Sam could make out only a few of the jumbled exclamations and half-interrupted questions they peppered one another with.
“That week—”
“My dear—”
“I looked for you!”
“His servants wouldn’t give me your name.”
“And you were using a false surname, I think.”
“Was I?”
Sam turned away to finish wiping the tables and putting the chairs up, wanting to give them some privacy. But after a moment, Hartley called him.
“You didn’t tell me your friend was Kate Bradley,” Hartley said, his hands on his hips. “We, ah, traveled in the same circles.”
“What he means is his godfather wanted to shag me,” Kate chimed in. “He’d invite me round, offer me sweets and ribbons. Gave me a sodding fortune for that painting. Proper old pervert. But Hart and I made friends.”
“We had such fun,” Hartley said. “I had almost forgotten. Until one day you didn’t come back. I thought you’d been killed.”
“Nah, I went with my father to watch one of Sam’s fights up north. That was about when I took up with Nick—Sam’s brother—and I didn’t think he’d like the idea of me stringing old men along for presents.”
Hartley nodded comprehendingly, but he crossed his arms across his chest in a way that made Sam wonder again exactly why Hartley wanted this revenge, or whatever it was, against his godfather. Easterbrook had taken advantage of Kate, and Sam’s fists clenched at the idea that he might have done the same to Hartley.
Kate yawned. “I’m run off my feet. Come by tomorrow, Hart, will you? I want to know how you came to be friends with my dog. And with Sam,” she added with a sidelong glance in Sam’s direction. “The till is empty and the mugs are clean,” she told Sam. “I’ll lock the door on my way out. I banked the fire here, but Nick came down to say that he has yours roaring, so you ought to take Hart upstairs and get him warm. Night!” she called before heading for the door, the dog trotting behind her.
Sam watched as Hartley walked around the circumference of the taproom, peering at the sketches on the wall and warming his hands over a brazier that still held some heat. He paused at the print of Sam’s father in the ring that somebody had clipped from one of the boxing rags, and then again at the sign behind the bar that proclaimed that the Bell, Samuel Fox, proprietor, was licensed to sell beer and spirits. He peered into the darkened back room, then ran his fingers along the smooth wood of the bar.
“Not your sort of place,” Sam ventured.
Hartley looked over at him. “What do you know about my sort of place?” His voice was sharp. “You just heard Kate say that she and I are old friends. You and I shared a meal in my kitchen and much more in my library.” There was enough light coming from the single lamp for Sam to see Hartley’s cheeks flush slightly. “Any claim to gentility I might have had was taken away when—” He shook his head and turned half away. “You didn’t tell me you had been a boxer. But Kate said something about one of your fights.”
“For a bit. That’s my da.” He gestured at the prints on the wall.
Hartley squinted at the prints. They were decades old, faded, the type almost unreadable. “I remember my father and his friends talking about Hiram Fox. He was undefeated for a while, wasn’t he?”
Sam nodded. “He was the best.” Hartley looked like he was about to ask another question, but Sam didn’t want to talk about his own time in the ring. “You want a drink?” he asked.
Hartley shook his head. “No, and you don’t have to bring me upstairs. I’m only a bit wet.”
Like hell he was a bit wet. There was a puddle at his feet. “It’s late,” Sam said.
“So it is.” Hartley took a step closer.
“Not sure how I feel about you going home alone.”
A corner of Hartley’s mouth twitched. “I got here alone.”
“Right, but you had the dog to protect you.” He was proud that he managed to say that without even the hint of a smile. “Now the pubs will all be closed and the streets will be emptying out. It’s not safe.”
Hartley made a halting movement, as if he were trying to step forward but found his feet rooted to the spot.
“You heard Kate say I have a warm fire upstairs.” He kept his voice low and soothing, and was reminded of how Hartley had coaxed the dog to him on his kitchen floor. “Doesn’t that sound good?”
“It sounds so good.” There was a note of wistfulness in his voice.
“Same rules as last time, Hartley. Nothing you don’t want.”
“Rules,” Hartley repeated. “You didn’t mind my . . . rules last time.”
“I can’t get enough of your rules,” Sam said hoarsely.
A flicker of mischief lit Harley’s face. “Lead the way, then.”
Chapter Nine
Even the stairwell was clean, not so much as a cobweb in the corner or a speck of dust on the banister, at least none Hartley could see by the light of Sam’s lantern. The building smelled of lemon and beeswax, with an undercurrent of ale and maybe somebody’s Sunday roast.
“I’m at the top,” Sam said, his voice low. They climbed another set of stairs that opened onto a small landing with two doors. Sam pushed open one of them and Hartley was met with a wall of heat.
“That’s a proper fire,” Hartley said.
“Nick knew I’d be wet after chasing after the dog so he might have gone a bit overboard.” Sam had his hands in his pockets and looked a bit embarrassed at his brother’s solicitude. It figured that Sam had a houseful of people who cared to keep him warm.
Hartley had lied earlier about not being cold. His coat—now ruined, to be sure—had been designed for style, not warmth, and now had neither virtue. He peeled it off and laid it across a spindle-backed chair. In only his shirtsleeves, he felt bare, so he crossed his arms against his chest.
“When you said the painting you were after was of a woman named Kate, I thought it might be her,” he said. But he hadn’t dared hope that he might once again see the person who had been a true friend to him despite knowing him for who he was. “Kate was lovely to me,” he added. “She was a bit older and much wiser.”
“She’s probably going to marry my brother, but she doesn’t like the idea of Nick being ashamed to have a wife whose naked picture is hanging on somebody’s wall.”
Hartley could well imagine. “Would he be? Ashamed, that is.”
Sam shook his head. “He’s thinks your godfather was a bastard—”
“He’s right.”
“—but he doesn’t hold it against Kate. Besides, she was young, her father was unreliable, and five guineas meant a lot.”
Hartley had been toying with the top button of his waistcoat, debating whether to undo it, but now he let his hands drop to his sides. “You think it matters that she was young and in need of the money? You don’t think it’s a sign of bad character?”
Sam was silent for a long moment while he put a kettle on the fire. “Even if she had been thirty and rich, I wouldn’t think it meant she had a bad character. There’s nothing wrong with sitting for that kind of painting, if it’s what you want to do. But the fact that she was poor and young means the old man took advantage of her. She had a choice, but it wasn’t much of a choice. Not really.”
Hartley reflexively smoothed the fabric of his waistcoat, counting the row of buttons. It was relatively dry. Perhaps he didn’t need to take it off. The cuffs of his shirt, however, were cold and stiff with wetness, so he rolled them up only far enough to keep the damp fabric from touching his skin. His boots had kept his feet dry, at least.
While Hartley was deliberating over how little clothing he could get away with removing, Sam placed two cups of tea on the table. It looked like there were two small rooms: the sparsely furnished parlor they stood in now and what must be a bedroom through that open door beyond. Hartley sat in a chair facing away from the bedroom door and wrapped his hands around the warm teacup.
Sam straddled t
he other chair, facing him. “You like dogs,” he said, not making it a question.
Hartley was slightly startled that Sam had gotten him upstairs and wanted to spend their time drinking tea and discussing the merits of dogs as a species. But he decided to play along. “What’s not to like?”
“Dirty, loud, make you go across town on a rainy night?”
“He didn’t make me,” Hartley said, ready to jump to the dog’s defense. “I just thought he’d be missed. Sam, he was pining. Howling. I had to bring him back.”
“You could have left him in the alley. Would have served him right, showing up at your door begging for more cheese.”
“I would never,” Hartley protested. “He’d freeze or get hurt by bigger dogs. I’m not a monster.”
“I noticed.”
Hartley shook his head and made a rude noise.
“I think you’re secretly softhearted,” Sam said, with the air of someone who had discovered a secret.
“Then you’re bad at thinking.”
Sam snorted with laughter. “Drink your tea and warm up.”
Hartley wrapped his hands around the cup, letting the heat seep into his body, then took a sip.
“You didn’t mind when Kate touched you,” Sam said. “Is that because she’s a woman?”
“Perhaps.” If Hartley knew why he felt the way he did, he might be able to think his way through it. “It’s . . . I don’t know how to put it.”
“You don’t have to explain. I shouldn’t be nosy.”
Hartley waved away his concern. “It’s partly that she doesn’t want anything from me.”
“And men do want something from you.”
“Some men do.” Hartley knew what question would come next and didn’t try to forestall it.
“What did you think I wanted from you? That first night in your library, I mean.”
“I didn’t know you at all then.” His face heated as he said the words, because he knew he was implying that they understood one another now, that what lay between them was more than pleasure and convenience.
“And now? Now you’d let—no, that’s not it. Now you’d want my hands on you?”
“Want might be a bridge too far. I tried, you know.” God, he had tried. He had spent years trying to pretend that he could manage something approaching normal if he pushed through his fear. “It just doesn’t work.”
“I’m not asking you to try,” Sam said. “I only want you to know that it’s fine by me. Whatever you want is enough.”
Maybe because Hartley was born contrary, Sam’s acceptance made him want to try again, even though he knew how it would go. But there was a table between them, and Sam would let go of him if he asked. He was safe everywhere but his mind. He slid his hand across the rough surface of the table. When Sam didn’t take it, he said, “Come on, touch it. I’m not going to lose my nerve yet.” Sam brought his hand near, palm up, so their fingertips met. That wasn’t bad, but it was hardly a touch at all so it didn’t count. “Come on now, don’t be shy,” Hartley taunted.
“My hand is right here. Have your way with it.”
Hartley rolled his eyes but he couldn’t help but smile. Feeling like a fool, he rested his hand on top of Sam’s. He could feel the callouses on the other man’s palms and didn’t know if they were from boxing or maybe carrying casks of ale. After a moment Sam curled his fingers so he was stroking the underside of Hartley’s wrist. It was an innocuous touch; it shouldn’t have done anything to Hartley, but his heart beat faster, and not from fear. Sam kept up that steady stroking as if he didn’t have anything else to do in the world, as if he didn’t want anything from Hartley other than to touch his wrist, and Hartley started to believe that maybe it was true.
“You look a mess, you know,” Sam said, his voice sounding a bit rough.
“Well, thank you. I was just getting carried away thinking you a perfect gentleman.”
“It’s a compliment. You look like you’ve been up to no good, even though we both know you spent the night doing good deeds to bad dogs.”
“What does it look like I’ve been doing?” He dropped his voice and put enough interest in the words to make them a clear invitation.
“Ah, Hartley. You were still hard when I left last week, weren’t you?”
Hartley swallowed. “You know I was.”
“What did you do about it?”
The force of the memory sent a spasm of lust through Hartley’s body. “I brought myself off.”
“No, you can do better.” His voice was a rumble, a soft entreaty. “Where were you?”
“My bedchamber. In bed.” When Sam kept looking at him expectantly, he added, “In my nightshirt.”
“How did you do it?”
“Uh, the usual way?”
Sam clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “A hand on your prick, all right, that’s a given. Where’s your other hand? Bollocks? Arse? Nipple?”
Hartley hoped it was too dark for his blush to be visible. “Nipple,” he managed.
“And what did you think of?”
“Sucking your cock, obviously.”
“Anything else?”
“You fucking me.” Silence, during which all Hartley could think of was that he was now gripping Sam’s hand hard enough for his fingers to hurt, but he didn’t slacken his hold and Sam didn’t pull away.
“Huh. Wasn’t expecting that,” Sam finally said. “Thought you wouldn’t go in for that.”
“It’s only pretend,” Hartley snipped, as if he needed to explain how masturbation worked.
“How hard are you right now?”
Hartley drew in a sharp breath. “Very.”
“So am I. You can take it out, you know. The table’s there. I wouldn’t even have to see.” The noise that came from Hartley’s mouth might have been a whimper, but he preferred not to think of it. “Or you could leave it be, either way suits me.”
“I could show you what I did that night,” Hartley said.
“So you could,” Sam said equably. “If that’s what you wanted.”
Hartley imagined it: Sam’s warm brown eyes on him, hungry and intent, but not demanding anything. The familiarity of his own hand, but with someone else nearby. “Or I could do it with your cock in my mouth.”
A strangled oath, and the hand beneath his own flinched. “Jesus.”
“Unless you—”
“Yes. Do it.” His voice was a rasp. “I mean, if you please.”
“It’ll probably be a mediocre cock-sucking at best. I’ll be too distracted.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. If it’s half as good as the last time it’ll still be the best I’ve ever had.”
He was probably just saying that to be kind, but Hartley still preened a bit. “Well, then.” With that, he pushed his chair away from the table and slid to his knees.
The sight of Hartley kneeling between his spread knees made Sam’s mouth go dry. But he wasn’t ready. “No. Wait. Get up for a minute so my cock doesn’t get ahead of my brain.” Hartley let out a near-silent laugh, but he stood and then perched on the edge of the table, looking down expectantly at Sam. “Where do you want my hands?” Sam asked. “Or where do you not want them?”
Hartley opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, as if he were giving this serious thought. Good. Sam wanted to get this right. “You can touch me, but don’t move me around.”
“Right. You’re in charge.” Sam had never been with anyone with this amount of haggling beforehand, but it turned out he liked it. He liked knowing that they were both doing what pleased the other. He also liked knowing that he was keeping Hartley safe, and that Hartley trusted him with his safety. “You tell me right away if something’s not right, you hear?”
Hartley nodded. “I, ah, liked it when you talked.”
“I can talk,” Sam said, maybe too quickly. “I can definitely do that.” His face heated at the memory of some of the things he had said the last time.
Hartley slid off the table and in one fl
uid movement landed on his knees in front of Sam. The look he shot up at Sam was equal parts teasing and wanting, with a shadow of unease. Sam guessed that shadow was always there with him during this sort of encounter. But if Sam could help the shadow not turn into an obstacle, then that’s what he’d do. He held on to the sides of his chair. But, no, Hartley had said touching was acceptable, and Sam had better find out if that was true before they got much farther. With one finger, he brushed aside a lock of hair that had gone askew in the rain. Hartley’s hair had dried slightly wavy, in pale tendrils that lay across his forehead. He pushed it back, letting his fingertip linger on Hartley’s scalp.
“That all right?”
Hartley nodded and swallowed. “It’s good.” He unfastened Sam’s trousers and took him in hand.
“Are you hard now?” Sam asked. “Show me.” He paused. “If you want.”
Hartley bent his head to lick away the moisture that had gathered at the tip of Sam’s cock. Last time Sam had thought Hartley really liked doing this, liked the feel and taste of him in his mouth. Now, watching Hartley fumble with his own trousers, feeling Hartley’s sigh of relief against his sensitized skin, Sam knew it. Sam stroked his hand through Hartley’s hair, letting the strands slip between his fingers as Hartley took him into his mouth.
“Your mouth feels so good. I hope you’re giving your prick what it needs.” He felt as well as heard Hartley moan, the vibrations traveling up his prick and through his body.
Last time, Sam’s pleasure had been tangled together with holding himself back, with staying still and keeping his hands to himself. He might have thought that touching Hartley would undo some of that magic, but it had the opposite effect. He was only letting himself touch the other man so slightly, so gently, firmly within the rules Hartley had set, that he was still very conscious of all the things he wasn’t doing.
After a bit, Hartley’s rhythm faltered, and Sam guessed it meant he was nearing his climax, and that thought alone pushed Sam close to the brink. He grabbed the base of his erection and started stroking in time to Hartley’s sucking. “I’m close,” he warned, and he came in his hand as Hartley threw his head back with his own release.
A Gentleman Never Keeps Score Page 9