The Vicar and the Rake (Society of Beasts)

by Annabelle Greene

  Enough. Enough of this...this playing. He was going to get the truth out of Edward, even if he had to shake it out of him. But as his gaze moved from Edward’s eyes to his mouth, back and forth, Gabriel felt a sudden spasm of guilty remembrance.

  “I did something.” Those weren’t the words that he had been expecting to say...but he hadn’t been expecting to have Edward in his arms so easily. “Something while I was raving. I can’t remember what.” He couldn’t remember what he’d done, still—but it was difficult to remember his own name, with Edward’s face a mere breath away from his. His words hitched in his throat. “Should...should I have done it?”

  Not I shouldn’t have done it. He was asking, begging, for Edward to forgive him. To absolve his guilt, for something he didn’t remember.

  He couldn’t control himself. Just couldn’t. It didn’t even feel strange, the proximity; it felt right, deeply right in a way he almost couldn’t bear to admit. And he couldn’t stop his hand creeping upward either, couldn’t stop his thumb as it gently, wickedly traced along Edward’s jawline, the man’s stubble scraping against the sensitive pad of his finger...

  Edward turned his head abruptly; Gabriel barely restrained a moan as the man’s lips brushed against his thumb. Warm breath sent fierce, liquid fire through his entire hand and arm. Every muscle in Gabriel’s body was suddenly tense, tight with repressed want.

  He was pulled closer, suddenly lost in a sea of hard muscle, his own desire spiking as Edward’s body pressed tightly against his own. It was happening now, at an unstoppable, galloping pace, and if something didn’t happen to stop it—

  “Your Grace?” The manservant’s voice rang out from the hall. “Your Grace?”

  Edward swore foully. He and Gabriel sprang apart, breathing as if they’d both done a hard day’s riding.

  Gabriel turned away, not wanting Edward to see his face. He’d given away too much of himself already; he couldn’t give away this, the last scrap of dignity. “I... Caddonfell...”

  “You leave tonight. Not before.” Edward’s harsh tone broke something in him. “Rest. Bathe. The house is yours. But you do not leave until tonight.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gabriel let his head rest against the copper rim of the bath, watching the sun slowly dim to darkness through the mullioned windows of the bathroom. A single nightingale sang somewhere in the silent garden, putting his weary thoughts to music.

  With a long, full-bodied sigh, he tried to shake the last of the tension from his body. If three hours of sleep, two hours of restlessly roaming the house and a tub of scalding water couldn’t do the trick, he would have to accept his fate.

  Edward Stanhope, the Duke of Bloody Caddonfell, had raised in him some animal instinct that couldn’t be tamed.

  The entire situation had him on edge. The bruised valet who’d silently drawn him the bath had never dropped an air of slight annoyance. In fact, he seemed irritated that Gabriel was awake at all—and had managed to neatly avoid every single question Gabriel had put to him.

  Proof, then, that a life in service to Edward required a talent for deception. At first he’d been convinced that the man was more than a valet—merely remembering the hot, corrosive jealousy he’d felt made Gabriel wince, sliding deeper into the water. But the look on the servant’s face when interacting with Edward was one of patient forbearance, like a brother. Or a madhouse keeper.

  He also drew a tremendous bath. Gabriel didn’t want to feel jealous of a man who did his job so well.

  Questions still stung him. Gabriel looked out of the darkening window, the crackling fire in the nearby grate adding a warm undercurrent to his thoughts. The last of the fever had stolen away, leaving him clear-headed but exhausted.

  Why was Edward here with only one servant? No cook, no butler. Not even a scullery maid. Gabriel didn’t believe the name Bryce was a fever dream, any more than he believed in Edward’s inexplicable desire to visit Hardcote House during the London season. Especially with no accompanying friends, servants, or valises full of expensive clothes.

  It almost seemed as if Edward was running away from something.

  Gabriel hadn’t seen a scandal sheet for at least three days. What if Edward had done something that the ton could not forgive? Something that endangered his status, his position...even his life?

  He couldn’t think about that now. As soon as his mind began conjuring up a possible indiscretion on Edward’s part, his body went beyond his control. Jealousy, frustration, lust... He soaped his arms and shoulders with gritted teeth, searching for a thought to distract him.

  Caroline. Yes, that worked. He’d read her letter earlier, finding its contents an odd combination of eccentricity and practicality, much like the woman herself. You will not remember my visit, but I will have certainly visited. We will laugh about your sallowness later. In the meantime, will visit Mrs Hartfield w. posset, help the Blakeleys w. little John, send bottle in cellar to White, visit Jameson and see about...

  The list of tasks had filled two pages. Seeing it all laid out in black and white had shocked Gabriel.

  No wonder he’d caught a fever. He was running himself into the ground, just as Caroline kept telling him.

  He let himself relax again, tiredness clinging to his bones. How was he supposed to balance the scales without constant good works?

  He’d made a pact with God long ago. Ten years ago, in fact. He’d stayed up all night, praying frenziedly, working out the terms of the bargain.

  Let me be this way. Let me feel what I feel, without acting on it. Don’t damn me for it. I promise I will serve you better than anyone ever has.

  The bargain was struck. Gabriel had entered the church with a sense that God was testing the strength of his promise. He had accepted with gladness the curacy at Hardcote from the previous vicar, Mr. Welton, even though the village had nothing to recommend it apart from the estate belonging to Edward’s father.

  He’d even refused to employ a curate after assuming Mr. Welton’s position. He preferred to perform every duty himself, no matter how difficult. That way, he knew, God would allow him freedom.

  Freedom to like what he liked. Freedom of mind, if not of body. Freedom to be himself, even if his other freedoms were suddenly curtailed.

  He was no longer an adolescent, following Mr. Welton around as he’d tended to the parish. Those days with the rumpled, good-humoured vicar had seemed like play back then—preparing baskets of bread and poultices, carrying Mr. Welton’s bag as they’d moved from house to house—but given the unusual course his life had taken afterwards, every day with the vicar had turned out to be a preparation for his future.

  His father had never liked young Gabriel’s association with the vicar, although he had never mentioned it openly. There had always been the slight implication that Mr. Welton was of a lower class than was acceptable. Looking back, Gabriel knew this to be true; the man was clinging to the margins, with no one to support him in case of accident or infirmity. Sometimes he’d even looked drawn, sick, like he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in weeks...but he’d always offered Gabriel a share of whatever food he’d had. And Gabriel, selfish child that he was, had always eaten more than his share.

  Kind but firm, scrupulously fair, never didactic but forever teaching by example, Mr. Welton, for all his ragged clothes and shadows under his eyes, had been a true gentleman. He had consoled Gabriel after the death of his parents, urging him to choose the Church as a living. He had convinced his old professors to give Gabriel a scholarship so he could begin his working life on even ground. He had even, in an act of great charity, taken Gabriel on as a curate, giving him a room in his own vicarage at Hardcote.

  Caroline had offered him money, of course, but Gabriel had always refused it. He hadn’t needed handouts, not then. For a few short months it was a good life again, full of work, fresh air, and the guiding hand of a man Gabriel sec
retly considered his second father.

  Then had come The Night. The warm, rain-lashed April night when Gabriel had woken up to agonised cries, to Mr. Welton lying in bed in the next room, breathing his last with a look of unimaginable shock.

  The chill he had caught would not have killed a stronger man. A more idle man, who had given less of himself away. But what had really hurt the most—what still clawed at Gabriel, along with guilt at feeling the way he did—was the morning after the discovery.

  The morning he had run to Hardcote House, his heart in pieces, only to find that Edward had left for London.

  His best friend. His...more than that. The man he’d allowed himself to dream about. Gone, without a word.

  That was meant to be God’s message. That was the fate that Gabriel had resigned himself to—one of solitude. But now, with Edward back in his life...he didn’t know who he was meant to be.

  Without service, or sacrifice, or sadness, he was nothing at all.

  “Sir Gabriel?” That damned servant, Bryce or Williams, waiting outside the door. Still using a title Gabriel had never felt entirely comfortable possessing. “Is there anything that you require?”

  “Solitude.” Gabriel had forgotten what it was like to have a constant staff. Even his cook only came three times a week. “Silence, solitude, and clean clothes. I will be leaving this evening.”

  A short pause followed, as if the man wished to silently express his displeasure with Gabriel’s plans. “Of course. As you wish.” Footsteps followed, the near-inaudible tread of a trained servant walking away.

  Gabriel let the soap drift to the bottom of the bath. He was too tired even to scrub himself down—but still full, full to the brim with the desire that had plagued him ever since that morning. Ever since he’d run his thumb along Edward’s jawline, half hoping that the man would take it in his mouth.

  He looked down. His sudden, near-painful hardness was barely a surprise. After the events of the morning, it was inevitable. All he had to do was think about Edward for more than an instant, it seemed, to be full of a tension so vicious it almost wounded him.

  He sighed again, his hand sliding downward. Now, in blessed privacy, he could finally take care of it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gabriel let his hand sink downward, biting his lip as his fingers closed over his rigid length. Finally. He closed his eyes, moving with slow, exquisite gentleness as he let himself float free. No urgent, mechanical release for him today, as on all the other days. He could explore. He could play.

  The usual images weren’t filling his mind. Nameless hands, muscles, mouths...nothing. All he could imagine, the only thing that made the sweet, languorous ache in his core spark into ravenous life, was Edward.

  Edward’s face. Edward’s eyes, that winter-laden blue, flickering with lust-driven life as they swept over Gabriel’s body. Edward’s lips, soft, full, yielding...the firm pad of his thumb quivering against his tongue...

  That was it. The sensations were stronger than usual; he was already moving faster, gripping the side of the bathtub. Just a few more long, uncompromising strokes, imagining it was Edward’s hand instead of his own...

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Not a servant’s silent tread. Gabriel stopped, swearing with the effort of halting, water splashing around him as he waited.

  He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Or perhaps he didn’t want to admit to just what he was waiting for.

  A part of him wanted Edward to approach. Come to where Gabriel lay, naked, wet, and several leagues past the point of no return.

  Gabriel knew that he couldn’t stop. Knew that he didn’t want to stop, which was worse. He quickly glanced at the door, not remembering if it was locked, not caring.

  What would he do if Edward burst through the door? If he walked over to Gabriel, urgent and ready to do...to do...

  Anything. He’d let Edward do anything, and more besides. He’d let Edward kiss him, touch him, run his hands down his dripping body and—and—

  He couldn’t hold back a grunt of animal pleasure as he gripped himself tighter. He couldn’t resist looking at the keyhole. Twenty footsteps. All it would take would be twenty footsteps, from the top of the stairs to the bathroom; fear, along with astonishment at his own daring, was taking his lust to new and dangerous heights.

  “Yes.” He muttered the word fiercely to himself, barely registering the sound of his own voice, stroking himself with renewed vigour. If only Edward would watch; if only he could look but not touch. Let him feel a tenth, a thousandth, of the frustration Gabriel had grappled with for ten long years, knowing that someone he lusted after so forcefully was taking pleasure somewhere else.

  He thrust his head back over the rim of the bath, entirely given over to pleasure. “Yes.” He let the word come louder now, a low rasp of animal satisfaction that echoed through the room like thunder. “Yes.” He redoubled his efforts, every new thought only adding fuel to his fire. If only Edward felt as he did, if only Edward felt the same overpowering need. That was the most arousing thought of all.

  He couldn’t hold back anymore. This peak, this shivering, gasping peak, was already more powerful than anything he’d previously felt. Edward was the key to it; he needed his nearness, his want.

  “Edward.” Gabriel couldn’t stop the word leaving his throat in a pained whisper as he gripped himself tighter, his movements fierce and uncontrolled. His climax surged, a tidal wave of raw pleasure; all he could do was hold on.

  A profane litany of swearwords fell from his lips as he lay spent, panting, near unseeing from the force of what had flooded him.

  “Edward.” A plea for connection, for contact, for something. This new meeting couldn’t arouse these thoughts in him, and him alone. It had to be both of them, a dialogue. A beginning.

  He ached for him. Ached for something he’d never had, never dared to imagine.

  He lay in the rapidly cooling water, the fire no longer warming him. No footsteps now. Edward had continued on, not hearing.

  A vicious, freezing spear of shame, of anger, slowly lodged itself inside him.

  Was he really so weak? So foolish? Did he really think even the rawest, open moment of exposure, of revealing his secret self, would be anything more than a game to Edward? Something that the man hadn’t seen a thousand times before, in a thousand situations a thousand times more erotic than anything Gabriel could possibly invent?

  He would be meaningless for Edward, if by some miracle they ever met carnally. Just another salacious encounter to add to his extensive list of conquests. Sailor. Soldier. Priest.

  Whatever he’d done this morning, whatever obscure sin he’d committed in the depths of his fever, meant absolutely nothing at all. He could imagine Edward back in London, brandy glass in hand, the members of his Society laughing along as he told the story of his rural misadventure.

  What a damned fool he was.

  It had to be the illness, as well as exhaustion. He would atone, of course—but just thinking about the enormity of the tasks required to make up for the events of the last two days made Gabriel want to sink down into the bathwater and never come out.

  It shouldn’t matter. Not at all. Had his years of repressed, half-formed lust for the Duke of Caddonfell ever led him to believe it would be consummated? Had he ever dreamed of—of sharing his desire with Edward? Of it being a partnership?

  No. That was something that men like him could never dream of. Which made him foolish, exceptionally foolish, to be mourning the loss of it.

  Hoof-beats sounded on the drive. Someone was coming to Hardcote House, apparently in great haste.

  Gabriel reached hurriedly for his clothes, jumping out of the cooling water with a shiver of disgust. He would greet whatever guest had suddenly arrived, find out what on earth was happening—and leave.

  Leave, without looking back. It was easy enou
gh to think the words. The fierce, bodily reluctance that came with the idea of leaving, though...that was new, and not to be trusted.

  Never trust a rake. He’d told Caroline that so many times when she’d begun to turn heads. Not many of them came to Hardcote, but one could never be too careful. Except, apparently, when it came to his own heart.

  He heard the door swing open; there was a flurry of muffled conversation. Gabriel struggled to hear the words.

  “...What are you doing with the curtains open? Close them. Immediately. Better yet, we go to the servant’s quarters. Somewhere windowless...”

  This sounded like intrigue. Something so bad, his feelings for Edward would leach away like water into soil.

  What was worse than the words was the voice behind them. Gabriel knew that voice, even though it had been years since he’d last heard it.

  The terror of Mayfair. London’s Account-Keeper.

  Lord Maurice Stanhope.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gabriel barely remembered Lord Maurice Stanhope. As a child he’d been half invisible, always reading a book, or piles of worryingly complex Latin and Greek as Edward and Gabriel had gone about their mischief. With hair as dark as Edward’s was light, he’d looked like a sharper, gloomier mirror image of his brother. Only his eyes were memorable: a bright, amber-flecked green that spoke of dying forests.

  He’d been a silent child, seemingly indifferent to all that took place around him. Now that Gabriel had seen the scandal sheet caricatures of him—a faceless, shadowed figure behind a desk, holding a wiggling prince regent in his clenched fist—he saw the young boy’s silence as mere practice for his adult stock-in-trade. Secrets.

  As an adult, little had changed. As Gabriel ran into the kitchen, still rubbing soap from the back of his neck, he was struck by the inverted resemblance between the Stanhope brothers. Maurice was still dark, still glowering, still the distorted reflection of Edward. If Edward was a star, bright and burning with white-hot light, Maurice was the inscrutable night sky.