Gentleman Wolf (Capital Wolves duet Book 1)

by Joanna Chambers

  He heard Wynne’s footsteps approaching the door. A moment later, it creaked open, revealing Wynne’s pale face, his index finger laid lightly on his lips in a gesture that counselled silence.

  “Sir,” he whispered. “Mr. Nicol is here. I hope I did not do wrong, but when he called, I thought I should invite him to wait. I can send him away if you—”

  “No, no,” Lindsay interrupted. A surge of joy and satisfaction filled him, and he had to bite the smile from his lips before he added, “You did the right thing, Wynne.”

  Wynne looked relieved and stepped back. “I put him in the parlour and gave him some port wine,” he said as Lindsay brushed past. “He’s been waiting a quarter hour.”

  Lindsay barely heard him—he was already running up the stairs, as though he had the devil at his heels, leaving Francis to trail in his wake. He knew he was being ridiculous—as though Drew might change his mind and decide to jump out the parlour window—but somehow he couldn’t stop himself being absurd. Absurd and obvious.

  Entering his rooms, he strode towards the parlour, heart thudding with excitement. The very blood in his veins thrummed with a vivid joy that he objectively knew should be a cause for dismay, but in that moment, all he could do was surge onwards.

  Throwing the parlour door open, he stepped into the room and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of Drew. He was standing at the fireplace, staring into the flames with a melancholy expression, a glass of dark wine in his hand. At Lindsay’s sudden entrance, he jerked around.

  “Lindsay—”

  The sound of his name—his given name—on the man’s lips made Lindsay’s beast rumble its pleasure. His smile felt helpless. Uncontrollable.

  “Drew.” He moved further into the room. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  Drew stared at him, seeming surprised. Had Lindsay’s warm welcome taken him aback? If so, Lindsay could hardly blame him after the way he’d stormed out of Drew’s rooms last night. But no, it was more than that. Drew’s gaze, wide and startled, was travelling over Lindsay’s body.

  “You look... different,” he said at last, his voice husky.

  Lindsay glanced down at his body. He’d dressed in plain clothes this evening and his face was free of all cosmetics. His hair had escaped the ribbon holding it at his nape earlier and was now loose about his face, and he wore riding boots instead of the high-heeled shoes Nicol was used to.

  Feeling oddly naked, he gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I’m not at all prince-like this evening. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

  “I—no, of course not,” Drew stammered, dragging his gaze back up to Lindsay’s face. “I hope you don’t mind me calling so late,” he added. “After last night, I felt I should—”

  A new voice interrupted him. “Good evening.”

  Drew broke off and they both glanced at the doorway where the newcomer—Francis—stood. He walked towards them, a polite smile on his lips. “I hope I’m not interrupting?” Holding out his hand to Drew, he introduced himself. “Francis Neville. I’m pleased to meet you, Mr.—?”

  “Nicol.” Drew’s wary gaze flitted over Francis’s attractive face, then shifted between Francis and Lindsay assessingly.

  Lindsay opened his mouth to speak but Francis beat him to it.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Francis said warmly. “Any friend of Lindsay’s is a friend of mine.” Ostensibly, he addressed the comment to Drew, but he looked at Lindsay too, including them both in his smile. God damn Francis and his easy manners. In all the years Lindsay had known him, he’d been friend to everyone and lover to no one. Lindsay couldn’t count the number of times the man’s amiable demeanour had been misconstrued, and it seemed from Drew’s expression that he was misinterpreting it right now, probably wondering if the man was Lindsay’s lover.

  It didn’t help that Francis was lovely to look at, a slight, delicate beauty despite his boring dress sense. When he and Lindsay were together, speculation was inevitable, though of course Francis was almost always absurdly blind to it. Two and half centuries old and still as innocent as a country maid—in some ways, at least.

  “Francis,” Lindsay said, his tone somewhat strangled. “Do you suppose I might have a word with Mr. Nicol in private?”

  “Of course, my dear,” Francis said. “Are we still... going out? Later, I mean?” His eyebrows rose in enquiry.

  Drew frowned, glancing at Lindsay. “If you have another commitment—”

  “No, no,” Lindsay said quickly. “We were considering going out, but it’s nothing that can’t be postponed.”

  “Quite so,” Francis agreed promptly. “And in fact, now that I come to think of it”—he yawned theatrically—“I am rather tired. Would you both excuse me?” He made a shallow bow in Drew’s direction and smiled sweetly at him. “Mr. Nicol. I do hope we meet again.”

  Drew nodded politely but did not return the smile. His own expression was wary and, as ever, rather grave.

  When the door finally closed behind Francis, Lindsay turned to Drew. “Would you like some more wine?”

  Drew shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  “Do you mind if I help myself to some?”

  “Of course not, please go ahead.”

  “Thank you. Take a seat, won’t you? I’ll just be a moment.”

  He sensed Drew’s resistance to that suggestion, his desire to remain standing, but evidently Drew did not in the end consider it a point worth arguing, sinking into the same armchair he’d occupied that first night, while Lindsay poured himself some of the port wine.

  As Lindsay sat down opposite him, Drew said, “I shouldn’t have called without invitation. My apologies—it didn’t even occur to me you might have a guest.”

  “It’s fine,” Lindsay said, waving his hand and smiling reassurance. “Francis is a dear friend, but he arrived without forewarning so we had no settled plans.”

  “Even so,” Drew said tightly, “I feel as though I’ve spoiled your evening. You were planning to go out.”

  “There is nothing to spoil,” Lindsay assured him. “Our plan was for nothing more than a stroll to the nearest tavern. And in all honesty, I’d rather not. Besides, Francis has been travelling at quite a pace for the last week—he’s quite right that he needs to retire to bed.”

  Drew sipped at his wine, saying nothing.

  “So,” Lindsay said at last. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?”

  Drew’s mouth tightened and he looked unhappy. “I wanted to—” He broke off, falling silent and scowling into his wine.

  “Yes?” Lindsay prompted, watching him carefully.

  Drew glanced up, his expression troubled. “I felt—uncomfortable about how things were left between us last night.”

  “Why?”

  “The way you ran off.”

  In truth Lindsay barely remembered those last moments. His wolf had been so close to the skin. Carefully he said. “I hardly ran off.”

  “I wanted to see you back to your rooms,” Drew said, his voice tight. “But you wouldn’t wait.”

  “Well,” Lindsay said with a rueful smile, “As to that, I’m not actually as helpless as you think. The truth is, I allowed you to believe otherwise on that first evening because—well, because I wanted your company.”

  Drew stared at him, his handsome face unreadable. His scent—subtly delicious, sharp with interest and with a dark, dangerous edge to it—told Lindsay nothing of his state of mind, or why in God’s name he’d come here tonight. Did he want more of what had passed between them? Right now, he seemed too angry—too frustrated with Lindsay—for that. But why else would he come?

  When Drew stayed silent, Lindsay admitted, “I’m still not sure why you called on me.”

  Drew scowled and opened his mouth to speak, but still no words came. He had something to say though—he was practically vibrating with the pressure of the unsaid words.

  At length, Lindsay said gently, “Are you going to tell me
anything?”

  Abruptly Drew stood. He stalked to the fireplace and set his glass on the mantel. When he turned around to face Lindsay, he gestured at the closed door.

  “Is Neville—are you and he—?” He broke off on a frustrated huff.

  “Lovers?”

  Drew’s face flushed scarlet but he said nothing. His hands were in fists at his sides though, the knuckles showing white.

  Lindsay shook his head. “As I said earlier, Francis and I are friends. That’s all.”

  “You said ‘dear friends,’” Drew muttered.

  Lindsay suppressed a smile—he couldn’t help but enjoy what looked quite a bit like jealousy. His wolf liked it too.

  “We are dear friends,” he said. “We’ve known each other a very long time. That doesn’t mean there’s anything more between us.”

  Some of the tension seemed to go out of Drew at that. He exhaled a long breath, his gaze on the Turkish rug below his feet.

  “Drew?” Lindsay prompted, after several silent moments, relishing the intimacy of using his given name.

  Drew glanced up and their gazes met. Something about that eye contact soothed Lindsay in some inexplicable way. It set something right inside him, as though Drew was a key and Lindsay a lock and they fit together perfectly. And Christ but there was something frightening about that discovery, the realisation that Lindsay could feel like this.

  Perhaps Drew felt the same way because he dragged his gaze away, muttering, “I shouldn’t have come,” and began to move towards the door, adding under his breath, “God knows why I did. There’s no purpose to it.”

  Lindsay stepped into his path, laying a hand on Drew’s arm. “I’m glad you came,” he said in a driven tone. “Drew, listen, I’m glad—don’t go yet.”

  Drew looked at Lindsay and his gaze was tormented. “I really do have to go,” he said. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. I’ll let you get back to your friend.” Shaking off Lindsay’s hand, he stepped away and reached for the door handle.

  “Please Drew. Wait—”

  Drew froze with his hand on the door handle but didn’t turn around. “What is it?”

  “Just tell me why you came tonight. There was some reason. What was it?”

  Lindsay wasn’t sure what he expected. Perhaps he was hoping for an admission of overwhelming lust, some need or desire he could turn to his advantage. Perhaps he was hoping Drew would turn and grab hold of him. Pull him into a passionate embrace.

  But Drew did neither of those things, merely bent his head in defeated surrender so that he looked hopeless. Lindsay’s chest tightened painfully to see him like that. So tormented and unhappy.

  A dark and creeping guilt began to grow in Lindsay’s gut. He’d brought Drew to this, pressing him into an intimacy it seemed he wasn’t ready for.

  “Drew, I—”

  “I came because I needed to know you were all right.”

  Lindsay stared at him astonishment, and as though his attention was a magnet, Drew slowly turned to face him.

  “After you ran off like that last night,” he went on, “I was worried you might have been accosted again. It was driving me mad, not knowing if you’d got home safely. It’s been all I could think about, all day.”

  Lindsay’s heart was thudding hard now. “Didn’t Mr. Wildsmith tell you I was perfectly fine—when you first called, I mean?”

  “Yes, but I wanted”—he made a noise of frustration—"Christ, this is stupid!”

  “What?” Lindsay whispered.

  Drew glared at Lindsay, his face flushed. “I wanted to see for myself. There. I told you it was stupid.”

  It was stupid. More than Drew could possibly guess. Yet Lindsay’s throat closed at the admission, so angry yet so perfectly honest. That was Drew Nicol for you. Not an easy man, but an honest one.

  Before Lindsay could say anything in response, Drew muttered, “I have to go,” and turned away again, yanking the door open and striding out of the parlour. Lindsay’s wolf urged him to follow but he ignored the beast’s demands, forcing himself to respect Drew’s obvious need to be alone. Instead, Lindsay stood where he was, listening to the brief rumble of Wynne and Drew’s voices in the corridor outside, the grate of the latch as Wynne let Drew out.

  And then Drew was gone, tripping down the stone steps and heading back up to the Lawnmarket.

  Lindsay lowered himself into an armchair and closed his eyes.

  Had he really thought he could have a simple dalliance with Drew Nicol? He realised now what a colossal mistake that had been. His feelings for this man were sudden and complex and overwhelming. Unprecedented in all his long life. Lindsay didn’t want to have these feelings, not for anyone. Least of all for a man like Drew Nicol, who took every moment, every action, every word so God damned seriously, as though everything mattered.

  As though anything mattered.

  Lindsay knew better than that.

  It was past time he put this absurd obsession with Drew Nicol aside. It wasn’t going to help him achieve what he’d come to Edinburgh to do, and prolonging their association would only make leaving more painful in the long run.

  Wearily, Lindsay rubbed his hands over his face. Then he slowly got to his feet and made his way to bed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hector Cruikshank responded to Lindsay’s note by inviting him and Francis to call the next day at five o’clock.

  Wynne spent an age powdering Francis’s hair and applying cosmetics to his face, using a heavy hand so as to create cracks and wrinkles over Francis’s smooth, clear skin. He used too much powder and too many patches and generally made Francis look quite overdone. And yes, miraculously older.

  It was rather clever. And it made Francis—who didn’t have an ounce of vanity—laugh his head off.

  They were quite the pair as they left Lindsay’s rooms, Francis looking like an aging roué and Lindsay like a pure Macaroni in his pink-and-ivory striped coat, this time paired with ivory satin breeches.

  “You look like you’ve been spun out of sugar,” Francis chuckled. “All pink and white froth.”

  “Good,” Lindsay said, well-pleased. “Cruikshank thinks I’m an empty-headed fop and that’s the way I like it.”

  “He’s a shrewd man,” Francis replied. “Don’t underestimate him, Lindsay.”

  Lindsay grinned. “I won’t.”

  Emerging from the close onto the High Street, they headed up the Canongate towards town, ignoring the turned heads and raised brows of the passersby.

  After a brief silence, Francis said idly, “What did your visitor last night want? He seemed quite perturbed by my presence—I hope I didn’t misspeak?”

  “Not at all,” Lindsay reassured him. “And I don’t think he was perturbed—merely surprised to find someone with me.”

  “Oh, come on,” Francis said, with a roll of his eyes, “I may be a bit slow on the uptake sometimes, but I’m not blind, and my nose never lets me down. He was plainly shocked by my arrival, and the scent he was giving off was pure jealousy. Did he think we were lovers?”

  “At first,” Lindsay admitted reluctantly. “But I explained we were only friends.”

  “And you and him?”

  “And me and him what?”

  “Are you lovers?”

  Lindsay groaned. “I suppose,” he muttered. “Although ‘lovers’ suggests some kind of continuing arrangement. It’s... not like that.”

  “What is it like, then?”

  “Hmm, let me see. He is tormented by regret,” Lindsay said, his tone deceptively light, “while I pine for whatever scraps of attention I can get from him, even as I realise there is no future in it.”

  He felt Francis’s eyes on him but couldn’t bear to meet his gaze and show the depth of his feelings. Not that it mattered. Francis would scent exactly how he felt.

  At last Francis said softly, “That is not a happy situation. Is it you that wants him, or your wolf?”

  Lindsay snorted. “It’s both of us. I hardly kno
w what to make of it. He makes me feel so...” He trailed off, searching for the right words and finding none adequate to describe the intensity of the longing that filled him whenever he thought of Drew Nicol.

  Francis, ever patient, didn’t try to fill the silence, merely strolled beside him, his cane and heels tapping the ground rhythmically.

  Lindsay tried again. “I’ve never felt so attuned to another person. The day we met—the instant I smelled his scent, I felt as though I recognised it somehow. His presence—it’s so alive to me, as though there are invisible threads between us, trembling whenever he moves.”

  He felt Francis’s eyes on him again, the weight of his regard.

  “Did you ever feel anything like that?” Lindsay asked finally, turning to meet Francis’s light brown gaze. “With Marguerite?”

  Francis and Marguerite were as close as two of their kind could be without being lovers. Francis had once told Lindsay that he’d known the instant he’d seen Marguerite that she was his fate, but he insisted theirs was not a romantic bond. Not on Francis’s side anyway, though Lindsay had wondered sometimes about Marguerite’s feelings.

  Francis had been a novice priest prior to his transformation and had once admitted to Lindsay that he’d had no doubts about taking his oaths and foregoing the prospect of romantic love. In all the years that Lindsay had known him—near enough a century now—Francis had never taken any lover, not once. As far as Lindsay knew, he remained a virgin.

  Now though, as Francis gazed at Lindsay, his expression serious, he confessed, “Yes, I have felt something like you describe. I thought that maybe it came from being part-wolf and part-human, a mingling of animal instinct and human attachment.” He shrugged. “In truth, though, I just don’t know why it works like that. I’ve spoken to many wolves over the years and from what I can make out, very few have experienced this. It is not common.”

  Lindsay frowned, in no way reassured. “At first, I thought it was simple lust,” he admitted. “And perhaps it is, at least in part. Or rather, it feels as though it’s all snarled up with lust, so the two things can’t be untangled. Does that make sense?”