A Private Gentleman

by Heidi Cullinan

  Wes didn’t know how to classify it. It appeared to be a cattleya, but…no, not quite. The color was wrong, as was the shape. He’d seen plenty of two-toned orchids, but never one colored only on the lip. And such a vivid, dark purple—even faded, it was striking. The leaves were straplike, but the pseudobulbs weren’t nearly as pronounced as others he’d seen.

  Wes stood, pressing his hands together and lifting them before his lips. He was shaking, though not from fear or opium but excitement. This was new. This was a new orchid. Unnamed. Unknown.

  And dying. No care would save this one now. But Wes had seen it. The hell and humiliation of the night had been worth it.

  Pulling his notebook out of his pocket, he blinked a few times to try and clear his head enough to work. A great deal of the drug had left him, yes, but he was still somewhat groggy. His notes would be rough, alas, though it could accurately be argued that without the opium, he’d have no notes at all. He wondered if he dared linger a little longer to allow the narcotic to wear off entirely—ah, no, couldn’t let himself be discovered by a servant who would come in vain to nurse the doomed favorite of the mistress of the house.

  Still, he thought, shuffling to the window, a bit of cold air would do him good, and it wouldn’t matter to the dying plant. He threw open the casement and leaned on the sill, staring out at the sea of houses below. The windows had been opened in the ballroom, letting the din spill out into the night. From here it was a noise that almost soothed, and he shut his eyes and took deep draughts of cool night air, willing it to sharpen his opium-muddled mind. The wind rippled his hair. The mist dampened his face.

  A warm, firm hand took bold and possessive hold of his backside.

  “No more hiding. I’ve found you, darling,” a soft, sensuous voice said from behind him. “And thank goodness, for I am in the most desperate need of a rescuer.”

  Chapter Two

  Wes startled, but the hand behind him slid coyly over the curve of his cheek, fingers tucking meaningfully into the crease of his buttocks.

  His assailant spoke again. “You were right. This party isn’t worth doing. But leaving me to that randy baronet is too cruel by half. You’ve made your joke. Now help me dispatch Sir Joshua, love.” He stroked Wes’s thigh. After a pause, he added, “I shall give you an entire night for free.”

  Wes fumbled at the sill, bracing against the wood to keep from falling out the window. Even if he could speak, for once, he’d have no idea what to say.

  “Please, darling? Help me?” The hand around Wes’s waist crept forward to the front of his thigh. “I will be so very, very grateful.”

  Wes might have been frozen in confusion, but his erection was not so encumbered, and it swelled to full mast, making a mighty sail of the front of his trousers. He wanted to see who this was, but fear—and lust—kept him still. This was most certainly a mistake, and when the man learned this, the exchange would be over.

  His assailant’s fingers brushed sensually against the ridge of Wes’s cock. The man laughed, sounding surprised. “Ooh, Rodger. I was jesting, of course, but—I take it this is a yes? And such a very big, delicious yes.”

  Wes let out a sharp, short, “Huh!” and turned around.

  It was the pretty flirt from the ballroom, ignoring Wes no longer.

  The long blond curls were even more enticing at close range, playing delectably around his elegant face, all cheekbones and sensuous lips and bright hazel eyes. The sodomite—no question of that now—smiled seductively, his expression promising carnal delight as his hands played over Wes’s hips.

  The man stopped, leaned forward in a squint and went very pale.

  “Sweet heaven.” He drew back in alarm. “You aren’t Rodger.”

  No, Wes wasn’t, and he was suddenly very sorry. But he had to put the man at ease. “N-N-No, b-b-but you n-n-needn’t w-w-w—”

  “You’re him.” If it were possible, the blond man seemed more terrified now. He stumbled backward, looking as if he might faint. “You’re—you’re his—Daventry. You’re Daventry’s son.”

  Wes searched for words, but none came to his aid. It didn’t help that the pretty man was no longer full of charm and wiles. He was clearly terrified.

  “F-forgive me.” The man’s hand went to his throat, tugging weakly at the exquisite cravat. “I didn’t know— I thought— P-Please. Please, don’t—don’t—” His hands were held out before him, warding Wes away, but he was still backing up, and on the last “don’t” he ran into the wall. He did cry out then, and he flattened himself against the barrier.

  “Please.”

  Confused and more than a little concerned, Wes took a careful step toward the blond man.

  “G-g-g-g—” he began, stopped, sighed and drew breath to try again.

  The sound of a door opening roughly down the hall stayed him, though, and made the man against the wall cringe.

  “Vallant?” an angry voice called out. “Vallant, you sod, come out at once.”

  The blond man crumbled into himself, sinking slowly down the wall.

  “Vallant, when I find you, I’m going to spank that pretty white bottom until you scream.”

  Wes looked to the door between the sitting room and the unfinished bedchamber, then glanced at the door to the hall. Not even bothering to speak, he stepped forward, closed his hand over the blond man’s elbow and pulled him into the adjoining bedchamber just as the door to the sitting room crashed open with a mighty thump.

  “Vallant!”

  Wes took the trembling man into the shadows with him, tugging a sheet away from a chair it was protecting. With a deft toss he draped it between the chair and end table and secured both ends before drawing the man with him in the narrow space beneath the makeshift tent. The sodomite tried to recoil from Wes, but the door into the bedroom opened, and when the shout came again, the blond man stilled.

  “Vallant!”

  Wes stared into the dim, blue-tinged depth beneath the sheet. His companion had stopped shaking, but he appeared distinctly unwell, and it made Wes ache. Vallant, if that was indeed the man’s name, seemed vacant now, numb with his terror, torn between fear of the intruder and of Wes himself. He supposed the man feared exposure, that Wes would have him arrested for being a sodomite.

  He longed to explain this was in no way the case.

  Though he supposed he could simply fear Wes, stammering madman. The thought made Wes’s heart heavy and sad.

  The intruder’s voice drew him out of his self-pity. “Vallant, you bugger, bring your lily white arse out here where I can see it, or so help me, I’ll drag you back to my house and do it in front of my staff. And then do you with my staff.” He chuckled darkly, sounding proud of his joke. He also sounded very, very drunk.

  Footsteps echoed around the room before stopping not far from Wes and Vallant’s hiding place. Wes heard the sound of liquid sloshing, as if in a flask.

  Vallant shut his eyes.

  The newcomer’s words began to slur. “Nasty little sod. Don’t play coy with me. You know you want this cock.” Another grunt. “Yes. You want it, you filthy whore. Had a taste of it, and now you want it again. Come on.” A pause gave way to a sharp slap of hands. “Come on!”

  Vallant jumped at the sound. Without thinking, Wes reached out to gentle him with a hand on his knee. Vallant’s eyes flashed to him, full of terror, and the sight made Wes ache. He tried to smile his most reassuring smile. He kept his hand on Vallant’s knee, stroking his companion with his thumb. It wasn’t exactly an erotic gesture, but neither was it innocent.

  Vallant eyed him with guarded suspicion.

  Wes extended his free hand, palm up. Then he lifted his other from Vallant’s knee, and with a wry smile, inclined his head in a small bow.

  Vallant continued to watch him.

  “Vallant!” Sir Joshua barked. The shout echoed against the empty walls. The baronet mumbled beneath his breath as the sound of footsteps came closer. Both Vallant and Wes tensed when the sheet rippled and
the chair creaked. But Sir Joshua didn’t find them, only grunted and farted as he settled back in the chair anchoring their sheet, breathing heavily.

  “Fucking cocktease,” he grumbled. Another grunt, another fart, and then a belch as well.

  Wes and Vallant held very still. They also tried not to breathe.

  Sir Joshua did not rise. After the passage of a few more minutes, he began to snore.

  Wes and Vallant were trapped. They sat beneath the sheet, inches apart and staring at one another. Vallant no longer looked terrified, but he didn’t look settled, either. The strangest thing, however, was that Wes got the distinct feeling it wasn’t Sir Joshua who upset Vallant the most. It was Wes. And the longer they sat there, silent and staring, the more desperately Wes wanted to know what about him inspired such a reaction.

  Careful not to make a sound, he reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his notebook and pencil.

  Balancing the paper against his leg, he wrote, I will not expose you. He started to pass it over before pulling it back to add, Not to Sir J nor to any other. You have no need to fear.

  He handed the notepad over and watched carefully for Vallant’s reaction.

  Vallant’s first move was to lift the paper very close to his face, though after studying it, he glanced up at Wes, his look still wary. Which meant he hadn’t feared exposure.

  Which meant he feared the other.

  Grimacing, Wes motioned for the paper.

  I am not a madman. Only a stammerer. It is my tongue, not my mind, which is my affliction. His lips tightened as he added, Certainly I am preferable to he whose wind gags us and uneven snores prevent us from escaping.

  He handed the pad over brusquely and waited.

  Once more the pad went all the way up to Vallant’s nose. This time, however, when he read Wes’s note, he blushed.

  “I don’t—” he began in a whisper, but as soon as he spoke Sir Joshua snorted and stirred. Wes laid a finger to his lips and passed over the pencil. Vallant took it and wrote hurriedly.

  I don’t think you’re mad. Thank you for helping me. Certainly you had no cause to.

  It was kind of Vallant to say this, of course, but it helped Wes not at all. He wrote again.

  Then why do you fear me?

  He was ready for Vallant to object, to insist he didn’t, but to his surprise, Vallant seemed abashed. He hesitated over the pad.

  You are Daventry’s son.

  Wes glanced at him, but Vallant wasn’t meeting his gaze. Wes wondered why the devil that was. Because of his father, apparently, but that explained nothing that would help him now. Fear of the office, perhaps?

  He tried for levity.

  An accident of birth. I’m afraid I’m nothing like my father, and he would be the first to tell you so. Emphatically. After some thought he added, I shan’t tell him anything either, if that gives you any comfort.

  The pencil stub ended up in the corner of Vallant’s mouth, where he nibbled absently at it before writing his reply.

  You are oddly tolerant of my nature.

  Ah.

  A return confession felt redundant after his reaction in the anteroom, but it seemed Vallant would demand it of him. Wes wrestled with phrasing, wanting to be clear to Vallant while being coded enough for another to fail to accurately decipher it should they find their notes. In the end he decided there was nothing for it, and he would need to burn these pages the moment he returned to his apartments.

  I share it.

  To his surprise, Vallant only gave a grim smile. His reply was swift.

  I meant that I am a whore. Somehow I doubt you claim that nature as well?

  Was it terrible that Wes felt aroused by the conversation? Likely. He tried to absorb himself in composing a reply, which took some doing, both the absorption and the reply itself. What did one say to that? No, don’t mind at all, old chap? What are your rates, perhaps I can give you some business?

  Aloud, he would have no hope of continuing the conversation. Indeed, he would never have made it this far. But here, trapped as they were… Perhaps it was all the pent-up frustration of the evening, perhaps it was the opium, or perhaps it was simply Vallant himself, but Wes suspected very much he was flirting.

  If all are as delightful as you, I should hope to encounter many more of your peers. If I am mistaken, however, I shall happily embrace you as an exception.

  Vallant’s surprise at this reply was quickly masked, but Wes took pleasure in the suspicion that it flattered rather than alarmed him. When the notepad returned to him, Vallant presented it with a slight smile playing at his lips.

  I apologize for my familiarity earlier. I honestly did mistake you for my friend.

  Wes’s reply was as swift as he could write it.

  Pray, think nothing of it. I live in hope you make the mistake often in the future. And I envy your friend.

  This time Vallant’s mirth was more difficult for him to repress, though by his reply he clearly meant to keep trying. Whores are meant to be bought with money, my lord, not flattery.

  Another quick reply, one Wes gave almost without thinking.

  Perhaps it is not the whore I am trying to buy.

  This, though, upset Vallant, who went still and wary at once. His reply was also swift, his hand shaking slightly.

  You have only seen the whore, I promise you. And him, sir, you must purchase with shillings.

  Wes cast up his eyebrow. He had no idea why Vallant thought he would swallow such a lie.

  Perhaps it wasn’t Wes he was lying to.

  He should let it go, he knew. What he meant to pursue with such a man he had no notion. Sir Joshua was well asleep now, and they could easily make their escape. Yet he could not stop himself from writing again.

  I have seen only a whore in the same way you have seen only a stammerer.

  Vallant stared at the paper a long time. This time he didn’t chew the pencil, but he did nibble his lip. He glanced up at Wes, searching for something in his face. Then he returned to the paper.

  What is it you want, my lord?

  It was a fair question. Wes wished he knew its answer. From Vallant, he had no idea. Certainly he wouldn’t confess the answers that rose in his mind: it had been some time since his last congress, which had been rough and hurried. Also he was lonely, and Vallant was achingly pretty. But because he was enjoying pretending he was witty and clever, and seeing such reflected in another’s eyes, he pretended to misunderstand.

  An orchid no man has yet discovered and the power of speech enough to describe it to my peers.

  Vallant only gave him a withering—but reluctantly amused—glance and handed the notepad back. “From me, my lord,” he whispered.

  Oh, devil take it. Wes wrote again.

  Well, if I am wishing for the moon, I should long for a kiss, but rest assured I don’t expect one.

  His nerves fluttered this time as he handed it back. He’d hoped Vallant would laugh, but he didn’t. Neither did he recoil, however.

  As your reward?

  Wes shook his head, not meeting Vallant’s gaze. He felt foolish now for his confession. Yes, what was he playing at with Vallant? Did he imagine he would charm the man? Did he think this would bring the man to his bed? Vallant had made it plain that money would. Still, even as he chided himself, part of him yearned for one more exchange, one more flirtation. Because no, he didn’t even want a kiss, much as he wouldn’t refuse one. He only wanted to extend this strange, beautiful moment—handwritten exchanges with a male whore beneath a bedsheet while his assailant snored beside them—as long as he possibly could.

  Which, he decided, was a destination he had reached.

  Motioning with his head, he slipped quietly out from beneath the sheet. Vallant glanced worriedly toward Sir Joshua, but the baronet slept on. Wes extended his hand and helped Vallant rise, and together they moved in silence across the room to the door. It creaked when opened, and Sir Joshua stirred enough to murmur incoherently and release more wind,
but that was all. They passed safely into the adjoining room, and Wes closed the door without a sound.

  Pocketing the notepad and pencil, Wes turned to Vallant with a smile he hoped appeared wry and not full of the ridiculous sad longing he felt. But his half smile slid away as he took in the strange look on Vallant’s face. He waited, but Vallant only continued looking at him carefully. At last, Wes could take it no longer.

  “W-w-what—?” he began, though he stopped as Vallant lifted a hand and pressed two warm fingers against his lips.

  “Hush,” he whispered. His eyes fell to his fingers at Wes’s lips, and when they rose again, they were enticingly soft and open. Now it was he who offered a half smile, though his was laced with quiet uncertainty. “No more stammerer nor whore—not just yet.”

  Wes shook his head. “I c-c-can’t s-s-s-stop it.”

  “I can,” Vallant replied, the words tickling Wes’s ear and leaving gooseflesh on his skin. Vallant leaned forward and pressed his lips to the place where his fingers had been.

  In his surprise, Wes did not close his eyes, which was why he saw that neither did Vallant. The other man’s eyes were slits, but they were open and watching. Their gazes held and locked as their lips met, remaining so even as Vallant drew back to end the kiss.

  Wes let out a breath in a shuddering rush and lifted his own hand to Vallant’s face. Brushing his knuckles against Vallant’s cheek, Wes stared down at his companion in surprise. Vallant leaned into Wes’s touch. His fingers pressed against Wes’s chest, five pinpoints of gentle pressure.

  They stared at each other a little longer.