The Vicar and the Rake (Society of Beasts)

by Annabelle Greene

  * * *

  The kitten had indeed made a mess. A wild tangle of threads covered the morning room carpet, needles shining amongst the chaos like tiny spears. As Caroline busied herself picking everything up, Edward crept towards an overstuffed green armchair. A twitching tail was sticking out from underneath it.

  After a brief, intensely painful rummage under the chair, he held up the kitten by the scruff of the neck. The creature was chewing on a large ornamental gold button with all the ferocity its tiny jaws could muster.

  “Well, at least now you can name the poor mite.” Caroline smiled at the small orange scrap. “He has decided to be called Buttons.”

  Buttons blinked and let the button drop to the floor. Now he’d heard the name, Edward couldn’t imagine calling him anything else.

  “My late husband hated cats,” Caroline said. “Most small animals, really. Although I did once see him leaving pieces of bread out for the lame pigeon that took to roosting on one of our balconies, which increased my respect for him enormously.”

  Edward struggled to find an appropriate response. “My condolences on his passing.”

  Caroline smiled sadly. “It was hardly a love match. No more condolences than necessary, please.” A slight hardness entered her gaze. “Not that I remember your condolences at the funeral. Or in a letter. Or in the briefest note.”

  Edward swallowed. “Our...our friendship belonged to our childhood. I feared it wouldn’t be my place to—”

  “You forgot.” Caroline’s smile had vanished. “Please do not speak of your place. You appear to be forgetting it here, around my brother.”

  Ah. Perceptive, as well as charming. Edward stood in awkward silence; whatever the woman was about to say, he needed to take it on the chin.

  “Allow me to be clear, sir.” Only the high, irritated flush on Caroline’s face betrayed her emotions; her face remained as bland and pleasant as decorum dictated. Edward watched her eyes, feeling uncommonly like a mouse in the path of a hawk. “My husband, God rest his soul, died of natural causes. If you hurt my brother—if you exhibit even a tenth of the callousness spread across the scandal sheets—your death will be an unnatural one.”

  Edward almost laughed aloud, stopping only through instinctive self-preservation. He could slip out of this one easily. “Lady Ploverdale, you give me a power that I do not possess. I doubt very much that your brother’s moral standing will be damaged by sharing a house with a reprobate like me.”

  Caroline rolled her eyes, sighing with frustration. “I see. You think me a fool. A country mouse, incapable of deciphering the very particular language you and my brother appear to be communicating with.” She held up a hand as Edward opened his mouth. “I have been at many sickbeds and deathbeds and darkened rooms full of secrets. A priest for a brother means holiness rubs off on the rest of us, as well as an aptitude for keeping confidences. I am no stranger to man’s...peculiarities, including those of my brother, and neither do I condemn them.” She sniffed, her frown dagger-sharp. “I do, however, condemn poor conduct. I condemn the practice of using people, good people, for diversion and then discarding them without turning a hair.” She leaned forward, unblinking, her voice perfectly calm. “Do not use my brother, sir. Do not hurt him. Do not even think of it.”

  Edward opened his mouth, then closed it.

  He couldn’t ever remember being warned off in such a uniquely terrifying way. The woman didn’t even have a weapon. He slowly swallowed, considering his usual speeches for moments like these, finding all of them mysteriously lacking.

  Perhaps honesty was the best policy. It could even be refreshing.

  “Your brother...” He stopped, considering, before continuing, “He’s a grown man. Master of his actions, and of his destiny. I am no more capable of influencing him than a passing man in the street—perhaps considerably less. If we are indeed speaking a...particular language, he’s free to not reply. He’s free to close his ears.”

  “My brother has been free to forget you for ten years.” Caroline’s calm mask slipped a little; her eyes flashed with anger, and Edward’s heart sank. “Just as we all have. Just as you did, without a backward glance.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “And yet here we are, thanks to Gabriel’s inability to forget you. Do you really think Gabriel walks here, all the way from Hardcote village, to forage for mushrooms? To swim in the lake?” She shook her head. “I cannot claim to know my brother’s heart. Perhaps I’m foolish, or hysterical, or any of the other qualities sisters are assigned at birth.” She laughed shakily, smoothing down her dress. “But I’m rarely wrong. More of a curse than a blessing, unfortunately.”

  Edward looked out of the dark window, stricken with embarrassment as Caroline gathered herself.

  Had Gabriel really come here all these years, haunting the grounds, reliving happier times? He imagined the man’s dark figure striding through the woods, or sat by the bank of the lake, and felt his heart fill with a strange throbbing sentiment, something rawer than compassion, more elemental than mere interest.

  Gabriel remembered him, saw him for who he was; maybe he’d always seen it, the difference, and had felt it too. Saw him...and wanted him.

  And he wanted Gabriel too. That spark of curiosity had grown, feeding on every glance and word, into a fire that threatened to engulf him. He had been about to do something about it...and now here was Caroline. Warning him off.

  He wished he could remember a more difficult challenge. But looking back at Caroline, prim and furious in her widow’s weeds, he wondered if the Duke of Sussex had been, on reflection, less frightening.

  “I do not wish to hurt your brother.” He realised, to his astonishment, that his voice was shaking a little. “Really. I cannot imagine anything worse.”

  “Then we share the same lack of imagination, Your Grace.” Caroline rose, curtseying with impeccable gravity. “I am happy that you do not wish to hurt my brother. If I may be so bold, however...what we want is so often very different from what we do. See that your actions align with your wishes.”

  Edward rose, bowing stiffly. “A graceful warning, madam. I thank you for it.”

  “Oh no. That was not my warning.” Caroline stared, unblinking, fixing Edward with the uncanny stare of a lioness. “This is my uniquely graceless warning. If you use my brother—if you discard him, as you have done to so many others—I will not hesitate to tell your brother how you have spent your time during this moment of immense delicacy and danger. How you chose to disobey him and put us all in peril, to briefly fill whatever vast emptiness compels you to cause such harm.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.” It didn’t sound convincing, even as it left Edward’s lips. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would do it without turning a hair, and you know it.” Caroline turned, her black skirts whispering against the rug. When she looked back, the sadness in her face was almost worse than her words. “Please. For the friendship we all used to share, if nothing else.”

  Edward bowed lower, hoping that Caroline couldn’t see the deep, shameful blush burning his cheeks. He waited until the rustle of her skirts receded, the morning room door closing before he dared to raise his head.

  Lady Ploverdale was a good woman. A fine sister. What a pity, then, that he couldn’t make her understand the depth of his need. What a pity that he would have to ignore her concerns.

  He needed Gabriel. What would happen afterwards, he didn’t know. Perhaps he would be swinging from a rope by then, anyway.

  You play with people. You use them.

  Edward shuddered. A small, hateful part of him welcomed the idea of the rope.

  He narrowed his eyes. He would wait a day or so. Lie low. And then...he would strike.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  One week. Over a hundred hours. If Gabriel concentrated hard, he could feel each second slipping through his fingers like water. Or was
ps, each one stinging him as they flew away.

  It had only taken a single, guarded look from Edward, complete with a raised eyebrow in Caroline’s direction, to understand that a conversation of some import had taken place between the two of them. Gabriel understood his sister’s position, even if it filled him with frustration. Edward, if the world’s opinion was anything to go by, was a man he needed protecting from.

  His body disagreed. Disagreed so strongly, in fact, that after two days of keeping his distance from Edward, he wanted to shake someone. He also needed to take measures to combat his lust, which had been growing in irritating leaps and bounds ever since the fever had unmoored it.

  In short, he was walking around with a damn-near permanent cockstand. And in the absence of any serious work to do, the only ways to channel his lust involved moping, pining, and stroking himself to completion more times a day than was entirely normal—followed by prayers that became less and less apologetic as time went on.

  Service, sacrifice, or suffering. That was the pact he had made with God. God, as it turned out, had a devious sense of humour.

  It was truly astonishing, how difficult it was to be alone with someone in a house so large. With Maurice hard at work tracing the whereabouts of the renegade jeweller, and no staff apart from Bryce to speak of, management of the home had fallen to himself, Caroline...and Edward.

  Edward, who had clearly never attempted a menial task larger than knotting his own cravat. But oh, how fun it was to watch him try—and how hopelessly, horribly erotic, watching him bring his devil-may-care elegance to even the simplest tasks.

  Even when stuck in a root cellar or drowning in dirty linen, Edward sparkled. Anyone with a pulse could see it. Gabriel, who had always been highly attuned to the Stanhope spark, was blinded by it. Charisma like that, that inner fire, couldn’t be begged, borrowed or stolen. It came at birth—or perhaps, just perhaps, as a reaction to some inner darkness Gabriel could only guess at.

  How he loved guessing. Guessing, and watching, and losing himself in the smallest of Edward’s movements—like the mischievous narrowing of his eyes before he said something faintly shocking, or the way he pretended to trip over the threshold before entering a room, catching himself at the very last minute. He used his body with a leonine grace that had Gabriel charmed, and fascinated, and...and stroking his cock behind closed doors, trembling as he finished yet again.

  Caroline, seemingly immune to Edward’s devastating charm, shadowed Gabriel with a sweet, concerned persistence that was absolutely maddening. Any daily activity short of the most private ablutions was something that could apparently be done as group work: letter-writing, cleaning, preparing care packages for Bryce to take to the village. It was a unique form of torture watching Edward undertake any number of daily tasks, from opening a letter to peeling a potato, completely unable to pull him out of his chair and just kiss him.

  There were always the nights, of course. Gabriel had been prepared to take full advantage of them—until Caroline mysteriously decided his current bedroom was too chilly for a recovering fever patient, and banished him to the other, warmer wing of the house. That wouldn’t have made a difference—but the locked door connecting the two wings definitely did. Gabriel had rattled the handle, furious, tempted to shout until Caroline could be made to account for herself.

  Unfortunately, such a course of conduct would make him look more guilty than furious. Best to let Caroline think she was protecting him. He could wait.

  Wait one week. Wait over one hundred hours. As one day became two, then four, then seven, Gabriel wondered if God wasn’t having a rather elaborate joke at his expense.

  Fortunately, he was a patient man. Perhaps not more patient than God himself, but enough for Him to lose interest. He would have his moment with Edward before long...and it would be worth the wait.

  He’d see that spark nourished to a steady flame, under his hands.

  * * *

  Edward’s week had been considerably different. Despite spending the vast majority of his time around Gabriel, doing any number of things, patient optimism was not his forte. In fact, he’d become increasingly concerned that he was ruining everything.

  Lady Ploverdale hadn’t helped, of course. By the time four days had passed, Edward was increasingly convinced the Crown should have hired her as a spy long ago. Lord, perhaps they had—it would explain her near-supernatural ability to remain in a room long after any reason for being there had passed. It would also account for her way of popping up, her presence horribly unexpected, whenever he and Gabriel managed to share more than a single word alone together.

  Neither, to his immense chagrin, did Buttons help. The kitten had begun to miaow piercingly whenever Edward left him alone for more than a few minutes, which meant he had to carry the creature around in his waistcoat. Not only was this inconvenient in itself, it meant that any opportunity for disrobing would mean arranging some kind of temporary holding pen for the cat.

  Despite the power of those two factors in keeping Edward from Gabriel, they weren’t the most important part of the equation. As the days drew on, Edward became more and more sure that his own actions were ruining any chance of future carnal pleasures with Gabriel.

  Put simply, he was a damned idiot at most practical things.

  As a pampered duke with more money than derring-do, he’d simply never needed to do any of the tedious minutiae involved in living as a dignified human. But with Bryce acting as housekeeper, cook and scullery maid, Edward had been forced to accompany Gabriel and Caroline as they made sure Hardcote House—and the village, at a distance—ran smoothly.

  It was humbling. It was backbreaking. It was boring—not to mention embarrassing, given how loftily he had spoken of his own excellence in front of Gabriel. And Edward, feeling Gabriel’s eyes on him as he went through all of the motions, knew that he wasn’t fooling anyone. He tried to hide how out of his depth he was under a thin veneer of charm, but he knew whatever ground he’d gained was rapidly slipping.

  Gabriel was...competent. Edward had never realised how arousing it was to watch a man sew on a button, harvest carrots, mend a squeaking door and make a cat purr, all in the space of a morning. It made him wonder if his own incompetence, however charming, was having the opposite effect.

  Mastery. That was the key. If he wanted any real chance of bedding Gabriel after this week, he had to learn how to fend for himself.

  Breakfast. He would start with breakfast. Staring blearily at the empty kitchen, the hour so early even Buttons hadn’t yet awoken, Edward eyed the basket of eggs on the table with the air of a hunter circling prey.

  He had watched Bryce cook eggs innumerable times—admittedly with half-closed eyes and a pounding headache, but some of the information must have been retained, surely? Eggs were relatively simple objects. Break them, fry them in butter, eat them. Simple.

  He picked up an egg, eyeing the frying pan warily. Bryce did it one-handed, but Bryce had been doing it for years. One-handed breaking seemed optimistic at best. Best to try with two hands, for now.

  Holding the egg aloft like a sacrificial knife, he slammed it down onto the side of the pan—and swore viciously as the shell exploded into fragments. Thick, cold liquid oozed over his hands, splattering onto the range with a moist thud as the yolk dropped wetly to the floor.

  Bugger. Perhaps a more delicate approach was needed.

  Wiping ineffectually at the mess with a dishcloth, he picked up another egg. Trying to mimic Bryce’s precise flick of the wrist, he neatly cracked the shell, sighing with relief as the egg slid tidily into the pan. Yes, that looked better. Any minute now, it would begin to turn white.

  With a satisfied smile, he waited. Soon it would begin to cook.

  Any minute now.

  Why wasn’t the bloody thing cooking?

  He leaned on the range, eyes narrowed, trying to work it out. He had the
egg, he had the pan, he had the wooden spoon, he had the range...

  The range that he was leaning on, quite comfortably. The ice-cold range. The range that he had completely forgotten to light.

  Well. That couldn’t be too difficult. Ranges needed wood, yes? All he needed to do was find some wood, and a match—both of which had to be here in great abundance, somewhere.

  He spied a basket full of logs, placed in the corner of the room. Silently reminding himself to be much more appreciative of Bryce in future, he headed towards it—and slipped on the puddle of egg yolk by the range.

  “Sod!” He lay on the flagstones, his pride hurting as much as his spine. Embarrassing, yes, but a minor setback—all he had to do was right himself.

  He threw out an arm, trying to grip the handle of the range, crying out with annoyance as he caught instead the handle of the frying pan. The frying pan that he had placed on the very edge of the range...

  “No, no, no...” He began to scrabble, his shoes still slipping on the yolk, as the frying pan began to tip. It fell, missing Edward’s face by inches, cold egg slopping onto his forehead.

  He lay still, the clang of the frying pan still ringing in his ears, egg beginning to seep down the back of his nightshirt. Perhaps he could stay here until the rest of the house woke up, and some kindly soul came to rescue him. Or stay here until the house fell down, and tonnes of masonry could safely cover his shame.

  Heavy footsteps echoed through the room. Edward, with an agonised sigh, looked straight into the eyes of the person he least wanted to see.

  “So.” Gabriel slowly took in the disastrous scene. “Breakfast?”

  “Buttons. I tripped over Buttons.” Edward looked wildly around for the kitten, inwardly cursing at the complete lack of orange cats in the vicinity. “All the damned animal’s fault.”

  “I just saw Buttons asleep under the clock.” Gabriel’s smile was altogether more superior than Edward liked. “He can’t run that fast.”