Standing feet apart, head tipped down in apology, lips turned up in unmistakable invitation, loomed a Northumberland warrior. Red-blond hair—too long—whipping in the wind, blue eyes pale as if bleached from the sun, and a ruddy face, testament to years spent…patrolling the uplands perhaps.
Hector was, as usual, overly romantic. Had been told that over and again while growing up, but right now, he didn’t care. The comparison seemed to fit. Until he opened his mouth to speak.
“Terribly sorry, chap, terribly sorry. Not looking where I was going. You’re all right, then?” The sounds of educated London on his voice ruined the upland fantasy.
But that was not so terrible. He was still stunning. Not Wentworth gorgeous, of course, nobody else in the world was that gorgeous, but handsome in a different way. A way that didn’t even compare. Tall, fit, with a feral white-toothed smile.
Stepping forward and keeping options for the future completely open, he introduced himself.
Perhaps one day this would be a man he could like. But then, he would have to settle for like, wouldn’t he? Because he would never be in love again.
Chapter Ten
“Well, that should do the deed quite nicely. No one needs know you are a man of business unless you deem to tell them,” Uncle Vincent said as he sanded the thick vellum, his coal-black hair gleaming in the light of the candelabra.
Aunt Elizabeth, Liz to her family, laughed merrily. “Oh, Hector, dear. You shall thrive as a man of business with your own source of income and a profession to stretch your mind. I will admit, at one time, I had hoped you or one of your brothers might share my interest in inventing and apprentice with me, but since none of you had the good sense to become a scientist, I believe this is the best course of action you can take.”
Hector smiled at his grandfather’s half cousin. She wasn’t actually an aunt, but close enough he and his brothers had always called her thus. The woman must be in her sixtieth year, if not more, but she still held a quick mind, and her tall, thin frame vibrated with energy. The only sign of aging was a splash of gray in her vibrant red hair, along with lines around her mouth and eyes from a life spent smiling.
“Uncle, you are so very clever putting this deal together and keeping my name off the contract. It is convenient having a solicitor in the family, especially one who does not allow the rules to get in his way.” Hector chuckled. “Thank you. And thank you both for helping me with this endeavor. I’m afraid the rest of the family may well have turned their noses up at me for even suggesting such a thing.”
Vincent stood and stretched his brawny frame that appeared unaltered by time. Must be his Gypsy blood. “I do not receive many interesting transactions anymore, so this was a pleasure. Now, it is late, and feels like there will be rain soon. Would you care to stay the night, Hector? Randall and Wedgewood will be here for breakfast, and I believe you haven’t seen them in…Well, how long has it been? They were at the christening, I hear. Did you see them there?”
Looking around the opulent office with its crimson brocade overstuffed chairs, expensive carpets, and even more expensive art, Hector absorbed all the remembered familial love and remembered so many happy times he spent here. And for some reason, that brought unhappiness swamping his being. “I had tea with them very recently, but I did not see them at the naming party.” Randall and his devoted friend David were easily two of Hector’s favorite people, along with Aunt Liz, of course. “They were at the christening, but…I, um, left before they arrived.”
“Oh, my poor dear. Why the drooping shoulders? You should be elevated by your coup over London’s snobbish aristocrats. Why so sad?”
He did not want to talk about this, but the whole sad story slipped out anyway, as if emotions instead of reason controlled his mouth. He finished his story with, “And there is no expression of love in the letters, only a justification of behavior and apologies for secrecy.”
“Hector. I am terribly sorry for your grief.”
And that was it. It was grief once more; not anger, not sorrow, but grief, deep and raw and all-consuming.
Aunt Liz squeezed his hand, and Vincent said, “Best way to get over rejection from a wholly unworthy personage is to always keep a more worthy person in the parlor, even if the lost one in the bedroom is still haunting you.”
“Vincent St. John, what the devil has gotten into you? It is not like you to spout inconsiderate, typical male drivel.”
“One day, Hector, you will find your person for the parlor and the bedchamber. Just as I have.” He grasped Aunt Liz’s hand and kissed her knuckles. She blushed as brilliantly as a debutante.
Hector found himself blushing as well, wholeheartedly approving of their love, even if half the family refused to acknowledge their union on account of Vincent’s mixed blood.
He decided he could leave them with a bit of hope for his sorry state, even if he didn’t feel propitious himself. “On a happier topic, I do have an admirer. Afraid I don’t know what to do about the attraction yet, but it does help one’s opinion of oneself. We’ve had tea together a number of times and attended a play.”
Uncle Vincent gave a wicked grin. “That’s the spirit, my man. Grab this lady and take her—”
“Vincent!” Aunt Liz chastised. “Do not finish that thought unless you want to sleep in the garden tonight.”
Vincent chuckled. “Right, then. Hector, I am certain you can figure out what to do with your lady admirer.”
Aunt Liz saw him to the door, then whispered in his ear as she gave him a hug. “Do not mind your uncle, Hector. We will accept whomever you decide to love.” She let him go, and Hector walked down the steps to the street, feeling as if the world shifted under his feet and he had nothing to hold on to.
✥ ✥ ✥
The threatening rain held off, and Hector had a dry walk home. He even noticed a purpose in his step for the first time since leaving Wentworth Manor. It was always good to see Vincent and Elizabeth, longtime family friends as well as distant relatives. She was a bluestocking and her husband encouraged her, which was a refreshing change from most of the rest of his family.
With a slight smile tugging his lips, he remembered the time Elizabeth allowed him and his brothers to snatch a glimpse of her laboratory. It was a basement room, humid and cold. Little pots steamed on a large wooden table. He’d been very young, and the tour had terrified him. He’d spent a fortnight with troubled dreams. To this day, he remembered every detail of the workroom, could probably even render it with paper and charcoal. He quivered, although now the memory of that space gave him a pleasant shiver, not one of fear. However, he could not understand how Elizabeth spent all day down in that dank room.
“The better to contain fires and explosions if they should occur,” she’d once told him. Vincent had added, “When they occur, Hector, not if.” He shivered again and quickened his step.
He turned the corner onto his street. A person lurked by the entry to his rented rooms. Stopping, he looked over his shoulder, wondering if he should retreat, when a familiar voice called him.
“Hector, is that you?”
Lieutenant Baker? What the devil was he doing standing around in the dark?
Baker raised the basket in his hand. “I was about town and realized I’d not had time for supper. I thought perhaps you might be hungry as well. Care for a bite?”
At that moment, Hector’s stomach rumbled, and they both laughed.
“Very thoughtful of you. Will you come inside?”
He unlocked the outside door and led Baker upstairs to his rooms. Baker climbed the stairs just one riser behind Hector, so close he could feel his warmth. He shivered for the third time that night.
When they stopped in front of his door, he turned and looked up at Baker. He had paid careful attention to his appearance, it seemed. Freshly shaven, with a crisp cravat and a smile that seemed to promise delights beyond what was in his basket. Hector swallowed. “Forgive the mess. I didn’t expect a guest tonight.” And wi
th that, he let them both in.
Baker looked around and whistled. “This is a very nice, comfortable home. How many rooms?”
Hector was proud of his slice of London, although he’d changed little since the previous occupants left. He gave his guest the tour. The place was not really in disarray since Hector had a housekeeper, who also made tea and simple meals. Baker’s praise warmed him and added to the contentment that started at Vincent’s home.
Baker grabbed Hector’s hand and brought it to his mouth. “You have made this floor into a welcoming home.”
Hector brought his other hand to the lapel of the lieutenant’s coat. He was ready for this dinner together, and even more, he realized he was ready for the man in the parlor.
✥ ✥ ✥
The ocean-blue sky disappeared into the ocean-blue water. There would be a storm soon—any sailor worth his salt could feel the changes in the air around him and know they were in for a rough few days. Wentworth loved a good storm; perhaps the thrill of beating the elements would bring him back to sanity.
Damnation, but the past month had been a challenge. He was angry at himself for treating a vibrant lad so shabbily, his emptiness hurt like a knife wound, and then the damnable memories flooded his every waking moment and most of his dreams as well. How had he ignored, no, forgotten, the past so thoroughly that he actually believed the few flickers of remembrances were akin to something his mind made up, not something he had orchestrated, then lived and suffered through?
How he longed to forget again. He did not like, did not respect, the man he had become, and he could not do one blasted thing to correct his bloody fool past decisions. He needed a distraction. Some adventure.
When had the flickers of vague remembrances become a flood of real-life memories? He tried to recall. At Wentworth manor, with Hector, yes, but before that even. When, then? Damn, he did not know. Was it important? Was anything important now that he knew what a pathetic person he was? Now that Hector was gone? Now that Will, once a friend closer than a brother, would never speak to him again?
Ah, there you are. Off to the north northeast, the smallest amount of white lined the hidden clouds beneath. On their present course and with the prevailing wind, they should hit rough water by nightfall and should be in the middle of a squall before middle watch.
He smiled.
✥ ✥ ✥
“That should just about do it, sir.” Mr. Tennyson, the previous owner of the porcelain factory and now Hector’s foreman, stacked another plate on a workbench, ready for packing. He had agreed to help Hector for a month as he learned the business, but after seeing the way production and profits improved, he’d stayed seven months so far and did not hint of leaving anytime soon. He claimed he enjoyed seeing his life’s work surpass every expectation.
“Very nice indeed, Mr. Tennyson. This batch of plates are our best yet.”
“Only because you had the idea to hire an artist. Odd to think that with just a little bit of frippery, our goods fly off the shelves as if by magic.” He gave a deep, contented laugh.
Hector had made very few changes to the business, but these alterations nearly doubled their profits. The artist made their affordable crockery appeal to the eye, a new and more durable glaze set the designs, and purchasing clay from a different vendor who supplied a more consistent product gave their tableware an advantage over the others available for sale. They had not even needed to raise the price of their wares because the increased sales covered the slight increase in cost for adding quality.
Running his finger over a newly created plate to feel the smooth, even gloss of the surface, Hector sighed. “I will leave the rest of this run to you, Mr. Tennyson. I’m already late for tea with an associate.”
“Righto, sir.”
The hiss and pop of the kilns filled the factory, and the employees’ conversations were mere buzzing in the background. Hector removed his apron and went to collect his coat.
Hurrying out onto the snow-slick street, he looked for a hackney, knowing he was not likely to find any until he reached the busier thoroughfares. Damn, but he was late. Jonathan would not be pleased. Hector formulated an excuse as he walked.
For the first time, he wondered why Jonathan had become a chore.
Chapter Eleven
Early spring 1809, Kent
Wentworth stared at the neatly penned columns trying to make sense of the numbers, but it was hopeless. The past few hours he’d accomplished nothing. Every time he tried to concentrate, memories of large, brown eyes clouded his vision and the numbers on the parchment pages in the leather-bound accounts book blurred.
Disgusted with himself, he shoved the ledger so hard, it slipped from the desk and fell onto the carpet with a dull thud. He pinched the bridge of his nose to relieve the tension building in his head.
Over the last eight months, he had called on the boy every time his Dragon docked in Portsmouth, but Hector was never home to him. The many letters he’d sent Hector remained unanswered. When the footman he’d dispatched requested a response, the boy apparently looked at the missive, tossed it on a table in the entryway, said, “I have no reply,” and then left for a walk.
Wentworth would show up unannounced again if he thought for one second Hector would spare a word for him, but it was hopeless. They seemed to be truly done with one another.
He had damaged Hector’s adoration to the point nothing would ever help. Had he thought something involving champagne, a diversion, and a heartfelt apology would wash away the hurt he’d caused?
The past months had been so unbearably painful that even now he hardly noticed the perfect sunny weather. He missed that imp. The easy smile, the gentleness, the love freely given.
He missed knowing Hector would be there any time, every time he wanted something: to talk, touch, fuck. God, he missed it all. If he were truthful, he would even admit he missed himself, the way he was around Hector. Well, the good side of him around Hector, not the stupid, sullen him who could not bring himself to yield to their affection.
What the hell was wrong with him? When had he turned sentimental?
It was the melancholy that plagued him, that clouded his mind for years, but now memories came rushing back. Half-formed images now took bold shape. The recollections were not flattering. He was a stupid bastard who could not stop thinking about the time he did the rashest thing in his whole sordid life. The time when, he now realized, his heart broke for the second time.
✥ ✥ ✥
December 18, 1806, Grantham
Seconds after the fight with Will, exhausted, sore, and emotionally raw, Wentworth decided to clear his conscience despite the audience. After all, things could not possibly get any worse.
Hector and Mary prowled around the sitting room, setting chairs, tea table, chess set back to rights, which the scuffle had disturbed. Will stood over him, hands on his hips.
On his knees, blood dripping from his nose, Wentworth whispered so quietly, he knew no one but Will would hear the confession. “To think I helped Admiral Greig wed Mary off to that drunkard son of his. Got you out of the way so her father would force her to marry Greig. I did it for us, you know, so that I could keep you, but that is not how I lost your love, is it?”
He hoped to never see an expression like the one of pure hatred on Will’s face ever again.
Will delivered a powerful, unexpected punch to his jaw that left him dazed.
Hector knelt next to him after Will dragged Mary from the room.
“What did you say? Why did he hit you?”
His laugh gurgled with blood. “I deserved it.” And he told Hector part of the truth, leaving out the most important point. The fact that he’d made sure Will was unattached so that Wentworth would not lose his friend and former lover.
A half hour later, after Hector cared for Wentworth’s injuries and had given him a tumbler of whisky for the pain, Hector told him they were through.
“I cannot stay with a man who cheated my family,”
Hector said, his voice vibrating with emotion.
Wentworth held out his hand. “Stay with me. You don’t know how rare it is for people like us to find companionship.”
“Why did you do it? Why did you conspire against Will’s happiness?”
“That was almost three years ago. Back then, I was still young enough to be stupid. Especially since I was grieving for Grandfather. He’d passed only the week prior. Forget the scene. Stay and forgive me. We have something good together. Stay.”
Hector turned his back. “I feel like there is a gaping, bleeding hole in my heart. I want you so badly, but I cannot abide your actions.” He swallowed. “You sabotaged his happiness. How could you live with yourself? How could you make love to me knowing what you did? You have put me in a position no one should ever have to tolerate.”
There was a glimmer in Hector’s beautiful eyes as he turned. He sniffed and rubbed his sleeve against his face, his shoulders hunched.
Wentworth’s eyes were moist, and his glass shook. He reached out a beseeching hand, longing for Hector to accept it, to come near and tell him everything would be fine. That he was forgiven.
Instead of clasping the offering, Hector turned, his shoulders back, and with determined steps, he left. Pain that could topple a giant ripped through Wentworth’s chest.
✥ ✥ ✥
Wentworth, so hungry to forget the past, had in fact forgotten. Or more precisely, refused to remember. Remembering their parting doubled the nerve-gnawing guilt that plagued him for years.
Time to put the melancholy and loneliness behind him. It was a ridiculous state in which to wallow. He needed something to take his mind off things. A way to banish the feeling that there was no reason to wake up each day. Not being able to see or touch Hector. His sunshine.
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