A Husband for Hartwell (The Lords of Bucknall Club Book 1)

by J. A. Rock

  “I shall go and sit in the other room with Stratford if you’re not silent on this matter at once.”

  Gale shrugged and took another swig of his port. “Then we shall consider the subject closed.” He set his glass aside and tapped his fingers on his knee. His eyes gleamed, and Hartwell knew there was no respite coming. Gale was an awful, awful man. “Tell me, then, what were your thoughts on chapter twenty-one?”

  Chapter 12

  From his room, Warry heard Rebecca come back inside. He could also hear that she was sobbing as she thumped up the stairs and into her own room, shutting the door with conviction. If any decency existed within him, he would go to her and try to discern the cause of her distress.

  But he was not a good person, no matter how hard he had tried to be. He had put Becca in the path of harm. He had taken her private property and read her darkest secrets. And now, because of his wickedness, she stood to be ruined.

  He lay on the bed, his hands clasped over his belly as he stared up at the ceiling. The scent of the outdoors still clung faintly to him—as did, unless he imagined it, a faint trace of Hartwell. He retained only a hollow echo of the rage he had felt at tea. It was as though his subtle humiliation of Hartwell had cooled something within him that had been burning for some time.

  He recalled the day he had discovered the damning letter. He and Becca had been fighting over something silly, and he was angry enough to want to give her a scare. He had searched her trunk while she was out, rummaging beneath her spare bedclothes, knowing she kept her diary there. He did not intend to read it, only to hide it until she realised it was gone and panicked.

  But when he picked up the diary, a note slid out from its pages, half-finished, in Becca’s elegant, flowing script. A letter to Miss Lilley. He should not have read it, or once he had begun to, he should have stopped after a couple of sentences when he comprehended the extremely personal nature of the missive. But the things Becca described in the letter…He had not even known two women could do such things together. And then he had understood, with a flood of fear and hope, that if two women could engage in such acts, then it was not mere fantasy to imagine he might one day do similar things with another man.

  This was before he’d discovered The Maiden Diaries, and he’d possessed no resources save that letter on coupling with a member of the same sex. Had not quite put shape to his own desires until that very moment. The fact that he and his sister were alike in that way made the shame slightly more bearable. He had fled with the letter, unable to bear the thought of being discovered with it in Becca’s room and equally unable to prevent himself from reading it all the way through. Sitting on the floor of his own bedroom with his back against the closed door, he had devoured every word.

  After that, getting revenge on Becca suddenly seemed a small thing in comparison to his realisation that she had loved their governess. For the letter was not merely about the physical act of love; it held tenderness as well. Were he to have such tender feelings for another man, perhaps it would not be so terrible because Becca was the same. And Becca was good, so it could not be wrong to be like her.

  He knew that men sometimes married men, of course, and women sometimes married women. But his parents had only ever spoken of Warry’s future wife, and he’d always understood that, whatever the law might say, for men to marry women was the natural way of things.

  He should have put the letter back, but something had distracted him. His mother calling him for tea perhaps. Warry had slid the letter into his bureau drawer, intending to replace it, never guessing Wilkes would steal it first.

  And now, without ever intending it, Warry was again responsible for Becca’s misery.

  Her sobs made him nervous. Was it possible she had seen his gesture on the archery green for what it was—a wordless declaration that, as much as he despised Hartwell, he also desired the man? Was she furious with him?

  A knock on the door startled him. A servant entered, bearing a note. “This came for you, sir.”

  Warry took it, heart sinking as he recognized the handwriting on the envelope and pulled out the card. It simply read, You will join me at the theatre tonight in Drury Lane at 8:00. B.

  And if he did not? Warry thought in a blaze of fury. He was not Balfour’s whelp to be called to heel.

  “No reply,” he informed the servant, who bowed and left. Warry closed his eyes and let himself drift.

  If he could not have Hartwell—and to be clear, he loathed Hartwell and only wanted the man in the most purely physical sense—yes, there, he had admitted it—then perhaps he should begin preparing himself to share a bed with Balfour.

  He did not know why the idea unnerved him so. Balfour was handsome, though he lacked much of Hartwell’s natural beauty. It was frightening to think of engaging in the act with someone as morally destitute as Balfour—and yet, wasn’t Warry every bit as bereft of morals? And wasn’t it, in some odd way, even more frightening to imagine engaging in the act with someone he cared for? Balfour, above all else, possessed confidence. He would be able to instruct Warry as Warry remained uncertain what would be expected of him on his wedding night.

  He let one hand slip lower on his belly, then crooked his finger to drag along the exposed skin where his shirt had come untucked from his trousers.

  It was madness to allow himself the indulgence, but he imagined his own hand was Hartwell’s. Imagined Hartwell’s ragged, hushed breathing as he gazed at Warry with an expression of exhausted longing. He tipped his chin up, imagining he was looking up at Hartwell, eyes wide, breathless and uncertain but trusting the other man to guide him.

  He moved his hand to the front of his trousers. Closed his eyes and exhaled. He spread his legs slightly, an offering to his imagined companion, whose lips twitched upward and whose eyes grew soft and hazy with lust.

  He caressed himself again, but finding the contact not quite sufficient, he slid his hand down the front of his trousers. His excitement was humiliatingly evident, even as he reminded himself there was nobody to witness his humiliation. Nobody except his phantom, who delighted in the sight of his arousal, who was guiding his hand in slow movements up and down the front of his drawers, dampening the fabric. He had done this only a few times before, always inhibited by shame and never with a fantasy so vivid to spur him on.

  He stayed his hand and panted out a few desperate breaths. Then he reached into his drawers, caressing the full length of his hardness, and imagined Hartwell’s parted lips as he gazed down at Warry, wonder in his eyes. With his other hand, he dragged his nails along his inner thigh. The sensation made him gasp and twist.

  He should not continue. He risked madness, blindness, and myriad other pollutions if he saw the foul act to its completion. Yet the softness of Hartwell’s gaze before him made it seem as though nothing about it was wrong.

  Warry stroked faster, increasing the pressure. His breathing was harsh, and he closed his throat in an effort to stifle it lest it be heard through the walls. But Hartwell wanted to hear him. Wanted to witness every moment of his pleasure and his torment.

  That thought was fire in his veins.

  He threw his head back and gasped once more as his core contracted, his hand suddenly webbed with stickiness. He remained there for a moment, every muscle tensed and trembling, his eyes squeezed shut, his panting seeming to roar in his ears. Slowly, he flattened his arched spine against the mattress and stared at the ceiling.

  He felt more alone now than ever. Through the walls, Becca’s muffled sobs echoed. Late afternoon had darkened to evening, casting strange shadows about his room.

  He did not go down to dinner, but when the time came, he summoned his valet, changed out of his soiled drawers and his trousers, and put on evening dress. Then he went downstairs and called the carriage round to take him to the theatre.

  He arrived late and did not know the location of Balfour’s box, but he need not have worried. The man waited for him in the lobby, his gaze cold.

  “You’r
e late,” Balfour said unnecessarily.

  Warry did not know anybody who arrived on time for the theatre. He hardly thought slipping into a box late was cause for concern and said as much.

  “I do not care what time the performance begins or what anyone else does. I asked you to meet me here at eight o’clock.”

  “I was otherwise occupied.”

  Balfour’s mouth tightened. “Perhaps you forget that you are promised to me.” He took Warry’s arm.

  Warry pulled away. “Perhaps you forget that does not make me your servant.”

  Balfour gazed at him for a long time, expression unreadable. “We shall announce our happy news at my little gathering in two days’ time. I rather think it best for us to hasten this marriage along.”

  Warry’s heart pounded. “What about asking my father?” That had been his last hope—that perhaps his father would refuse. Balfour had tasked him with convincing his father, yes, but if the earl opposed the match vehemently enough…

  Balfour gave him a cold, flat smile. “Won’t he be surprised?”

  He was stonily silent as they made their way to his box, and Warry followed, numb with fear.

  He had no hope of concentrating on the performance, and when an intermission arrived, he was most relieved. “I require some air,” he said, hoping Balfour would not follow.

  A vain hope. He walked out the front doors with Balfour on his heels and stood in the chilly night, surveying streets that suddenly seemed strange and overly dark. Was this to be the rest of his life? Having Balfour snap his fingers and tell him where to be and when? Standing in cold and darkness outside this rout or that performance with no conversation between them? Hartwell might be loathsome, but there was an easiness to being with him—well, except when the man was deliberately being difficult.

  His memory of Hartwell’s smile was so vivid it was jarring to suddenly hear a familiar voice coming from a little way down the street.

  “Oh, they came to see a show, did they?”

  Warry looked around.

  Light from a gas lamp caught a tall figure wobbling like a skittle as he balanced precariously on the back of a flower-seller’s cart. The man’s hat was askew, and his arms were flung wide, but it was unmistakably Hartwell. Warry’s heart sailed in relief before he recalled just how little he wanted to see the man.

  Gale stood below his friend, stretching out an arm in an effort to get Hartwell to lower his. “All right, old chap, let’s get you down from there, shall we?”

  Hartwell spun in a circle. “Well, here is a show for you all!” His words were slurred, and he stumbled as he finished his rotation. Gale barely caught him. “The engagement is off. Ladies and gentlemen, she says the engagement is off, so you may all go home.”

  “My friend.” Gale’s voice rose in temper. “This is not the show anyone came to see.”

  “But it is my very favourite show!” Hartwell proclaimed. A crowd was gathering, and a nearby constable skirted it, seemingly unsure whether to intervene. “The tragedy of Lord Hartwell, Marquess of Danbury.”

  Warry heard Balfour say something but ignored him, slipping closer to where Hartwell stood.

  “You’re going to get yourself arrested,” Gale said firmly, attempting to keep hold of his companion’s knee. “Come, we must leave now.”

  Hartwell gave Gale a firm kick, which caught Gale off guard such that he stumbled a few paces away.

  Warry saw what was going to happen before it did.

  Hartwell tipped back on his heels, waving his arms for balance. His hat tumbled off into the street, and an instant later, he began to fall backward too.

  Warry did not know how or why he did what he did next. He only knew that a moment later, Hartwell was lying flat on his back in the street, and Warry had somehow caught him in time to prevent him from cracking his head open on the cobblestones but not, he realised, in time to prevent him from landing in a pile of manure left by the flower-seller’s horse.

  He got more applause and laughter from the appreciative crowd than the actors inside the theatre were getting.

  “Help me,” Warry ground out as Gale appeared by his side, and together the two of them hauled Hartwell to his feet.

  Everyone was talking at once, and the constable remained uncertain of what to do. Warry climbed to his feet, dusting pebbles and filth out of his palms, then turned to the constable. “It is all right,” he said. “I will see him home.”

  Hartwell was sputtering beside him, lifting one manure-stained leg and then the other as though in disbelief.

  Warry realised Gale was studying him with interest. The man leaned closer to Warry and spoke in a low voice. “I keep a private room off Russell Street. Number thirty-three. I suggest you take him there. His parents would be most displeased to see him in this state.” He slipped Warry a key.

  Warry turned to whistle for a hack.

  A hand on his shoulder spun him around, and Balfour glowered down at him. “What do you think you are doing?”

  “He requires assistance. I am going to take him somewhere he can rest.”

  “If you accompany that filthy drunk anywhere,” Balfour said with icy precision, “you will regret it. Get back in the theatre.”

  Warry noticed that Balfour’s gaze had dropped, and he followed it to find his own hand still clutching Hartwell’s elbow.

  “Think where your loyalty lies.” Balfour’s tone was deadly.

  Hartwell blew air through his lips like a horse. “Quite a third act, I must say. Where is my walking stick?”

  “Come,” Warry said, leading him away from the crowd and from Balfour. He had no doubt he would pay for this when next he found himself in Balfour’s company. He must only hope that he alone would bear the brunt of Balfour’s displeasure; that Balfour would not seek to compromise Becca in retaliation.

  Hartwell could barely stand up straight, and his breath reeked of port. Warry urged him hastily into a hack, wishing to spare him further embarrassment.

  The ride was tense and silent. Hartwell stared down at his filthy shoes and breeches. There were a million things Warry wanted to say—to wound Hartwell, to reassure him, to make him laugh so that they might be friends again. But he remained silent until they arrived at number thirty-three.

  Warry dragged Hartwell from the carriage, turning his head at the combined stench of Hartwell’s breath and the manure on his clothes.

  He sighed when he entered the building and found himself facing a staircase.

  “Come,” he muttered. “You must try to walk.”

  “I am trying,” Hartwell mumbled. “You are the one who must walk.”

  Warry gritted his teeth and began the arduous process of carrying a grown man up a set of stairs.

  He groaned in relief as he kicked the door shut behind them. Hartwell sank to his knees on the floor, and Warry let him go. Warry could scarcely see to light a candle. He finally managed it and carried the candle over to the bedside table. There was a decorative vessel there. Or perhaps it was not decorative, but rather, intended for just the purpose Warry had in mind.

  He brought it to where Hartwell knelt and set it before him.

  “You will feel better once you’ve been sick.” Warry knew this only from his father, having never been in his cups himself.

  “I don’t think I shall ever feel better,” Hartwell said pensively. Then he leaned forward and vomited, both into and down the side of the vessel.

  “Look away,” Hartwell ordered too late. “I don’t want you to see this.”

  “I have been sick before, Hartwell.”

  Hartwell nodded thoughtfully, the candlelight casting a golden glow on the tips of his eyelashes.

  Warry took out his handkerchief, and, determined to remain as matter-of-fact as possible, dabbed at the corners of Hartwell’s mouth. Hartwell screwed up his face like a child and tried to twist away.

  “Stop it,” Warry said. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “I do not need your help. I need anoth
er glass of po-oooort.” He sang the last word as though he were performing in an opera.

  “That is the very last thing you need.”

  “Then you have not heard my engagement is off.”

  “Half of London heard, not thirty minutes ago.”

  “You have no sympathy.”

  “You make it difficult to.”

  “When will the good doggie trot back to Master Balfour?”

  Warry barely stopped himself from planting Hartwell a facer. “I am not with Balfour right now. I am here with you. Not that you will appreciate it.”

  “I…appruh…” Hartwell trailed off, swaying.

  “Are you finished being sick?” A foolish question, and not one Hartwell would be able to answer with any sort of accuracy.

  “Oh, I am done.”

  “Then stand up.” Warry pulled him mercilessly to his feet. Hartwell stumbled into him and then adjusted his balance. Warry led him over to the bed. Hartwell started to collapse, but Warry held him up with an arm around his waist and began unbuttoning his waistcoat. His coat had already been unbuttoned at some point in the evening and hung open.

  “Little Joseph Warrington. This is not at all proper.”

  “You cannot sleep in these filthy clothes. And now you have vomit on your coat.”

  This silenced Hartwell long enough for Warry to strip him of his coat and waistcoat. His shirt was more or less clean, so Warry allowed him the modesty of keeping it on. He very determinedly averted his eyes from where the shirt hung open, revealing that patch of chest hair, and began to work on Hartwell’s breeches.

  “Most improper,” Hartwell repeated so softly that it came across more as a sigh than words.

  “You’ll thank me later,” Warry muttered, wondering how the man could be half-naked and in utter disgrace and still render Warry the one embarrassed.

  “I thank you now,” he said quietly as Warry helped him remove his shoes and step out of his breeches.