“Did you think I would refuse you?”
Will shrugged again. “I couldn’t take that risk. I need to know what you’ve done to Hector.”
Wentworth’s blood froze in his veins. He knew the letter he received two days ago, full of hate and accusations, was an ill omen. If Hector was hurt… He sat down hard on the edge of his desk, slipped off, caught himself, and sat again. He could barely take in a breath, his chest squeezed his lungs so forcefully. “What happened?”
“I hoped you would know. He’s been avoiding me. But I finally found him entering his lodgings. I have never seen him so down and unresponsive.”
His blood flowed once more. Hector was unhurt. Upset for a certainty, but no lasting damage, which had been a possibility given the anger and hatred in the letter he’d burned.
“You remember, he’s always been a happy, resilient boy. I’ve only seen him like this one other time.”
Wentworth turned to his desk, trying to block out the words, not wanting to hear the rest of what Will had to say. He already had enough guilt in his soul to drown ten men.
“He’s been moody since your fortnight together, but it’s getting worse, not better with time. What happened to him in Kent? What did you do to him?”
Pursing his lips in disgust, Wentworth again thought of that hateful letter. Upon receiving it, he’d rushed to London, and then…he had hesitated. His plan had been to run over, grab Hector, and kiss him. Force him to let go of the anger and come back to him. Instead, he’d struggled with that plan until it was too late to make a call. And now he was still hesitating.
So he bared his soul to Will, which was remarkably easy to do. The man he had loved for years, his best friend since they were children. He had missed being able to share confidences these past few years. “I was a prick during our sojourn in Kent, I will confess. I could not give him what he wanted.” He turned to Will, who looked about ready to ignite. “Hear me out, Will, please.”
He took a deep breath and continued. “I wrote him several times, trying to apologize, to set things right. I went by his rooms, but he refused to see me. Apparently, I did a spectacular job of pushing him away while we were in Kent. We were good together, but I could not let go of the past, could not tell him the truth. When the truth came to light, I did not handle the situation with grace and patience. I believe I may have slowly and completely killed his vibrancy.” Bloody hell! His insides hurt, cramped, and he thought he might cry for the first time in over a decade.
Will clenched his fists. “You worthless, bloody—”
“You don’t have to tell me what you think of my behavior. Rest assured, I am harder on myself than anyone else could ever be.” God knew he had fretted over his actions ever since receiving the missive.
“Just tell me what you did.”
“I told him about us.”
Will spun around, shoulders hunched, fists clenched. “Damn. You are intent on self-destruction, aren’t you? It’s a wonder he didn’t pull down one of your rapiers and run you through and then come after me with it. Why?”
“I had to tell him. I got myself in a situation…Well, I had to tell him or lie as boldly as a member of the House of Commons the eve before election.”
“Bloody hell, Ty.”
“Don’t judge me any further, Will. The issue here is not me and my unnatural tastes, it’s Hector’s health. As I said, I came to London to set the matter straight. It’s just…” Taking another deep breath, he ignored the feeling of inadequacy. “I put off calling on him as I can’t figure out exactly what to say, and I am not certain Hector will even talk to me at this point.”
“I see.” Will paced the room, his anger evident in each aggressive step. “Here is what you will do. Leave Hector alone, don’t see him again. I shall talk with my brother and demand he get over your poor treatment. Between me and Mary, we shall set Hector back on the right track and get him over all his mistaken allegiances.” He turned and glared. “Go back to Kent, Ty. Your presence here will not help this matter.” With that declaration, he turned on his heel and stormed from the room.
As soon as he heard the front door slam, Wentworth called for his carriage.
✥ ✥ ✥
Wentworth licked his lips for the second time in as many minutes. They were still dry, but he stopped himself before performing the annoying action a third time. He did not want to make a habit of acting like a nervous debutante.
After glancing at the cobbles for horse dung, he stepped out of his carriage into the glaring afternoon sun, then passed the footman announcing his presence.
The gray-haired housekeeper who answered the door bobbled her head incessantly and wrung her hands as she curtsied. “Please, my lord. Just a moment while I off and check to see if the master is at ’ome to ye.”
She allowed him to enter the first of the set of rooms. Nothing had changed since his last visit. They were compact and no-nonsense, so unlike their tenant. Hector was so bold and beautiful that the rooms always seemed drab by comparison. Light brown and green walls, small carpets, a handful of uninspired landscapes.
The housekeeper was new, but the lodgings were as familiar to him as his own skin, even though more than two bloody long years had passed since he’d been allowed through the front door.
The gray-haired woman returned with a wide smile, no longer wringing her hands, but she still bobbled. “My lord, the master will see ye. If ye will come this way, he will be right along. I’ll bring a tray, and Lieutenant Baker will entertain ye while ye wait.”
He stopped dead in his tracks. Jonathan is here? With Hector? Whatever the hell for?
Damnation.
He knew Jonathan and Hector were together. The letter he received from Jonathan two days ago had said as much, but he had assumed it was for a night, two at the most. He had convinced himself Hector was smart enough to choose a better man than himself next time, and then Red Jon was here this early in the morning, as if he had stayed the night.
He licked his lips again.
Bloody. Hell.
He walked down the wide hallway to Hector’s large study, just to freeze again as memories seized his muscles. They were having a picnic in December on the carpet in front of the fireplace, feeding Hector out-of-season grapes, kissing him slowly, teasingly. Making love to him. At the time it was fucking, not lovemaking. Just fucking. Oh, but the fucking had been more potent than a nor’easter. More beautiful than St. Elmo’s fire. More—well, more meaningful to him than he’d realized.
His chest ached at the memory of Hector beneath him. The perfection of Hector beneath him, his wide, luminous eyes looking up at him. Not trying to hide. Open. Facing their liaison with complete participation and anticipation.
The naïve young fool.
Yet he could not suppress the grin as he continued into the warm marigold and hunter-green study.
“Glad to see you in good spirits and as elegant as usual, Wentworth.”
Jonathan.
The grin fell from Wentworth’s face faster than water plummets off a cliff. What the hell was Hector doing with him? Still the dreamer, hooking up with someone so wholly unworthy.
He reached up to rub an aching throb in his chest but stopped before hand touched silk. He could not show weakness just now.
Jonathan, big, strong, and golden, gestured him into an armchair across from where he sprawled with rawboned ease in an impeccable dark olive morning suit.
No. He definitely could not show weakness. He would help Hector, who obviously needed the intervention of a mature, knowledgeable man who had seen more of the world’s snares and knew Jonathan’s manipulative nature firsthand.
Relying on training and years of experience leading a crew, he hardened his features and showed no fear. “Jonathan, I am surprised to see you here. Still sniffing around blood too blue for the likes of you?”
Jonathan’s lips thinned, but his smile held. “I have been here a very long time. Many months. The better part of a year, in fact,
” he said with the overly formal speech of someone born poor but who had worked his way up the ranks with claws and determination.
Normally, Wentworth admired that tenacity. Not today.
Better part of a year? So Hector began dallying with Jonathan shortly after leaving Kent? That meant he’d been with Jonathan while Wentworth had been groveling in letters and prostrating himself at Hector’s door, seeking admittance, trying to convince him another chance might be all they needed to get it right? And all that time Hector had been with Jonathan, who spun manipulations like spiderwebs.
How much of his humiliation had Jonathan witnessed?
“So, after some time with Hector, you came to see me,” Wentworth said. Why? “Does he know of your visit?”
“Men have needs.”
Damn it all. He had always hated Jonathan’s games. Playing along and hoping he chose the most irritating reply, he said, “Yes, well, by all means, go back off to sea so you no longer have to suffer tedious months in London.”
Jonathan threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, Wentworth, that is what I always adored about you—you never mince words. Get right to the thick of things.”
“Unlike you, Lieutenant. One never knows where they stand with you, do they? You would just as easily embrace a man as stab him in the back.”
Jonathan looked away, but his smile remained. “Brandy?”
Wentworth sat properly in the nearest chair, not sprawled like some ruffian. It was never a good idea to drop one’s guard when in the presence of the enemy. “What are your objectives here, Jonathan?”
The toad laughed again. An annoying, fully in-control-of-the-situation laugh.
Wentworth fought the urge to jump up. He did not want to sit here exchanging barbs. He wanted to fight.
Wentworth bit back a snarl. “If you so much as hurt one of Hector’s fingers, I swear—”
“What? You realize you hurt him more than I ever possibly could? You almost crippled the boy with your high-minded ideas and self-righteous rigor.”
Jonathan’s observation was so close to the mark, Wentworth would have been dead if words were cannon balls. As it was, he only bled regret.
Hector then strode into the room and stood behind Jonathan’s chair.
“Lord Wentworth,” Hector said. His voice was deep and warm, but the formality of address after all they had shared nearly sliced him in two. Jonathan reached up to take Hector’s hand, then placed it on his shoulder, both hands still clasped in a show of solidarity.
That hollow ache rose in Wentworth’s chest again. What more did he deserve, really?
“I’m aware the two of you are acquainted,” Hector said, but his focus landed somewhere around Wentworth’s left shoulder. “So, let us not dance around the topic. What, or who, are you here for?”
The indifference and distance in those previously guileless, trusting, loving eyes was such a crime. Worse yet, Wentworth knew the blame lay solely at his feet.
Chapter Fourteen
Hector tried not to grimace at the too-tight squeeze Jonathan gave his hand. He attempted to control everything, to be sure, but he was awfully smug today in front of Wentworth, like he’d won the Ascot with Hector the prize gelding.
“You should know, I offered to have a committed relationship with Hector,” Jonathan said. He lifted Hector’s hand, then pulled him onto his lap. Hector allowed it but felt stupid and insignificant, no longer in control of his life.
Wentworth’s face twitched, and he half rose from the chair.
What is he thinking? Hector wondered. Never easy to tell with that stoic man. Although knowing Wentworth, he was probably incensed, and his next comment confirmed that.
“You know this man!” He waved somewhere around the chair he and Jonathan sat in. “You must know he is not to be trusted. Besides, two men cannot commit. There are no laws, no rules to allow such a thing.” He rose the rest of the way out of his chair and rubbed his hand across his chest, like he’d been smacked with a mallet.
Hector felt the anger spill over him, so he said something he really didn’t mean. “Sometimes it only takes a short while with the right person. One day you wake up and you are certain. I imagine this is something you don’t know about, isn’t that right, Wentworth?” he asked, hackles rising the way only Wentworth could make them prickle.
“I know.” He whispered the word to the ground. At that moment, with shoulders drooping and creases around his eyes and forehead, Wentworth looked twenty years older, bitter, lost.
But Hector would not feel sympathy for a man who could have had anything—everything—from him but refused to accept the gift.
He struggled out of Jonathan’s clutches. Carefully, avoiding the word love, Hector said, “I want commitment.” But he had not accepted Jonathan’s offer. Not yet, anyway. And why not? What was he waiting for?
He had adored the attention at first, having someone who treated him like a prized possession. But the possessiveness started to strangle within a few months, and he began to notice the sideways compliments.
He wasn’t certain he wanted to accept Jonathan’s offer, but he was still well aware Wentworth had never offered anything. “You could not propose what I most cherished.”
Wentworth finally looked up. “I could…You should…” He left the last unsaid as he reached a hand out as if to touch Hector. Wentworth looked at Jonathan and then back. “May I speak with you alone for a few moments?”
Hector shook his head. That was not a sound idea, but he didn’t have to say as much. Jonathan took the situation out of his hands by lurching out of his lazy recline and going for Wentworth, shoving Hector out of the way.
Hector shouted in surprise, “Stop, Jonathan.”
Wentworth did not back away, even with fifteen stone of wild-eyed Irish muscle crowding him.
“I suggest you leave now, Lord Wentworth, before my lover asks me to rearrange your pretty features for you.”
“Do consider, accomplishing that feat may not be as easy as you believe, Jonathan.”
Had these been two men Hector did not know, if it were happening on the street and not in his house, he could have enjoyed watching two finely formed men, one dark and one light, displaying. As it was, he was afraid this would escalate until someone was badly hurt or killed. He must stop them.
He pushed them apart and forced his voice to be calm and commanding, like Wentworth’s. “Gentlemen, stop at once. Jonathan, go pour some port or something.”
Jonathan looked at him as if he had just suggested he knit a scarf, but he did back a few feet away.
“And, Wentworth, it is time you leave. You were not invited, and you have greatly outstayed your welcome.”
“Hector, I—”
“Leave, Wentworth. I do not wish to see you.”
“If you would just hear me out.”
“There is nothing to hear, my lord. You had all the chances you deserve and then some. I will listen to you no longer.”
“There are many things I need for you to hear. Things that will explain—”
Hector lost his temper. “I have had all the half-truths and misperceptions from you that I ever intend to accept.” He flung his hand up and pointed. “Leave my home now.”
The muscles in Wentworth’s face jumped and trembled. “I—”
Hector pointed to the exit again, this time with greater emphasis, and said under his breath so only he and Wentworth could hear, “You slept with my brother and never told me. Hell, you were in love with him when you seduced me. Perhaps you still are.”
Wentworth hesitated, closed his eyes and swallowed, and shook his head slowly. He whispered, “I am sorry. So terribly sorry.” And then he turned and left the room. A moment later, the front door clicked shut.
✥ ✥ ✥
Wentworth jammed the light gray top hat on his head and stormed toward Hyde Park. The impact of his thick leather heels on the cobbles rattled his teeth despite his clenched jaw. Too agitated to take his carriage, he walked
home. Hell, he was too agitated to walk, moving at a pace closer to a run.
What the hell had he been thinking? Showing up unannounced. Of all the damnable…
What had he expected to accomplish by coming here in the first place? Damn fool. He had convinced himself that if he just popped in, Hector would relish the chance to take up where they left off without a backward glance. Finding Jonathan there had been like stepping off a cliff only to land on a shale shelf ten feet below and having the air knocked out of his lungs.
I am without a doubt the most arrogant, self-righteous idiot to ever walk London’s streets.
Images filled his mind of the things Jonathan had no doubt done to Hector. Things he would do. Hell, perhaps he was doing some of them currently.
He stopped dead in his tracks. Looking around at all the happy couples, he wondered if he could scream and wave his fists in the air without being hauled off as a madman. Likely not, so he channeled his loathing and pain into a pounding walk. He would scream when he reached his study.
What could be done? Hector was an adult and had made up his mind. God, he had looked spectacular in his indignant anger. All grown up and decisive. Passionate. Gorgeous…and way beyond his reach.
Sometime in the past year, Hector had turned into a man. Or was it that Wentworth finally realized he was a man?
For a few brief moments, he’d considered fighting over Hector, taking all his frustration out on Jonathan, but even if they’d fought and Wentworth had won, the matter of who Hector chose was out of his control. The only thing that kept him from throwing the first blow was that Jonathan already looked like the hero in that setting.
And Wentworth looked like a villain.
Jamming his hands deep into his pockets, he picked up his pace. The sooner he arrived at his town house, the sooner he could get on with his plan to drink himself into numbness.
✥ ✥ ✥
His Brother's Viscount Page 12
