by Tamara Allen
Lysander Winterbourne’s opponent stepped back and lowered his sword, acknowledging a point, and the two men moved apart, taking up their starting positions again. Adam tracked Winterbourne with his gaze. He’d discarded his jacket, and in his skin-tight breeches and waistcoat, he was trim and handsome.
“Yes,” Adam murmured. “Beautiful form.”
The two men saluted one another with their blades and began again, and it was another dazzling display of attacks and counterattacks, swift and glittering and intent. At the end of it, Jessop accepted defeat, grimacing a little, but good-humoured enough, and offered his blade to Adam.
“Are you going to try to best him?” he asked, arching a brow.
Adam glanced at Winterbourne, who smiled at him, a slow, challenging smile that made his absurdly handsome face even more appealing.
“Come on, Freeman,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Very well,” Adam said. He didn’t take the blade from Jessop immediately. Instead he removed his coat and put it to one side, taking his time. He was conscious of the other three men watching him, mostly Winterbourne, with that devil-may-care smile of his.
After he accepted the blade, he took a few moments to learn its weight and shape, moving it from hand to hand, carrying out a few exploratory slashes and thrusts. Gris watched him, his gaze considering, but giving nothing away of his thoughts.
“Take your positions, gentlemen,” was all he said, then simply, “En garde.”
Adam was a good swordsman, but he wasn’t as good as Winterbourne. He already knew that, just from watching him fight Jessop at half strength. He suspected too that Winterbourne was not an entirely ruthless opponent. That he would give Adam one chance at least, at the start of the bout. He would give him that chance with all the magnanimity of a man who knew himself near unbeatable.
So Adam took it.
His initial lunge was explosive, a powerful surge of strength that took Winterbourne by surprise. It gave him a half second of an advantage—less—before his blade struck the other man’s and the bout was underway.
The next few minutes were frenzied, Adam moving on pure instinct as their weapons clashed and scraped, working in opposition and in accord too. Adam knew that there were times when it was more intelligent to yield than to hold firm—knew too that the moments in a bout on which victory pivoted were not always won by brute force. But the fact was, he only knew. With Winterbourne, it was more than knowing. He understood those moments, had an instinct for how to play them, his body seeming to move almost without thought.
Adam fought hard, but he was no match for his younger opponent. As he realised the extent of that truth, his grin grew till he was laughing aloud, simply admiring Winterbourne’s skill as the man sliced effortlessly through Adam’s best swordsplay, trying to keep the bout going as long as possible for no reason other than to prolong the mad joy of it.
Winterbourne began to grin too, his face flushed with enjoyment, cornflower-blue eyes bright and happy. That unruly lock of golden hair tumbled over his forehead, making him look carefree. Tempting. Adam wanted nothing more than to throw his sword aside and take the man in his arms. Kiss him senseless till they were both panting. Instead he kept fighting. Kept thrusting and parrying till Winterbourne finally did the inevitable, landing a hit on Adam’s shoulder, the fleuret of his foil pushing bluntly into Adam’s shoulder, making the blade bend in an outrageous, glinting arc.
They both halted, panting madly, grinning at each other while Gris and Jessop laughed, applauding their appreciation.
“Extraordinare!” Gris exclaimed. “So fast! You are a well-matched pair.” He took Adam’s foil from him and clapped him on the shoulder. “You will have to come back and demonstrate again when I have more students here. There are not many who can give Monsieur Winterbourne a run for his money! I am ever struggling to find him worthy opponents.”
“He is much better than I,” Adam said, catching Winterbourne’s eye. “I cannot call myself a worthy opponent.”
“Are you joking?” Winterbourne sputtered. “You nearly overcame me in the first two seconds. I’ve never seen anything so fast in my life!”
Gris laughed. “He’s fierce,” he said, turning aside to hand the foils to Jessop. “Like a Bengal tiger.”
“I see the resemblance,” Winterbourne agreed. He looked Adam up and down, raising one provocative brow, and Christ, the look on his face—amused, admiring—it went straight to Adam’s cock.
Stupidly he shifted, seeking to disguise his body’s response. Of course, it only served to draw Winterbourne’s attention, and his gaze duly dropped, the minute widening of his eyes confirming that, yes, he had noticed. But then how he could not, given how tight Adam’s breeches were, and how much his cock had swelled?
Thank God Gris and Jessop were busy putting the equipment away, at least.
Flustered, Adam turned away, reaching for his coat and tugging it on, buttoning himself up with stiff, jerky movements. What must Winterbourne be thinking of him?
“So,” Freeman said, once they were outside, “what time shall I call on you this evening for Lady Prentice’s ball?”
He was back to being stiff and severe again, probably because of that odd moment after their bout. Lysander hadn’t been quite sure what to make of it—sometimes these things happened between men, when they fought. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
But perhaps it did?
He found himself thinking of how Freeman had looked during that spirited battle, the way he’d come to sudden, vivid life, laughing without inhibition, eyes dancing with pure enjoyment as they thrust and parried.
His smile.
It was that more than anything—more than the sight of the man’s stiff member in his tight breeches—that made Lysander’s heart speed up now. That made him suddenly reluctant to part from Freeman and risk losing that tentative connection.
“Why don’t you join me for an early dinner at my club first?”
Freeman had been consulting his pocket watch, but at Lysander’s invitation his gaze snapped up, eyes wide with astonishment—it seemed that Lysander had confounded him again.
“All right.” Freeman sounded a little surprised at his own answer. “That would be pleasant, if you’re quite sure.”
“Of course,” Lysander said easily. “It’s not far. Come on.”
It took less than ten minutes to walk there, and as they approached MacGill’s modest exterior, Lysander glanced to Freeman to gauge his reaction. MacGill’s wasn’t like White’s or Brooks’s—it was primarily a sportsman’s club and quite lacking in any splendour. Most of the members were keen horsemen, and many boxed or fenced, like Lysander. When he entered the clubroom with Adam in tow, he felt obliged to warn him what that meant.
“I hope you’re not expecting a stimulating discussion about politics,” he murmured. “The fellows here—well, they don’t talk about much beyond horseflesh and prize fights, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t mind that in the least,” Freeman said. “To be honest, I’d be happy to just sit and have some half-decent burgundy and an early dinner. I’m famished.”
“Very well,” Lysander said, smiling. “We’ll go straight to the dining room.”
It was early yet, and the dining room was quiet. Lysander led Freeman to a table in the corner.
They made easy, if cautious, conversation while they waited for the footman to bring their wine, Lysander telling Freeman about MacGill’s and some of its members, and Freeman offering his first impressions of the place. When the footman returned, he went through the usual ceremony of pouring the wine while reciting the various dishes the chef was offering that evening. They both ordered roast beef—Lysander purely because it was the easiest to remember. He was having difficulty concentrating on what the footman was saying when, in front of him, Freeman was lifting his glass to taste the wine, tipping back his chin to briefly expose the strong, pale column of his throat.
Lysander swallowe
d and thought again of the man’s unruly erection and what it might’ve meant.
It would be foolish—unforgivably stupid, in fact—to mention it. Lysander had a better sense of self-preservation than that. He’d always been prudent about such things—so much so that, at three-and-twenty, he was almost wholly inexperienced. Yet today, he was tempted. He searched his mind for a way to raise the subject without giving offence, and found none.
“Do you still intend to come to the ball?” he asked instead. “I realise this afternoon wasn’t awfully pleasant . . .”
Freeman sighed. “I promised Simon I’d attend everything you asked me to, at least for one day. And I do not give promises lightly.”
“I’ll let you off if you like,” Lysander replied, “But I’d appreciate the company in truth. I promised Melisande Prentice I’d be there. And at least there will be dancing.”
“Dancing?”
Lysander laughed at Adam’s panicked expression. “Well, of course. It’s a ball.”
“I’m afraid I do not dance.
“You don’t dance?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You can’t? Not even a quadrille?”
A slight flush crept over Freeman’s face. “I’m afraid not. I never learned.”
“But how? How can you have learned to fence and not dance?” In a way, they were similar accomplishments. Genteel skills that set one apart from the common horde.
“My father had some singular ideas. He saw purpose in fencing—a man can defend himself with a blade after all—but none in dancing.”
Lysander frowned in puzzlement. “Why should the purpose of the thing matter?”
“My father was a man of strong principles. He described himself as a practical utilitarian. Philosophically, he was a follower of Mr. Bentham—he believed the right way forward in any situation is the one that benefits the most people.”
“That not the sort of view I’d expect a man like your father to hold,” Lysander replied. “It sounds rather radical—wasn’t your father, well, awfully wealthy?” Too late he realised how rude that comment was, and his cheeks flushed with heat. “I’m sorry, that was—”
“Don’t apologise. My father was a blunt man and he’d’ve appreciated your directness.” Freeman smiled. “To answer your question, in a different life I think he may well have been a radical. He was a man of strong principles, but he was pragmatic too. His beginnings were humble, and his first priority was to make a success of himself, which he did. And he was able to do a great deal of good with his wealth, in his later years.”
“How did he make a success of himself?” Lysander asked, his curiosity sparked by the expression on Freeman’s face, the affectionate smile and the slight wistfulness there.
“Well, he was apprenticed to a blacksmith at fourteen, and then he became a journeyman mechanic in a mill, maintaining and installing machines. He was fascinated by machines and began to work on his own inventions.” Adam gave another of those wistful smiles. “Right to the end of his life, he was happiest tinkering in his workshop. And his fascination served him well—at twenty-four he invented a particular sort of valve that improved the workings of the engines on a variety of the machines at the mill. He obtained a patent for it and began to make good money. More inventions followed, and a few years later he started his own engineering firm. Then he set up a machine works, making precision parts. It was only much later that he bought his first mill.”
“I had no idea about any of that,” Lysander admitted.
“I’m not surprised,” Freeman said. “He was always spoken of as a ‘ mill-owner’ but the truth is, he only bought the first mill to save it—it was the one he’d worked in when he was a young man. When he heard it was to close, he decided to buy it. Once he became involved in the industry, though, he became enthused by it—that was how he was.”
“So he bought more?”
“A few, and built his own. The last was the one at New Ryesdale. He built the mill and a whole town around it for the workers. Houses for six hundred families—good, clean houses—a church and two schools with day and evening classes, open to all.” Freeman met Lysander’s gaze. “Other mill owners told him the workers would turn it to ruins in a twelvemonth, that they were not capable of appreciating such luxuries. They were wrong, of course.”
Lysander felt a sudden flush of shame. His own father had workers—labourers who toiled in the fields of the home farm. The last time Lysander had been back at the family estate, he’d noticed how dilapidated their cottages were. He’d raised it with the earl repeatedly, but his father had brushed his comments aside, over and over. And yesterday he’d made it plain that it was none of Lysander’s business, hadn’t he?
“My father put the greatest value on useful things,” Freeman said. “And he did not consider dancing to be particularly useful.” He paused thoughtfully, then added, “He wouldn’t have stayed more than five minutes at any of those houses you took me to this afternoon. He’d have disapproved of everyone—me included—and told them so right to their faces.” He smiled at Lysander. “And they’d’ve thought him exceedingly coarse, I’m sure.”
“He wouldn’t have disapproved of you,” Lysander said.
“Yes, he would. He’d have thought me a toad-eater.”
Lysander let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, you were no toad-eater, Mr. Freeman. The reason they were so vile to you was precisely because of that.”
“Well, I’m glad you think so. I certainly felt like one as I listened to opinions that disgusted me and said nothing to oppose them.”
“For Simon.”
Freeman sighed. “Yes, despite my better judgment.” He drank again, then refilled both of their glasses.
The footman arrived with their food then. He set down their plates, piled high with roast beef, and a silver jug of gravy. Side dishes of braised dumplings and celery. A pot of mustard and another of horseradish. Hearty food for manly appetites.
“This looks good,” Freeman said, reaching for the horseradish.
They tucked in, both hungry, and for a few minutes, silence reigned. When Lysander finally came up for air—once fully half his plate was gone—he returned to the conversation they’d abandoned. “So, you never learned to dance.”
Freeman smiled cheerfully. “No, I never did.”
“But Simon did. I’ve seen him dance at balls with Althea.”
“He took it upon himself to learn since he thought—sensibly I suppose—that as an aspiring politician, he needed to be able to conduct himself with ease in Society. For my part, I didn’t see the need—it’s not as though I have any great desire to court a young lady.”
“Why not?”
The question popped out before Lysander had thought about it. But he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. The shift in expressions on Freeman’s face—alarm, embarrassment and finally an odd sort of defiance—were too fascinating. Taken together with the incident at Monsieur Gris’s . . . well, it presented some interesting possibilities.
Freeman lifted his half-full glass and drained it. He set it down with a decisive click, took a deep breath and said firmly, “I am not looking for a wife, Winterbourne.”
Just that.
A dozen questions teemed in Lysander’s mind. What did Freeman mean? Merely that he was a confirmed bachelor? Or was there something more to his confession? Could it be that Freeman was like Lysander? That he was more interested in his own sex than the fairer variety? Lysander’s heart began to race at the thought, and his mouth grew dry. He thought of Freeman lunging at him with his blade, his muscular body taut and lean, expression concentrated, and . . . Lysander wanted him.
The wanting was like hunger, a yearning that went beyond mere desire, toppling over into pure need.
And it was that, finally, that made Lysander speak, that made him put caution to one side and utter the truth, or one truth anyway.
“I am not looking for a wife either.”
Despite his hatred of dan
cing, and of socialising with peers of the realm, Adam found that he was practically bouncing with anticipation when he left his rented townhouse that evening for Lady Prentice’s ball.
He had parted company with Lysander Winterbourne an hour before, so they could each don their evening clothes, and now he was going to pick up Winterbourne in his carriage.
It had been a long and very strange day. Those afternoon calls had been tortuous, but they’d been worth it for what came after—first being forced to revise his opinion of Lysander Winterbourne, and then—
“I am not looking for a wife either.”
Was he reading too much into those words? Too much into the odd sincerity in Winterbourne’s frank blue gaze?
The moment had passed. They’d gone back to their dinners, both a little breathless, but it felt to Adam as though something had changed after that cautious, tentative confession. That a fragile trust was growing between them.
He hoped to God he wasn’t imagining it. It was dangerous for a man like him to bare himself to others. But today, there had been moments when he’d met Lysander Winterbourne’s gaze, and it felt like the man had seen right inside him, seen Adam. And it had made him feel as though their meeting, this day, tonight, all of it had been meant to be.
Alone in the carriage, Adam shook his head at himself. He was in danger of losing his head over Lysander Winterbourne, and the worst thing was, that admission didn’t frighten him as it should. It made him feel exhilarated and alive, excited for their next meeting.
Ah, God.
It wasn’t a long drive to the Winterbourne townhouse. As soon as the carriage halted, and before Adam’s groom could alight, the door opened and Winterbourne emerged. He must have been waiting, ready.
He tripped down the steps to the street, impossibly handsome in his evening clothes, and grinned at Adam, who was watching from the carriage window.
