For Love and Country (Brothers in Arms Book 13)

by Samantha Kane

  “I don’t care what others think,” Barnabas said. “I need a warm body in my bed to assuage my physical needs without demanding a personal attachment or endangering my house or my work. You are the perfect solution.”

  “Hire a courtesan,” he spat at Barnabas. “That is what you’ve just described.”

  “That is what I am doing,” Barnabas said. “You know my price. Have I found yours?”

  “How can you do this to her?” Wetherald railed at him. “She is an innocent victim and you are using her to blackmail me.”

  “There are a thousand Melinda de Veres in London right now,” Barnabas told him. “It’s a sad statement of fact. I told you once I can’t get involved in every domestic dispute in England, and I can’t worry about them all. Sad situations happen without my knowledge or consent more often than I like to admit, and sometimes they happen with my knowledge and consent. This is a hard life and mine is a difficult position. As for blackmail, who’s to say?” He shrugged. “I consider it persuasion.”

  “You think you have it all worked out,” Wetherald snapped, pacing in front of the bench now. “But the same rules apply here. I cannot do this and still abide by my conscience and my moral and ethical standards.”

  “That is your prerogative, of course,” Barnabas agreed. “But keep in mind that this decision is purely selfish. You cannot vote against your conscience because others may be hurt by your decision. But in this case only you will be affected. If that is your choice, so be it. But I will give you until ten o’clock this evening to make your final decision. If I do not hear from you, Mrs. Jones will be summarily dismissed from my employ and dropped at an undisclosed location in London with the utmost secrecy. I’m not without some scruples, after all. De Vere will not learn her location from me. If, however, you decide you cannot live with the consequences of such a selfish decision, then I will expect to see you here at ten o’clock sharp.”

  “If I decide to come, there are no guarantees that I will allow you to bed me,” Wetherald said desperately. “I will only agree to allow you to attempt to change my mind.”

  Barnabas howled with victory inwardly, showing no emotion on the surface. He had him. If Wetherald were utterly opposed to the idea of fucking Barnabas, no argument would have sufficed to change his mind. He may not be in Barnabas’s bed tonight, but soon. Very soon. And then it was only a matter of time until Barnabas owned him, and his vote. It almost made the ridiculous amount of effort he’d already put into this endeavor worth it.

  Chapter 9

  Ambrose ripped off another cravat and threw it on the pile on the floor. He wasn’t sure what one was supposed to wear to their own seduction. He’d opted for formal attire. That was how he wanted to keep the entire meeting: formal. Perhaps then he could talk Sir Barnabas out of this madness.

  What had possessed the man to proposition him that way? Had Ambrose indicated in some way that he was receptive to such an offer? He had never—by word or deed—entertained the notion of sodomy. Not even in school when some lads were harassed by older boys or tested their newfound sexual prowess on each other. Ambrose had stayed pure.

  He was a virgin, for God’s sake.

  He reached for another pressed cravat and saw his hand shaking. Grabbing the cravat, he dragged a chair over in front of the mirror, sat down and started over. The clock in his bedroom chimed the half hour. Nine-thirty. He had to get this damned cravat on or he’d be late and Mrs. Jones would suffer the consequences. He knew Sir Barnabas too well. He was a blackguard and a bully, but he was a man of his word. If he said at ten o’clock, either Ambrose was there to be debauched or Mrs. Jones was out on the seedy streets of London; he meant it.

  “Reed,” he called out, desperation making his voice crack. He hadn’t wanted to let his valet know he was going out, which was ridiculous. Reed couldn’t know where he was going or why, and he wouldn’t ask.

  In moments Reed stood in the door. “Sir?” he asked, eyeing Ambrose’s formal attire in surprise. “I’m sorry, sir. I must have missed an invitation. Let me do that.”

  “This is an unexpected engagement,” Ambrose said truthfully. “I only received the invitation today.” Reed frowned at the break in social etiquette that was implied. Ambrose stood up and let Reed arrange his cravat.

  “I’m sorry about the mess,” he apologized, indicating the pile of crumpled cravats on the floor. “I thought I could do it myself.”

  “If gentlemen could do it themselves, there wouldn’t be a need for gentlemen’s gentlemen,” Reed admonished, fussing with the cravat.

  It occurred to Ambrose, not for the first time, that Reed was most likely a practitioner of unnatural love. For a brief moment Ambrose considered asking him about it, but thought better of it. This was not the time, nor was Reed the appropriate person.

  Reed executed a perfect ballroom tie. He tucked the ends under Ambrose’s braces. “There,” he said with satisfaction. He reached for the brush and dusted off the shoulders of Ambrose’s black jacket. Ambrose always wore black and white. It was simpler. He felt a fool in the garish colors that were becoming popular. He was a man, not a parrot. He’d been told it made him look unnecessarily severe. So be it. The more sober he looked this evening, the better. He hoped he looked like a damned monk.

  “Thank you, Reed. That will be all,” he said, needing a few more minutes to himself before he had to leave.

  Reed left quietly and Ambrose observed himself critically in the mirror. Formal black and white attire, hair and beard trimmed, brushed and combed properly, as usual. There was nothing about his person that indicated he was on his way to an illicit, unnatural liaison. Was it a liaison if he had no intention of having sexual relations with Sir Barnabas? Meeting. Yes, that sounded better. It was a negotiation, wasn’t it? He was going to try to convince Sir Barnabas to accept some other form of payment while continuing to protect Melinda from her husband. Ambrose had surely negotiated much more complicated agreements in the past. And Sir Barnabas was a reasonable man.

  Except when it came to Ambrose.

  He thumped his fist against his forehead. Now he wished he hadn’t been quite so stubborn with Sir Barnabas in the past. Lately it seemed as if the man took great pleasure in arguing with Ambrose and thwarting him at every turn. He was most unreasonable. Compromises might be made with others, but never with Ambrose. Of course, if he were honest he’d have to admit that he was also to blame, because he enjoyed treating Sir Barnabas the same way. Which made his proposition all the more astounding. How on earth could the same man who opposed him at every turn now want to…he couldn’t even bring himself to think it. It was inconceivable. Perhaps Ambrose had misunderstood.

  He straightened his waistcoat and checked to make sure nothing was out of place and then nodded. Yes, first order of business was to clarify exactly what Sir Barnabas had meant today. Wouldn’t he feel a fool when he discovered he’d been wrong? He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He grabbed his hat and walking stick and headed for the door. He hadn’t a minute to spare now because of his foolish nerves. He ran down the stairs, calling for his carriage.

  * * *

  Barnabas sat there tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair as he watched the second hand on the clock ticking away the time. Nine fifty-three. Wetherald had seven minutes to get here or Barnabas would have to live up to his word. Which meant kicking little Mrs. Jones out on her delicate derriere.

  He tapped his fingers faster and harder. Damn it, he couldn’t do it. And damn Wetherald for calling his bluff. Barnabas rarely misread people, and he’d assumed he knew Wetherald’s character. He’d not make that mistake again. He’d never expected such a saint to put his own well being above that of a helpless woman. Not that Mrs. Jones was completely helpless, but she was damned close when it came to her husband and his hired fists. But Barnabas was genuinely shocked that Wetherald cared more for his precious arse than her well-being. Barnabas would have to reevaluate everything he thought he’d known about the man.
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  Nine fifty-eight. Two minutes. Barnabas sat forward with a frown and grabbed a piece of paper and his pen. He’d have to turn this somehow so that his failure to force Mrs. Jones from his house was a decision made for his benefit and not hers. Something utterly selfish and Machiavellian, which is what Wetherald would expect of him.

  He briefly considered a bald-faced lie claiming that he was bedding her, but Wetherald would tattle to that crew of harpies who loved nothing better than descending on Barnabas’s peace and screeching a peel over his head. He shuddered. Besting Wetherald wasn’t worth that. Not to mention that Mrs. Jones would no doubt deny the affair convincingly and then he’d look the fool. Sir Barnabas James never looked the fool.

  He sat, pen poised over the paper, as the clock struck ten. As the last chime faded, there was a knock on his study door. “Come,” he called out sharply, irritated at the interruption. Soames opened the door.

  “Lord Wetherald, sir,” he said. He stepped aside and Wetherald took a hesitant step forward to stand in the door.

  “Am I late?” he asked with a frown, looking for the clock.

  “Indeed, the last chime has just sounded,” Barnabas said, sliding the empty page into his desk drawer as if he’d been working on something important and had forgotten Wetherald’s imminent arrival. He set his pen down. “But I will graciously allow that you were on time. Come in so that Soames may close the door.”

  Wetherald startled with a guilty expression and stepped into the room, blushing. Soames closed the door, leaving them alone. Wetherald didn’t come any closer. Instead he stood there frowning, and clasped his hands behind his back, as if ready to denounce Barnabas in the Lords. He wore his usual somber attire, not a hair out of place despite his obvious discomfort. Barnabas found the idea of fucking him until he was a disheveled disgrace very appealing.

  “Why am I here?” Wetherald asked.

  “I assume because someone brought you,” Barnabas said lightly, just to annoy.

  “That is not what I meant,” Wetherald said, no amusement on his face. “I meant, what do you want of me? To secure Mrs. Jones’s safety.”

  “You,” Barnabas said simply. He said no more, letting the implication sink in. Wetherald blushed furiously and frowned harder.

  “You cannot be serious,” he said at last. “You take great joy in opposing me on every issue. We are adversaries, not bedfellows.”

  “Adversaries often make the best bedfellows,” Barnabas argued calmly. “A little adversity adds a nice spice.”

  “This is outrageous,” Wetherald exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Have I, by word or deed, indicated that I would be amenable to such a perverse association?”

  “No,” Barnabas said honestly. “But that is immaterial to me. I am amenable. That is all that matters.”

  “And so you prove your detractors correct,” Wetherald snapped. “You care only for yourself and what benefits you.”

  “Of course,” Barnabas said. “We all do. Men like you pretend otherwise and preach long oratories about the selflessness of your positions, but in the end it is all orchestrated for your benefit, whether it is for your public image or your private accounts.”

  “That is a very jaded view,” Wetherald said sadly. “Can you not see the good in anyone?”

  “No,” Barnabas told him, irritated. “Because I am paid to ferret out the bad. And there is always bad.” He stood abruptly and Wetherald took a wary step back. Barnabas smiled wryly. “Don’t worry. I’m not ready to deflower you yet. I’m merely getting a whiskey. Would you care for one?” He’d dearly love to get Wetherald foxed so he could have his way with him without a great deal of fuss. Barnabas preferred to fuck sober, but it wasn’t a requirement.

  “I have no intention of being deflowered,” Wetherald said, clearly agitated. “I am not a young innocent girl.”

  “You may not be young or a girl, but I am beginning to believe you are indeed an innocent,” Barnabas said, watching in fascination as Wetherald blushed yet again. “I’m right, aren’t I?” He forced himself to look away and pour two glasses of whiskey while he waited for Wetherald’s response. He didn’t want to make him any more skittish.

  “There is nothing wrong with a man waiting for marriage before sharing his body with a woman,” Wetherald said stiffly.

  “Yes, well, the same cannot be said of sharing his body with a man,” Barnabas said, amused. “You weren’t expecting me to marry you, were you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Wetherald said. He didn’t reach out to take the whiskey glass Barnabas offered him, so Barnabas set it down on the table nearest the divan. “Men cannot marry.”

  “Exactly,” Barnabas said. “Consider this practice for when you do marry,” he suggested. “I like to fuck, not be fucked. That means that you will still be virgin, in that sense, on your wedding night. Problem solved.” He couldn’t stop his wicked smile when Wetherald went from red-faced to pale.

  “W-what?” he stammered. “How can you discuss it so blithely?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Wetherald,” he said impatiently. “It’s just shagging. Trust me, the angels do not sing on high. There is nothing sacred about it. It is profane, sweaty, dirty, carnal, and very much of this earth. Believe me when I tell you it’s better to be initiated into the realities with me than a scared little fellow virgin who has no idea what she’s doing, and will probably faint at the sight of a hard cock.”

  Wetherald lowered himself to the divan with a wan face and picked up the whiskey. He took a long swallow and then coughed as his eyes watered.

  “Please don’t tell me you don’t imbibe, either,” Barnabas said with a sigh. “Really, spirits will make this much better for both of us.”

  “If it is so distasteful to you, why do you do it?” Wetherald asked in a raspy voice. Barnabas liked that voice. It sounded like he’d had a cock shoved down his throat all night. Idly he wondered if he’d ever get Wetherald to do that, because that would be delicious. He’d make him go to his knees for it, of course. “Well?” Wetherald snapped.

  “What was the question?” Barnabas asked, frowning.

  “Surely there is some other method of payment for your continued protection of Mrs. Jones,” Wetherald said desperately. “There must be some arrangement we can come to.”

  “Oh, there is,” Barnabas said, gliding over to smoothly sit on the divan. Wetherald eyed him nervously so he kept his distance. For now. “The arrangement is that you will be at my beck and call sexually until I tire of you.” Wetherald started to speak and Barnabas cut him off. “Ah, ah,” he said, holding up a finger. “The more you argue the more intriguing I find you. The more you stammer and blush and sit there in your sartorial splendor, not a crease in your trousers or a hair out of place, the more I want to muss you up with a good, hard fuck. For some inexplicable reason, I find your protestations quite arousing. So be careful what you say and do.”

  “You have tied my hands,” Wetherald said desperately. “I cannot protest or you want me more?”

  “I can tie your hands,” Barnabas said eagerly. “I like that game.” He was deliberately baiting him because it was true, he found Wetherald’s innocence and protestations a mighty aphrodisiac, which was a surprise. Normally he liked his paramours to be experienced in bed. It was far more enjoyable for everyone involved.

  “What?” Wetherald said, his cheeks stained red again. “People do that?”

  Barnabas couldn’t help it—he laughed. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” He moved a little closer to Wetherald, surprised when the other man held his ground and didn’t flee, his lips pressed closed as if he was afraid to speak again. “But tying of the hands is for advanced students. Beginners start a little slower.”

  Barnabas sat back and regarded Wetherald over the rim of his whiskey glass. “Take off your jacket,” he said right before he took a drink.

  “I will not,” Wetherald said firmly, his chin jutting out. “I have not agreed to your unholy bargain.”

/>   “No?” Barnabas said. He reached over and pulled a cord, and a moment later Soames was at the door. “Send Mrs. Jones to me, please,” he asked the butler.

  “What are you doing?” Wetherald demanded after Soames nodded and left.

  “Why, I’m firing my housekeeper,” Barnabas said innocently. “That was the agreement. Unless you become my lover, she is out on the street.”

  He felt slightly guilty for manipulating Wetherald, but on the other hand, he got the distinct impression that the prim and proper politician was intrigued by the notion of becoming Barnabas’s lover. It wasn’t hubris. The facts spoke for themselves. He’d come tonight, for one. He hadn’t run when Barnabas got close, either. His eyes were dilated and his breathing fast. Those red cheeks were no longer embarrassment, but arousal. Barnabas was an expert at reading people. It was his job. And Lord Wetherald was very much aroused and trying to hide it because he was shocked and embarrassed by it. Truly, when Barnabas had made the suggestion he’d never imagined how delightful it was going to be to make Wetherald his lover.

  There was a discreet knock on the door, and then it opened and Mrs. Jones peeked in. “Yes, sir?” she asked. She spotted Wetherald and smiled shyly. “My lord,” she said.

  “Come in, Mrs. Jones,” Barnabas said. Wetherald was sitting there with a very stubborn look on his face, but his eyes were darting between her and Barnabas. “Sit down.” He gestured at the chair across from them. She gave him a wary look but perched prettily on the edge of the seat.

  “Yes, sir?” she asked.

  “Lord Wetherald is trying to decide whether or not to become my lover,” Barnabas said casually as he set his whiskey down on the table in front of him, not sure what had prompted the spur of the moment confession.

  “How dare you?” Wetherald exclaimed angrily.

  “He is?” she asked, with a shocked little squeak in her voice.

  “Yes, so I need a character witness,” Barnabas answered her, ignoring Wetherald. “Are you happy here?”