by J. A. Rock
“That is a child’s name, and you are not a child.”
Warry hardly dared breathe.
“Nobody ever seems to notice me,” he said at last, aware of his own pitiful hope that this admission would spur Balfour to further compliments. Some part of him recalled the feel of Hartwell’s arms around him hours ago, the two of them breathless with amusement. But he recalled even more sharply the way Hartwell had called him pup and left the room arm in arm with Becca.
“Isn’t that a shame?” There was a tenderness in Balfour’s dark eyes that Warry had not been expecting. It made him warmer still. “I can teach you to be noticed. It is not difficult. There are only a few simple tricks a man must learn in order to master those around him.”
Balfour reached out and tucked a bit of Warry’s hair behind his ear, letting his fingers linger for just a moment. Warry felt a surge of heat between his legs so powerful that he momentarily feared himself ill. But he was not ill. No, he had suddenly become party to the greatest secret in all the world. Were there others out there who knew what it was to be looked at the way Balfour was looking at him, or was he singularly lucky? And then he glanced to the side, through the glass in the doors, and saw Hartwell seated at a table inside, staring at him. Becca was nowhere in sight, and Hartwell’s stare was so intense—brows lowered, an unbecoming twist to his mouth—Warry wondered that it didn’t somehow shatter the glass that separated them.
Warry felt such pleasure then. Hartwell thought him a pup, still trailing behind the him and Becca, begging scraps of affection? Well, which of them was sitting alone, scowling, gripping his punch glass so tightly it was as if he hoped to crush it to powder, and which of them held the undivided attention of a peer of the realm? He turned back to Balfour, bowing his head slightly. “I should like to learn your secrets, my lord.” He could not resist one more glance inside at Hartwell, who had turned away and was gazing at something Warry could not see, his jaw firmly set.
Later, preparing to leave, Warry found himself jostled into a group consisting of Hartwell and a few of Hartwell’s chums. One of them commented on the length of time Warry had spent on the terrace with Balfour, and Warry felt grim satisfaction at the sudden colour in Hartwell’s face. He wanted desperately for Hartwell to know that he was capable of making the acquaintance of a true gentleman. That he and Lord Balfour were thick as thieves now. And who did Hartwell count as friends? A handful of overgrown children, like Hartwell himself.
Hartwell cuffed him smartly on the back of his head. “What were you thinking, spending a whole afternoon outside in the freezing cold with Lord Balfour?”
Warry’s satisfaction fled, replaced by the familiar beginnings of embarrassment. Hartwell was not impressed by his new acquaintance—quite the opposite.
Hartwell’s friend Stevens laughed and said, “He could not hear enough about Lord Balfour’s prize stallions.”
Hartwell grinned. “Was that it, Warry? Were you asking Balfour about stud fees so that you might be bred to one of his stallions? You do love livestock so.” It was by far the cruellest thing Hartwell had ever said to him, and Warry stopped to let the group pass around him, burning with shame and anger. Hartwell had, in the past, called him a pest, a pup, a fool. Had thrown him into ponds, had attempted to lose him in the woods after spinning tales of witches who snatched children. Had only hours ago belched in his ear. But he had never humiliated Warry so thoroughly nor so publicly.
Hartwell and his friends had gone off laughing, and Warry had stood there, unable to move, until his mother had taken his arm, still chattering, and walked out with him.
Warry shook himself back into the present, where Hartwell was staring at him oddly. “Come, Warry. Is the prospect of staying here really so awful? Let me do the chaperoning for once.” He slapped the table twice with his palm. “Now. Tell me something about your sister that I don’t know.”
Warry choked on a piece of honey cake that had chosen that moment to lodge itself in his throat. “I…I am sure there’s nothing you don’t know about Becca, Hartwell.”
It sounded like a lie even to his own burning ears, but perhaps he was so awkward and hopeless all the time Hartwell didn’t note it. If only he could excuse himself without seeming ungrateful, then he could go and send a message to Wilkes.
Hartwell brushed a dark curl off his forehead. “Well, there must be something. I’m sure even Becca has hidden depths beyond her desire to go about putting frogs in fellows’ shirts.”
“You are more her friend than I,” Warry said mulishly.
“She loves you a great deal,” Hartwell replied with more honesty than Warry was expecting. “I believe there are things she would sooner confide to you than me.”
Warry stared at his plate. Something must be wrong with the cakes, for his stomach was ailing him.
“She likes cake,” he blurted.
Hartwell blinked. “Well, yes. I know that. She always has done. Who doesn’t?”
Warry shook his head, searching for something that might stand a chance of surprising Hartwell and ending this wretched exchange.
“She loves books.” He spoke even louder.
“Yes, I know that too.”
“No, I mean…she likes a certain kind of book.” Warry shifted uncomfortably. “She likes novels.”
“Novels!” Hartwell looked both delighted and scandalised. “How dreadful! Your parents must be horrified.”
“They don’t know,” Warry said. “And you mustn’t tell them. Father says novels rot the brain, and women, especially, shouldn’t read them. But Becca hides them under her bed.”
“This is delightful!” Hartwell exclaimed. “It’s exactly what I needed to know. I shall go to a bookshop and buy her as many novels as I can carry! What sort does she like? The ones where good-hearted parlour maids are seduced by evil lords of the realm and fling themselves off bridges into the Thames in paroxysms of sorrowful regret?” His brow creased. “Is there another sort?”
“There is…another sort. That she has…has read.”
Hartwell crooked a brow again. “Go on.”
“A series of books…that she likes.”
“Warry, what are these books?”
“The, um.” His voice dropped very low, and he spoke directly to the table. “The Maiden Diaries.”
“The Maiden Diaries?” Hartwell exclaimed. “Isn’t it rumoured that a young lady can be robbed of her maidenhead simply by reading those?”
Warry squeaked. “Do not say that!”
“Forgive me, but you’ve just told me that Becca has read The Maiden Diaries.”
“I should not have said anything. She does not want anybody to know.”
“Yes, well, you did say something.”
“I know, but I should not have.”
Hartwell’s eyes narrowed slyly. “Have you read these monstrosities, Warry?”
“No!” Surely Hartwell couldn’t think—“Of course not!”
“No? Never picked up a copy when she wasn’t around and just…had a look?”
“I certainly have not!”
“Aha! I know you too well. You cannot lie to me.” Hartwell’s eyes gleamed. “Now, tell me, which was your favourite part?”
Warry opened and closed his mouth like a fish drowning on land, at once overwhelmed by images of the scene in the duchess’s library where the maiden in question had a rendezvous with a dark-haired rake—in his mind, the fellow suddenly looked a lot like Hartwell—who hoisted her onto the desk and had his way with her; a scenario which very much supported Warry’s father’s belief that reading novels led inevitably to moral depravity. “I would n-not…I would not ever!”
Hartwell was suddenly by his side, gripping his elbow firmly, and Warry realised that he had, without thinking, tried to stand, only to find his legs unwilling to support him. “Easy there.” The teasing was gone from Hartwell’s voice.
Warry braced himself on the table, his knees shaking. “There is something wrong with the brioche.”
>
“Ah, is that it?” Hartwell said wryly. The other man guided him out from the table and supported him as they left the drawing room, Warry clinging to Hartwell like some swooning maiden—no, do not think of maidens—and terribly aware of how the weight of his body pulled Hartwell’s shirt down further, exposing fully the patch of chest hair. The rest of Hartwell’s chest, Warry noticed as his eyes flicked unbidden to Hartwell’s torso, appeared smooth and extremely well muscled.
He endured the warmth and hardness of Hartwell’s body against his as they went up the stairs. He tried once to protest that he could walk by himself, but as the corners of his vision were blackening and he was very much in danger of losing his breakfast, his words lacked conviction.
He sank onto the cool sheets gratefully, his head pounding. Hartwell pulled the bedclothes over him, pausing for a moment to eye where Warry’s dressing gown fell open at the waist. Understanding seemed to dawn in his eyes as Warry received another rush of sickening shame. He did not know how to rid himself of his affliction, and now that Hartwell had seen…
“That brioche must have been rather something,” Hartwell murmured, and Warry wished nothing more than to disappear from the earth. He braced himself for further teasing or perhaps condemnation, but Hartwell simply tugged the covers up until they hid his disgrace. “There now. Would tea help? Water? I am at your disposal.”
Warry squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. Water might help his headache, but it could do nothing for his immortal soul. “No. I am fine. Merely overtired. I do not understand myself.”
“You’ve had your skull bashed pretty thoroughly. Of course you are not feeling quite the thing.” Hartwell patted him through the blankets and offered a slight grin, though his eyes held the same concern from earlier. “And not another word of argument against staying with me. You will remain in this bed until you are quite yourself. And you will ring if you need anything at all. Is that understood?”
Warry tried to nod, but pain ripped through his head. “Yes.” Anything to get Hartwell out of the room.
“Warry…” Hartwell sounded hesitant. “Be well,” he said finally. “When you are recovered, I shall take you to that gaming hell, and we shall practice sinning together.”
It was, perhaps, the worst thing Hartwell could have said. But hearing the smile in the man’s words, Warry was filled with a warmth that wasn’t entirely shame. He did not respond, and after another moment, Hartwell drew the curtains and left the room.
He lay in bed for a while, attempting to recover his composure.
Practice sinning together.
A flash of the maiden in the library, her legs splayed, the dark-haired rake between them. He widened his own legs under the covers.
No. No, no, no, you must not. He concentrated on his breathing. The rake’s shirt was open, revealing a patch of chest hair.
No, you fool.
One breath in. One breath out. He lost himself in the cool darkness of the room.
His stomach had settled somewhat, as had…the other thing. And when he felt sure he could stand, he climbed out of bed and went in search of a quill and paper.
Chapter 4
Hartwell made his way to The Temple of the Muses in Finsbury Square. He wasn’t sure how, precisely, one went about discretely acquiring a copy of a novel that could allegedly damn your soul within three pages, but the Temple seemed as though it must carry every book in the world.
There wasn’t much that could make Hartwell blush, but the thought of paying for his purchase and waiting as it was wrapped in brown paper had his cheeks a bit hot. At least the mere existence of the book didn’t send him into convulsions as it did Warry.
He didn’t know when little Joseph Warrington had become such a staunch protector of moral certitude, but Hartwell did have the comfort of knowing that Warry had without a doubt at least skimmed Rebecca’s copy of The Maiden Diaries if not actually read it. The fellow’s cockstand had proved as much, Hartwell thought, fighting a smile. There was hope for the young prig yet.
He found that even when he tried to think of his house guest with annoyance, a certain amount of sympathy rose in him. He disliked seeing Warry unwell, and it enraged him to think of him being maltreated. Still, there was something a bit odd about the pup’s story of wanting to gamble. If one wished to dabble in sin for the first time, one did not go straight to St. Giles. Surely one had the sense to start in a place of moderate repute.
Well, Warry had never been much for sense.
Ah, no. What a lie that was. Warry had always possessed far more sense than he himself. Which was what made the whole St. Giles business so strange.
He entered the shop and had to confess himself impressed by the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. He wasn’t much of a reader himself. He was only going to make an attempt at perusing The Maiden Diaries to better understand Becca and her desires. And yet part of him was mildly intrigued. He had listened to—and sung—his share of bawdy songs, but he had never read anything salacious. If the perking of Warry’s pipe in response to a simple conversation about the book was any indication, Hartwell might wish to shut himself away in his bedroom to, ah…enjoy the fine work of literature.
“Hartwell!” A voice called out. He recognised the deep, perpetually sombre tone, and turned with a grin. His friend Lord Christmas Gale stood at a nearby shelf with a couple of volumes in hand.
Hartwell approached. “Gale! You old bastard.”
“What are you doing here? I didn’t know you could read.”
“Aren’t you amusing?”
“Rarely.” Gale’s world-weary countenance suggested he’d neither amused or been amused in all his five-and-twenty years. But Hartwell knew better.
Christmas Gale was a curious fellow with a dour expression that belied his merry name—probably the reason he practised it. His name, a legacy of having been born on Christmas Day, was the least odd thing about him. Gale had a knack for getting himself involved in mysteries. Whether it was a missing handkerchief or a lost child—Hartwell’s opinion on which was more tragic would not endear him to any mothers—Gale could be relied upon to solve the thing before too long. It wasn’t as though Gale wanted to solve mysteries, or even seemed to enjoy it, but for some reason they were drawn to him in the way cats were drawn to people who hated them.
“Are you working on a case?”
“For pity’s sake, Hartwell, do not phrase it that way. I am not some brooding investigator out of a cheap novel.”
“But you are investigating?”
“I am doing research.”
“And that is all you will say?”
“You were missed at Bucknall’s last night.” Gale shifted the subject, his brow creasing in what Hartwell knew was curiosity rather than disapproval. Hartwell would have lived at Bucknall’s if the club allowed.
“Yes,” he said. “I had an unexpected guest.”
He wondered if he ought to tell Gale about Warry’s brush with danger in St. Giles, but decided that no, Warry was a mystery he would rather like to attempt to untangle himself. He stared off into the middle distance for a moment as visions of untangling Warry assailed him. Most of them involved Warry being ensnared in bedclothes. Good Lord, what had become of him? It had been too long since he’d shared his bed with anyone, clearly. He tried to think of Becca in the same way, all tangled hair and heaving bosom, but the picture wasn’t as alluring. Probably because Becca would never get herself tangled in bedclothes to begin with, and if she did, she’d slap his hands away if he tried to assist. He wondered if the heroine of The Maiden Diaries was so damnably competent. He doubted it.
“A guest?” Gale raised a single brow in question.
“Yes,” Hartwell said. “You know little Warry? The Viscount Warrington, I should say. Becca’s brother. He’s staying with me.”
“How very risqué,” Gale said, tapping his fingers over the cover of the topmost book on the pile he was holding.
“Hardly,” Hartwell said airily. “I’
m courting his sister, after all. Well, I shall be, all things going to plan.”
“In my experience, things rarely go to plan.”
“I rather think my life is infinitely less complicated than yours, my dear Gale.”
Gale shrugged. “He’s unmarried, though, isn’t he?”
“Warry? Yes. And an oldest son, like me.”
Gale nodded his understanding. While marriage between younger sons of the peerage was encouraged in many cases to curtail an excess of lesser heirs who might prove burdensome to a thinly spread inheritance, older sons were expected to wed women and continue the family line. It had been made very clear to Hartwell from the time he was a lad that he would marry a woman, and he expected Warry had been told the same. Not that there was any reason to place marriage in the same thought as Warry. Gale’s intimations annoyed him. What indication had he ever given—either to Gale or to that darkened corner of his mind that kept him supplied with carnal fantasies—that he had the slightest interest in Warry?
“Well, then. Courting his sister, hmm? Congratulations on finally giving the ton the show they paid for.”
“I’m actually here on account of Becca.”
“Oh, aren’t you dashedly sweet. Don’t tell me she’s a reader of novels? She seems like she would be.”
He leaned closer to his friend. “I’m looking for one novel in particular, but it’s a bit…I’m not sure where to find it.”
“You might ask the seller.”
“I would rather not.”
Gale’s surprisingly soft eyes met his with no little interest. “Oh?”
“You see, Becca has been reading”—he lowered his voice and glanced around—“The Maiden Diaries.”
“Oh my. Naughty girl.”
“Well, she’s not. She’s a very good-hearted girl from an excellent family, and I’ll thank you not to cast judgement on my intended. But yes, it seems she is a devotee of the books.”
“And you think I might know where to locate the latest volume?”
