Good God, they might all be mentally stable, but gracious weren’t they loons? This had to be why Stuart Graham rarely visited; the chaos here was more difficult, though granted—less lethal—than it had been on the Western Front.
“Go to the drawing room and have a drink to settle your nerves, Mr. Cockburn. I can manage from here out.” Nelson shooed him out the door, holding his hand for the apron Joachim still wore over his evening clothes.
As if he hadn’t managed perfectly well up until that point. Cockburn had grown up in the kitchen helping his mother ready feasts for church luncheons and fêtes. He was skilled with organization and timing. Key in mass production of food.
And really, what would Ainsley and Trixie have been serving if he hadn’t been there?
Not that he needed to be thanked for his efforts, but perhaps not treated as though he was immaterial might be nice. Fucking hell: he was being a bore. He strode to the drawing room and someone hurried up behind him.
“Bravo, Mr. Cockburn. You’ve handled everything beautifully.” Ainsley’s mother touched his hand. And he felt it, which was perhaps the oddest part of it. “I hope Ainsley realizes what a catch you are.” She rather sounded as though she didn’t believe he would.
“Me too, Maisie. He’s a character, indeed.” Was he truly carrying on a conversation with a ghost? He smiled at her. Not only was he doing that; she appeared to be the most reasonable person in the house.
“Cockburn, how do you like this?” From the top of the staircase, Ainsley twirled fast enough to embarrass Maisie—if she hadn’t already disappeared.
The man was made to wear a kilt. The lemon-yellow jacket was...well... Ainsley-ish in the extreme. And it suited him.
Their eyes locked as the younger man drifted down the stairs, and Joachim had to force his brows together and form a faint scowl when really all he wished to do was shower his ginger in compliments and kisses. The burning of his cheeks probably gave him away.
“We could have put you on a platter and served you up.” He winked.
Ainsley beamed. Until he caught himself. Cleared his throat and pulled Joachim by the arm to the drawing room. Not hard, as he relied on his walking stick rather heavily after standing and cooking for so many hours.
Trixie stood by the wet bar and poured two sherries. She handed one to a platinum blonde curled on the sofa with her feet tucked up, shoes in a muddle on the floor.
She stroked the mauve netting of her gown in a way that reminded him of a kitten giving itself a bath. Her face was feline, as well; all big brown eyes and an absurdly perfect bow-shaped mouth.
“Lovely to see you, Ainsley. Who’s this?” Her voice was so strongly accented from somewhere even farther north, Joachim had to stop and translate what she’d said.
“I had no idea you were coming, Poppy. This is—” Ainsley cut his eyes over to him.
Would Ainsley call him a friend, as he did with Barley and Trixie? Or had they moved past that into something...more?
“Stuart’s friend Joachim Cockburn.” Ainsley turned away. “He’s here for a few days. Leaving Monday or so. Drink, Cockburn?”
He needed to breathe and get some air back in his lungs, but was incapable just then. Which was idiotic. It’s not as though he was in a position to continue this brief fling once he went back home. He nodded for the drink. He wasn’t a believer in anesthetizing pain in the long term, but that stung, and if that proclaimed him a fool—well, he was.
Cockburn sat next to Poppy Whomever-she-was at her urgent gesturing. Did his best not to show the small worm of doubt zigzagging in his guts.
“Stuart’s friend? Oh, how scrumptious. How is dear Stuart?” She nearly climbed into his lap while she squeaked.
“Fine.” His voice worked, though fainter than usual. He took the brandy snifter from Trixie who flanked his other side.
“Poppy’s crushed on Stuart for years. Can you even imagine that wurp inspiring any sort of devotion?” Trixie rolled her eyes and sipped. “And Stuart blusters and turns red and can’t keep his head up when she’s around, so you’ll just have to finally move on, darling. The man was a born bachelor.”
The doorbell rang and Ainsley straightened his tie. Met the guests at the door. Alec Barley looking well, black hair brushed back. He came to Joachim, who stood, wobbling a bit on his ankle. At first Barley shook hello and wrapped his second hand around Joachim’s forearm. An odd warmth flowed through his chest. Hypnotic blue eyes seemed to stare down into his soul.
“What’s wrong with your ankle? The right, is it?”
“Old war injury. It’s nothing.”
Barley frowned. “Perhaps you’ll let me look at it after supper? I’ve had some success with...things like that.”
Joachim flashed a friendly smile that promised nothing and turned to the door. “Ainsley’s been tending to it while I’ve been here. I’m fine.” The last thing he needed was to be hypnotized or some such tripe. It was hard enough to believe in ghosts, but he’d be damned if he got sucked into some kind of faith-healing rigamarole.
An unusually tall man grinned round the room, dark complexioned with black hair so shiny the lights reflected off it. Strapping didn’t scratch the surface. A collective sigh went up as they all drank in the handsome symmetry of his features.
“Here’s the Gentleman Boarder,” said Ainsley, a bit in awe too, the arse.
Barley cleared his throat and flicked a glance oozing with disapproval at his friend. “Manish Kapoor, Ainsley. Please.”
Ainsley had the wherewithal to look humbled for half a second.
Trixie was on her feet, gliding to his side before anyone else could stake a claim. Her voice dropped to its most vampy yet. She held out a hand to be kissed, which he did with a sensual grin bracketed with a dimple on each end.
“What can I get you, Mr. Kapoor?” she asked, blinking her heavy lashes so provocatively that the poor man blushed.
“I...er... I’m not much of a drinker.”
“You’ll never survive this crowd, then,” she said and dragged him to the bar.
Ainsley and Poppy argued about something under their breath and Barley gave a look of longing toward the third man lingering in the frame of the archway, who was ignored by everyone else.
The infamous Hugh.
Gosh. Not much to him after all the buildup. Neither tall nor short, and leaning to the softer side of average. Nondescript, dirty-blond hair. Light-colored eyes that might have been blue or gray but really didn’t seem either. He pushed his spectacles up his nose before shaking Joachim’s hand.
“This is Hugh Menzies,” said Barley with a little shiver.
Joachim shook his hand and Hugh, mind-bogglingly run-of-the-mill Hugh, smiled and somehow each of the pieces of his visage fell into place. He went from a nonentity to handsome devil in two seconds flat. “How do you do, Mr. Cockburn?”
And then, like someone turned off the light switch behind his face, he dimmed right back down again. Pleasantries over, Barley carted him around the room and Joachim watched as one by one the guests witnessed the transformation.
He’d never seen the like.
Hugh sat on the edge of the sofa next to Joachim like he might bolt at any moment, his eyes darting about and most often landing on his Gentleman Boarder, who was almost pressed against the wall by the duo of Trixie and Poppy. Enjoying it greatly, judging by his toothsome grin. Ainsley and Barley conversed in hushed tones by the piano.
“You’re a lawyer, then?” asked Joachim, since it was left to him to be host.
“Advocate, yes. Not exactly the same thing.” There was a primness to his tone and the set of his lips that made the man unappealing in the extreme.
Until he smiled again. And asked Joachim about what he did, eyes widening with interest when he heard the word psychology. He settled into a comfortable position for a long chat with the man when Ainsley drop
ped his arse between them and curved his body toward Hugh in a way that provoked warring sensations of puzzled hurt and jealousy in Joachim’s chest.
Graham drew his leg up the side of Hugh’s thigh, ran his fingertip along the back of the sofa cushion like a caress. Leaned into the man’s personal space.
Joachim’s mouth went dry. Those were all the things he’d done that first ten minutes he’d been in the house. When Ainsley believed he was Hugh.
“I insist you sit next to me at dinner, Mr. Menzies...or may I call you Hugh?” Fucking hell. Ainsley was flirting. Right in front of him, the bastard.
His eyes found the other person in the room who might give a toss; Barley stared with such concentration that he was unable to bring his lit match to the tip of his cigarette. Joachim took pity and helped before he burned his fingers.
Ainsley had an ability to mold his body, as though he shared intimacy with his companion without even touching, that Joachim had appreciated many times the past few days. But not then. Not when he was somehow all over Mr. Menzies.
He was light-headed. Stomach twisted like someone wrung it out and hung it on a clothesline. With many pins.
Graham couldn’t have waited two bloody days to move on?
Nelson announced the food was laid and in the mad rush to the dining room, Ainsley didn’t even turn to see where Joachim might be.
“Looks like Ainsley and Mr. Menzies are hitting it off,” he said in a pinched voice to Barley as they were the last into the hall.
“Aren’t they just? What do you think it means?” Barley either sounded very sure of himself or spoke in a way that sounded a bit like cobwebs if they made noise. Right now was the latter gossamer-fragile time. “Do you think that Hugh is responding to him?”
Joachim had no idea how to answer. He was left with a chair on the far side of the table from Ainsley. Graham’s chair was pulled as close to Hugh’s as possible without being rude.
He could have a bird’s-eye view. Huzzah!
His appetite evaporated even though the afternoon’s efforts were displayed across the enormous Hepplewhite table as if they’d been planned with love and forethought.
Praise was heaped on the hosts for such fare, and in the midst of Ainsley regaling them with the story of Mrs. Mackie’s hasty departure, the young man appeared to have forgotten how instrumental Joachim was to there being a dinner party at all.
He appeared to have forgotten Joachim existed.
Hugh piped up, “It’s unusual for vegetarians like me,” he launched that amazing smile at Barley, whose face lost the little color it had, “and Alec to have so many choices. I usually have a plateful of bread and a few potatoes. So thank you.”
Trixie smirked at Ainsley, who ignored her whilst making calf-eyes as though the sun rose and set from Mr. Menzies’s arsehole.
Good Lord, did buses even run in Scotland on Sundays? He ought to have checked. But at this rate, he’d start walking home rather than witness any more of this vexatious bilge.
He fixated on his plate and shoveled food in without tasting a bite. What an utter idiot he was, thinking a will-o’-the-wisp like bloody Ainsley Graham could pay attention to one man for longer than... God, he’d barely made it a half a week. By the skin of his teeth.
He might start walking now, get a head start.
Ainsley broke into Joachim’s self-pitying reveries with a booming voice across the table. “I must admit, Barley—about that thing... I simply have no idea. For the first time ever, I’m at a loss.”
Next to Joachim, Barley’s shoulders sagged. “I ought to have guessed it would be my luck that this would be when your senses disappeared.”
Trixie went still. Turned her attention to Hugh. Ran her red-tipped nail around her wineglass. She squared her shoulders and spoke in a voice that was equal parts authoritative and seductive. “Mr. Menzies, half the table needs to know something and are too bloody cowardly to ask you flat out. I’m sorry if I’m putting you on the spot, but are you a cake-eater?”
“C-c-cake-eater?” The poor fellow hunched over his plate so far that he almost rolled into a ball.
Excitedly, Ainsley chimed in, pouncing on the man, figuratively. For now, the sod. “Yes. Please tell us, Hugh, because I’ve been trying to ascertain and can’t. Are you, or are you not, a cake-eater?”
Menzies’s voice was small. “I like cake. Some cakes, that is. Strawberry cream in particular.” He smiled a wee smile at Barley at the last.
Lighting a cigarette, Trixie rolled her eyes so hard it was surprising there wasn’t an accompanying sound effect.
Unable to bear anyone being bullied, Joachim intervened. “I can’t see how it’s important as I made rhubarb crumble for dessert, not any cake, strawberry or otherwise.” He folded his napkin and tucked it under his plate, on the verge of choking them all, starting with the Grahams.
“Oh, hush, Cockburn, no one asked you.” Ainsley waved his hand at Joachim without even looking his way. “This is important.”
Graham was lucky that he’d been raised not to bloody the nose of his host round a supper table.
Poor Hugh Menzies opened and shut his mouth a few times. Appealed to his Gentleman Boarder, who leaned forward, as focused as the rest of them on Hugh’s damn answer.
About cake of all things.
Menzies stood, nearly toppling his chair over in his haste. “Please excuse me. I’ll...be back...”
The distressed man scurried away, presumably to the WC.
Ainsley shot Joachim a murderous look from down the table. Trixie rubbed her temples, eyes shut, while Poppy rubbed her back with a gentle tsk. Barley stared at his plate as if it was a scrying bowl.
The Gentleman Boarder, alone it seemed, had no antipathy toward Cockburn, and he helped himself to the second leg of the chicken.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ainsley
If he wasn’t so fantastic at sucking cock, Ainsley would kill Joachim right there.
He glared at him, though. Ugh, how dare Cockburn let Hugh off the hook so easily when Barley was close to having a nervous breakdown over whether or not he was free to let his feelings be known to that startling mediocrity of a man?
Didn’t Joachim know how difficult it was to flirt with someone lacking wit or any shred of gaiety? And he’d valiantly kept it up for close to an hour because he was a loyal friend. Left with nothing to show for it—the man had been polite and vacillated between enthusiasm and priggishness with dizzying speed. Not once letting on if he was aroused or merely polite.
Bugger bugger bugger.
“Never mind, Ainsley. I appreciate your efforts.” God, please don’t let Barley cry, for fuck’s... Christ, his eyes were wet like Violet’s got sometimes.
His party was a failure. A wreck of colossal proportion.
On top of that, he’d eaten a half a plateful of the cauliflower cheese before he’d caught on, just as he’d feared.
“I’m not a fan of rhubarb crumble, I’m afraid. Is anyone else?” Trixie’s voice was venomous, and she glowered right at Joachim. “No, then let’s dance, shall we?” She held her hand to Barley’s nemesis, who was undeniably handsome. Poor Barley. Even looking like a film star didn’t compare with the Gentleman Boarder.
Trixie clasped Manish’s hand...and Poppy had the other. “Put some music on, Ainsley. Something berries.”
He hated when Trixie and Poppy got together and used absurd slang he never grasped. “Berries?”
“Something we can dance to.” She blinked up at Manish. “Poppy, you dance with Barley. He needs a good cheer-up.”
He put on his favorite song, Let’s Misbehave, and turned to grin at Joachim.
Who wasn’t there.
Hugh was back, though, intently staring at the floor with a downturned mouth.
Ainsley’s arms itched like they had earlier. The song
wasn’t half as fun when Joachim wasn’t singing it in his ear. And dancing, that cheeky smile when he sang the refrain. Right to Ainsley’s face as though he meant every word of it.
The way he adored.
And Cockburn still didn’t return by the time it was over. Or the next two songs.
The couples changed hands a few times, and Trixie didn’t take no for an answer from Hugh. Soon enough, he was smiling that smile that made you forget he was as exciting as fouled dishwater.
Ainsley danced, as well. He couldn’t help it. But only until he flopped in an exhausted pile of bones on the sofa and mopped his brow.
But where the hell was Cockburn?
His belly went peculiar like he was on a small boat in choppy water. Was Joachim ill? Even an upset stomach shouldn’t take someone away from a party for all that long. He glanced at the long-cased clock in the corner. Fuck—two hours had passed since they’d left the table.
Someone else could control the music. He was now roused to find his Englishman, to hear his apology, and forget his earlier annoyance. Because he wasn’t vexed any longer. He’d done all he could, and Barley needed to take the risk.
Joachim wasn’t in the dining room, or the kitchen. Ainsley scratched the back of his neck, roughly.
He poked his nose into his study, but he wasn’t there. Nor was he in the WC because the door was open.
Bugger, where had his brute skittered off to?
A flush of anxiety washed over him.
The door to Mama’s bedroom was shut, but not locked. He switched on the light and grinned, relief soothing his itchy skin.
Joachim lay on his back, jacket off, arm over his face.
He hopped onto the bed and sat bestride those thick, delicious thighs.
“Are you awake?” Ainsley poked Cockburn’s ribs.
“I’m not. Please go away.”
Ainsley ran his palms over Joachim’s chest. And had an urgent need to feel that hair under his fingertips. It had been nearly a full day, after all. He untucked the shirt but a hand clamped around his wrist.
“Don’t touch me.”
Best Laid Plaids (Kilty Pleasures) Page 18