happy. Alec didn’t reply.

  And then, on Wednesday, the letter came.

  Dear Lord Alexander

  His Grace the Duke of Ilvar expects your attendance at Pyne House on Friday at 11 am.

  Yours sincerely

  F. Merrow, Secretary

  Alec felt an urgent wish that he had some way to get in touch with Jerry, to demand, What do I do now? That was ridiculous; he knew very well what to do. He wrote a polite response to Merrow assuring him of his receipt of the invitation, went to check that he’d have impeccably clean clothing, and then lay on his bed, looking up at the ceiling, rehearsing the part of Lord Alexander. He felt really pretty well prepared when a note arrived from Jerry on Thursday, suggesting a drink at the Criterion Bar that evening.

  “My father wrote to me,” he informed his companion once they had their drinks, a pair of gin fizzes to acknowledge the hot weather.

  “Did he, by God.” Jerry’s mouth curled with satisfaction. “And?”

  “I have an appointment tomorrow.”

  “Good man. And have you a plan?”

  “I’m going to be Lord Alexander. I’ll ask to make amends and to be on terms again. After that, it will depend on what he wants.”

  “And if he asks you if you need money?”

  “I’ll say yes.”

  Jerry nodded. “Good. There have been several items in the gossip columns about your rapprochement, I don’t know if you’ve seen?”

  “My brother sent me one. I— Hold on. Did you do that?”

  “They’re always keen for material. And a narrative of Ilvar reuniting with his children to set against the stain of his neglect would be welcome, I’d think, if he’s looking for public approval around the time of the anniversary. Not that you should suggest as much.”

  “Good heavens, no.” He was right, though. The Duke could buy his wife a private railway line for her convenience, and jewels as other husbands bought flowers, but he’d never been able to purchase public approval or liking. Even time hadn’t managed that. There were music-hall brides who had claimed their places in the aristocracy more effectively than Her Grace—not, perhaps, the appalling Lady Euston, but certainly the Countess of Moreton, who had been a trapeze artist and killed a man, yet was universally popular. Then again, Lady Moreton had charm, humility, and a delightful sense of humour. The Duchess had none of those, and her unpopularity had rendered both herself and her husband as close to pariahs as was likely for very rich people in this age of Mammon.

  Jerry’s brows tipped. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing,” Alec said automatically, and then, “Well. Only that it struck me, in other circumstances, if a man stood by his wife in the teeth of all opposition, and was unshakably loyal for twenty years at great personal cost, we’d praise it as the height of marital love.”

  “Touching,” Jerry said, with absolutely no sincerity. “I’ll send a bouquet. Now, are you going to ingratiate yourself with them so I can rob them?”

  Alec almost laughed. “You really don’t let me forget what we’re doing, do you? Not for a second.”

  “Forgetting what you’re doing can be fatal. Can you do this, Alec? Have this conversation, hold yourself back and present Lord Alexander? Keep your secrets and win our entry?”

  “I can do it. I’ve practised—you know, what Lord Alexander will say. I won’t feel terribly proud of myself, and my brother and sister—well, they’re already disgusted so it can’t get much worse. But I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll be proud of you,” Jerry said softly. “There’s something strikingly piquant about you. It’s the contrast, I think. You have such determination, more than you realise. A remarkable quiet sort of strength.” Alec’s lips parted. Jerry smiled, wolfish. “And soon enough I’m going to reduce you to utter helplessness. It’s a delightful prospect.”

  Alec swallowed. “That’s— I’m not sure if that’s encouraging or n
ot.”

  “Oh, I think you know which. Go forth and conquer, Lord Alexander. I will see you—let us say on Saturday, for a full report. Keep me in mind.”

  ALEC DID KEEP HIM IN mind. It was ridiculous that he could be flattered by such a reprehensible, dangerous, obvious liar as Jerry. But he held on to determination, remarkable, strength as though they were truths, and to the thought of Saturday as if it were a lovers’ meeting. As though words and the prospect of a fuck were talismans to protect him through a meeting with his father, the first in eight years.

  “I have been most dissatisfied with your conduct,” the Duke of Ilvar informed him. They were in the study. Alec hadn’t been asked to sit down; he felt like a child in front of his headmaster. “I cannot be expected to acknowledge as my family individuals who display ingratitude, obduracy, and disrespect towards my wife.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Your behaviour, and that of your siblings, has caused me great distress for twenty years, and had inflicted untold harm on the Duchess. The contumely she has endured would have broken a lesser woman. If it were not for her remarkable strength of character— You do not see the dignity with which she sustains her place. You do not understand her suffering, or care for her troubles. It has all been hers and mine to bear.”

  The Duke’s lower lip was jutting in that petulant way as he rehearsed his laundry list of injuries. Alec curled his toes in his shoes until they cramped and tried not to think of squashed holly berries, the stinking fog, Cara’s harsh coughs. I can’t listen to this. I can’t nod and smile. I can’t—

  Jerry had you like a cheap tart under Waterloo Bridge. This is nothing.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” he said, and heard a wheedling note in his own voice. “If we had been older we might have understood the Duchess’s difficult position better. If I may say, sir, a friend of mine recently—and with the greatest respect—cited Your Graces as an exemplar of marital love, loyalty, and fidelity under the greatest pressure.”