A Private Gentleman

by Heidi Cullinan

  And then they arrived at the university.

  Wes led Michael through the colleges, letting him linger and delight at porticos and arches, taking his own pleasure in watching Michael light up over so many simple things, like narrow passages and lanes and doors that looked “absolutely medieval!” But he kept him going, herding him onward to his ultimate destination. In truth he should have left it for the morrow, for the day was growing long, but he couldn’t wait. When he’d envisioned this trip, he had one place in mind in which to take his lover, and they were now nearly there. A turn down New College Lane onto Cattle Street, and there, across from Hertford College, it stood waiting.

  Bodleian.

  Best of all was that Michael had no notion of what it was. He only marveled at the architecture and the door, imagining dragons and princesses, then amending it to “nefarious professors, waiting to pile books atop unsuspecting boys’ heads.” Wes only smiled and ushered him inside. And watched. And enjoyed as it dawned on Michael that he was in a library. An old, monstrously large, musty old library.

  When on occasion librarians and caretakers came forward to question who they were, Wes took care of dispatching them, making certain nothing came between Michael and his discoveries. It was, Wes decided, rather as if someone could take him into a museum of plants, where all the species of the world were contained, greater than any botanical garden Wes had ever dreamed existed. Michael walked slowly, hushing his footsteps and behaving as if he had entered the holiest of churches. For almost an hour he simply wandered, touching nothing, only taking in the great halls, the alcoves, the stacks that reached all the way to the top of the vaulted ceiling. And then, as if it had finally become too much, he collapsed against a pillar and pressed his hands together over his mouth, his eyes full and dark and shining.

  “Oh, Albert,” he whispered, staring off at another hall, another avenue of books. “Oh, Albert.”

  “G-Go on,” Wes urged him. “Explore.”

  Michael did. He ran his fingers over spines. He asked librarians where he might find such-and-such, or the volume written by so-and-so. Several times he ended up in happily spirited debates with other browsing scholars, students and sometimes the librarians themselves.

  The man, Wes realized, was at home. As much as Wes was at home in a garden, this library was where Michael Vallant bloomed.

  In total they were there for three hours, leaving only when the building itself shut down. Michael was disappointed, but he refused to believe they’d been there that long, and once he was proved that they had been, he chastised Wes for not removing him earlier.

  “We’ve missed dinner.” He shook his head as they exited the building. “You should have told me.”

  “I w-w-will find you something to eat,” Wes promised, smiling. He swore he had done nothing but smile since the moment he picked Michael up that day.

  Michael stopped their walking, and after a glance around, he pulled Wes into a dark corner of an arched door, blocked the view from the street with his umbrella and pressed his lips to Wes’s own.

  It was a soft, sweet, almost magical kiss. A kiss of thanks. A kiss of wonder and lightness. And for all that, it made Wes’s eyes close and stole directly into his soul.

  When they finally drew apart, they walked in silence. Wes longed to take Michael’s arm—in fact, he had to check the gesture several times. But of course that would not do. They walked as close as possible, back through the maze of colleges and passages, back to the city center, stopping at last at the warm light of a pub. Wes secured them a private dining room, where they sat close together and talked quietly as they drank wine and ate bowls of stew.

  “Did you go to Oxford?” Michael asked. “You seem so familiar with it.”

  Wes shook his head and refilled Michael’s glass. “N-No. I was t-t-tutored at home until I was s-s-sixteen. Then I took up my p-plants in earnest. But I have c-c-come here to do research and to h-help with gardens.” He cast Michael a wry glance. “D-Do I d-d-dare offer to show you the B-Botanical G-Garden tomorrow?”

  “Albert darling, after that library, you could plant me in a pot and I would be content.” He touched Wes’s arm, his eyes shining. “I shall never forget it. Never.” He squeezed. “Thank you.”

  The door opened to a maid, and Michael drew back his hand, but Wes felt the burn of it lingering there.

  “W-What of y-you?” Wes asked. “Would you h-have liked to g-go to university?”

  He worried that the question strayed into delicate territory, and a shadow did cross Michael’s face before he shrugged. “It was never a given. I longed to, yes, but I never let myself get attached, even—before. I had dreams of being a scholarship boy, but likely those were phantoms as well. Who would grant money to a whore’s son?” He laughed without mirth. “Honestly, it would have come to nothing. I longed to be a barrister, but at best I suspect I would have been a clerk. I would have been one of the lonely souls I service.” He paused, a different shadow passing over his face.

  There seemed to be a story there, but instinct led Wes to redirect the conversation entirely. He asked what books Michael had found, what had been the most interesting, and this let loose a torrent of words, most of which swirled around Wes’s head without landing, but he smiled and nodded and listened, being careful to pick up enough detail to press him with deeper questions.

  He kept Michael’s glass full as well, letting his companion grow tipsy, but when he began to tip as well, Wes called for his bill and laid out his coin before handing a note of instruction to the innkeeper. Michael listed against him, looking confused as Wes led him outside.

  “We aren’t staying at the inn?” he asked.

  “No.” Wes helped Michael into the carriage that pulled into the inn’s drive.

  He sat across from Michael as they drove, enjoying the way the streetlights played across his face, his loosened necktie, his open waistcoat. Michael stared back, looking relaxed and sated.

  “You got me drunk,” he accused without rancor.

  “A b-bit,” Wes admitted.

  “To have your way with me?” The question was playful, but Wes could hear the sliver of unease behind it.

  He shook his head. “To r-relax you.”

  Michael was quiet a moment. “I want you to have your way with me.”

  Heat seeped through Wes, but he kept himself neutral. “B-But you are af-fraid.”

  Michael frowned. “I don’t wish to be.”

  Wes pushed all carnal thoughts aside and leaned forward to make sure Michael could see the earnestness on his face. “I expect n-nothing from you,” he assured him. “N-Nothing need h-happen tonight.”

  This only seemed to upset Michael further. “You don’t want me any longer—not as a lover? Only as a friend?”

  The heat crept back into Wes. “I w-w-want you m-more than I can s-s-say.”

  “But you’ll do nothing if that’s what I wish.” Michael considered this. “But—that makes no sense, Albert. You should expect something. You bought me.”

  Wes drew back. He sputtered for several seconds before he could speak. “N-N-No! I b-b-b-b—” He drew a breath. “I p-p-paid for your t-time. Your c-company.”

  “My company,” Michael drawled, “implies using me for sex.”

  “I would n-never,” Wes said, unable to keep the anger from his tone, “use you for th-that.”

  Michael seemed more confused than ever. He tried several times to speak, but in the end he could say nothing, only look at Wes with a stunned expression.

  Blessedly, the carriage slowed and stopped, and the coachman came around to let them out at their destination.

  The small cottage was completely dark, which was to be expected, but the door, happily, was unlocked and waiting for him, which meant the larder was filled as well, and the coalbin—yes, he saw, peering into the sitting room—filled to the brim. He tried to decide if he should bother lighting a fire downstairs or simply show Michael to bed when Michael spoke behind him from the
foyer.

  “What is this place?”

  Wes gestured around the front rooms. “A c-c-cottage. Belongs to an ac-c-cquaintance at the gardens. I b-b-borrow it when I’m in Oxford.” He tried to read Michael’s face in the dark, but it was impossible. Too many shadows. “W-Would you rather w-w-we return to t-t-town?” He wondered if he could still catch the coachman.

  “Oh—no!” Michael said quickly. He rubbed his hands over his arms as he glanced around the room. “No. It’s charming. And there are no servants, I assume? Just the pair of us?”

  “Y-Yes,” Wes confirmed, watching again.

  Michael said nothing, only continued looking around. Abruptly, he turned back to Wes.

  “What do you mean, you would never use me for sex?”

  He seemed upset, and Wes couldn’t figure out why. He also had no idea how to further explain himself, so he simply shook his head.

  “You have,” Michael pressed. “You’ve used me twice. Once at the party, and once at Dove Street.”

  Wes frowned. “N-No. At the p-p-party you emb-braced me. I th-th—” The truth was, it had been a delightfully spontaneous moment, a sort of celebration of…life, or something equally, beautifully daft. But he could hardly say that. He swallowed. “And at D-D-Dove Street you as-as-as-asked for me. I n-n-never used you.”

  “What were you doing then?” Michael demanded. He wasn’t angry, but he seemed…oddly agitated. “What do you call that, if it isn’t using me for sex? Making love?”

  He spat the last two words with such derision that Wes couldn’t speak for several seconds, until at last he was able to overcome his stammer and say, “Y-Y-Y-Y-Yes.”

  Michael stared at him. Outside the rain beat down on the cottage roof, relentless. Inside it was cold and dark, but Wes could see Michael’s face, the wine leaving him bare. Confused. Upset. Doubting, almost angry. Wes began to shake. He’d taken a pill, quietly, at dinner. He’d taken one as well in the library, when Michael hadn’t been looking. He longed for one now. He felt jagged and raw, no envelope of calm. He needed one. This was too much. He didn’t know what to do. He was too weak. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t—

  “You were making love to me.” Michael took a step forward. His eyes bore into Wes. “Even that first time. Not hot release with the confessed whore who wanted to thank you. Making love. Love.”

  Wes couldn’t answer. He wanted to reach for his notebook, to let it give him his words, but it was too dark for Michael to read them. He nodded instead, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. He pressed his back to the wall, hating himself, hating his weakness. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t do this!

  Michael closed the distance between them, his eyes drunken and wild. “Do you love me, Albert?”

  Wes’s breath caught. He stared at Michael. He gripped the wall.

  He nodded and closed his eyes, too terrified to look any longer. The words burst from him, driven out by the fear. “Y-Yes,” he whispered. “Y-Y-Yes, I l-l-love you.”

  Michael’s hands pressed against Wes’s chest, and he startled.

  “No you don’t,” Michael whispered back. He sounded terrified too.

  Wes nodded again. “Y-Yes. I d-d-do.”

  Fingers curled into his chest. “When? When!”

  Panic—Michael was panicked. Wes wanted to laugh. He wasn’t alone in that.

  Michael gripped him tighter. “When? When did you fall in love with me, Albert?”

  Wes tried to think. When? He searched back, trying to find the moment. At the gardens, when he asked for a kiss? No. Before that. In the blue room at Dove Street? No. He’d been gone before then. When? When—

  He did laugh, then. He opened his eyes, trying to speak, but he only sputtered. Claiming Michael’s hand, he moved it, slowly, down to his groin.

  “Th-Then,” he whispered.

  Michael frowned. Then he frowned harder. “When I thought you were Rodger?” He pursed his lips together and tried to push away. “Be serious, Albert.”

  Wes held him in place. Wes’s cock was soft, but at their combined touch, it started to stir. “Then,” he insisted. He fought for his words. “S-So bold. S-So b-beautiful.” He steadied himself with a breath and made himself look Michael in the eye. “S-So f-f-fragile. L-Like a f-f-flower.” He pressed Michael’s hand closer. “And th-then you k-k-kissed me. I was l-lost.”

  Michael was like a flower now. A beautiful, travel-weary orchid, petals ready to fall. “But I was just a whore.”

  Now Wes frowned, and he shook his head. “B-Beautiful. You were b-beautiful.” He let go of Michael’s hand and reached up to touch his face. “Y-You are b-beautiful. Always.”

  Michael’s eyes were shining again, and he was very still. “You love me,” he whispered.

  “I l-love you,” Wes agreed. Michael shivered, and Wes stroked his cheek. “It’s c-c-cold,” he said. “We should m-make a f-fire.”

  “Yes.” A tear ran down Michael’s cheek. “Yes, we should.”

  Leaning forward, Michael pressed his body hard against Wes’s own as he swallowed him in a kiss.

  Chapter Twelve

  After several wonderful, disoriented minutes, Wes decided it would be best if they went upstairs.

  Kissing and touching until Wes’s hip hit the rail, they stumbled upward, stopping on occasion to fall against the stairs as hands and lips had their way. By the time they reached the top, Michael had Wes’s jacket halfway off his body and his own necktie dangled around his neck.

  Inside the room, things immediately became more intense, more desperate. Jackets and waistcoats fell away completely, and when the lawn of shirts opened to reveal skin, they both tried to attack each other at once. Michael won that round, pressing Wes back upon the bed and keeping his arms prisoner as he made a feast of his lover’s chest, kissing the line of hair, teasing nipples with his tongue. Wes gained some ground when Michael stood to divest himself of his trousers—he leaned forward and caught his lover’s waist, holding him in place as he dove straight for the proud, erect root before him and drove it deep into his own throat. Michael cried out and gripped Wes’s hair—Wes groaned and urged those slim hips forward to fuck him gently. He tasted the salty, bittersweet tang of Michael, just a tease, but enough to spur him on.

  And then Michael pulled back, grabbed Wes’s shoulders and straddled him.

  They moaned and shouted and grunted as they fought to pleasure one another. Managing to lose all clothing save their socks, they wrestled across the bed. Wes thought he had Michael good to rights, gripping his lover’s bottom from beneath, sliding into place to take Michael’s cock back into his mouth again, but Michael, after more gasping and breathless thrusts, bent around Wes’s hip and applied his tongue directly to Wes’s bunghole. Electricity shot through Wes, and he went weak—weak enough for Michael to flip him to his stomach, straddle him, pry his cheeks apart and feast on that dark entrance until Wes was incoherent.

  Michael rolled him back over, rested on his knees and presented his own backside for the same.

  Wes went to the job eagerly, his cock throbbing at the whimpering sounds Michael made. He slicked his lover well, pushing his tongue into the flexing opening before carefully inserting a finger.

  Michael arched back and pressed down to swallow the digit deep.

  Soon Michael was bent over the pillows, knees spread wide as Wes slicked him with spit and speared him over and over, making him sigh and plead and shudder. Wes wanted more. He wanted to go downstairs and find the satchel and the salve he’d tucked inside so he could drive himself home. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in the world. But even lost in passion, even with the wine and his confession—perhaps because of it—he knew Michael’s panic could return.

  Eventually it did.

  At first Michael thrust back against Wes’s fingers, but then he slowed, and then he stilled. Wes withdrew, returning to kisses, trailing them over Michael’s backside and up his spine, but by the time he got to Michael’s collarbone, his
lover was rigid, his knuckles white in the moonlight as they gripped the sheets.

  Wes shifted his erection away from Michael’s leg, put a hand over those clenched fingers and kissed the side of his head. “It’s all r-r-ight,” he whispered.

  Michael’s voice broke on a soft sob. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shh.” Wes eased himself down beside Michael on the bed and drew him into his arms. “It’s all r-right.”

  “No.” Michael settled onto Wes’s shoulder, but his right hand closed angrily over the center of Wes’s chest. “No, it’s not. I hate that I’m like this. I hate that I’m like this with you.”

  Wes weighed his words before speaking. “Is it y-your past?”

  “Yes,” Michael admitted wearily. “It is. Which is why it makes me so furious. Why? Why can’t I let it go? Why must I be beaten by something so stupid? It never upset me before. Why now? And most of all, why when it isn’t angry revenge or cold-hearted, empty fucking—why with you?” He shuddered as his voice lowered to an angry whisper. “Why am I so weak?”

  “You aren’t weak, Michael,” Wes said firmly, and sealed the statement with a kiss against Michael’s hairline.

  Michael sagged into him. “You said all that without a single stammer.”

  Wes smiled to himself and stroked Michael’s arm. “I am c-comfortable with you.”

  “You love me,” Michael repeated.

  “Yes,” Wes agreed, drawing him closer for a brief, affirming embrace. “I l-love you.”

  “Even though I am a complete idiot and fall to pieces when you try to make love to me?”

  “You aren’t an idiot.” Wes stroked his arm again. “You are w-wonderful.” He gentled Michael with a few more strokes. “Y-Your fear isn’t unlike m-my st-stammer. Be g-gentle with it.” He thought of his confession to Penny about the thief, about Penny herself, huddled beneath the wagon, and of Michael, young and vulnerable and finding out his mother had sold him. “Treat that p-part of you like a y-young child you find w-w-weeping. It isn’t f-far from the truth, I s-suspect.”