Julian tried to focus on the foreign lady who was singing onstage, but he could not let that remark pass. “Know what?”
“That it’s precisely the sort of thing I like.”
“Velvet cloaks? Jewel theft? Depriving decent people of their birthrights?”
A low chuckle. “No, the manhandling.”
A spasm of lust jolted through Julian’s body and settled in the neighborhood of his cock. He tried to keep his attention on the stage, not on the image of Courtenay engaged in anything resembling manhandling.
“You like to intimidate women,” he managed. “How unsurprising.”
“Good God no, I mean it the other way around. That’s why I think it has to be one of my former lovers who wrote it.”
“The other way around,” Julian echoed.
“Being manhandled. Having the manhandling done to me. Not that I mind it either way, to be frank.”
Julian knew he ought not to pursue this line of conversation. The less said about Courtenay’s bedroom preferences the faster his obviously insane prick might recover. And the less said about this infernal novel, the better. But his traitorous cock, which had woken up at the word manhandling, had ideas of its own. “And so you think one of your conquests wrote this novel?”
For the first time, Courtenay turned to face Julian. Julian could feel the man’s gaze on him, even as he forced himself to attend to the stage, to his own shaking hands gripping the arms of the chair, and his stupid, stupid prick. “One of my . . . What an odd way to put it.”
“It was written by a gentleman,” he heard himself say, and hoped Courtenay didn’t notice his hoarseness. “It says so, right on the frontispiece. By A Gentleman.” He knew Courtenay got up to all manners of mischief, but somehow it had never occurred to him that Courtenay fancied men. Julian’s prick had never paid closer attention to a conversation.
“I daresay you’d have a point if none of my lovers had been gentlemen, but—”
Julian lost the rest of the sentence to the sound of blood rushing in his ears.
Manhandling. Julian dragged his thoughts away from that word, that concept, that sudden and startling want. Gentlemen. A wave of awareness traveled through his body, and he had to force himself to remember that he was at the opera. He was only sitting beside this infamous reprobate as a favor to his sister, not to gratify his own suddenly deranged prick.
He was here as a favor to Eleanor, who was this man’s lover. What in heaven’s name had come over him, and why in hell could his cock not understand that this was wrong?
He ought to have known better than to trust himself anywhere near Courtenay.
They could say what they wanted about Courtenay’s mental faculties but he knew a cockstand when he saw one, and Medlock most certainly had one. Well, to be fair, it didn’t take much intelligence to figure it out: there it was, an erection, plain as day, straining against the fabric of Medlock’s breeches, even though he tried to cover it with the novel.
And he looked none too pleased about it. Courtenay had a moment of fellow feeling for the man. Misplaced desires were a plague. Nor was Courtenay a stranger to being the recipient of unwanted lust. Nobody wanted to want a man such as he. Or, rather, plenty of people wanted him, but only for a couple of tumbles, a feather in one’s cap, a story to tell later on.
If Courtenay were any kind of decent human being, he might have pretended not to notice Medlock’s state.
But Courtenay was not decent, and sometimes being a reprobate had its advantages.
After confirming that they were safely in the shadows and out of view of the rest of the opera-goers, he took his feet off the seat where he had propped them—really, he may have gone too far in trying to bait Medlock—and hooked an ankle around the leg of Medlock’s chair, tugging him into the dark privacy of the corner.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Medlock whispered, but he didn’t stand and go back to the seat he had occupied earlier.
Courtenay took the book out of Medlock’s lap, letting it slide unceremoniously to the floor. Then he traced a single finger down the length of Medlock’s erection. “Impressive,” he said, and was conscious that this was the first compliment he had ever paid Medlock.
Medlock’s only response was an inarticulate growl. Courtenay liked that. Hadn’t taken Medlock for the growling type. What he liked even more was that Medlock still didn’t move away, or even so much as swat Courtenay’s hand. Instead his fingers were wrapped tightly around the arms of his chair.
Courtenay drew his finger back up the rigid line of Medlock’s cock, lingering at the tip.
This wouldn’t be the first time Courtenay had gotten up to no good at the opera. Nor even the second. It wouldn’t be the first time he had dallied with a person he wasn’t terribly fond of, nor the first time he had turned lust into a kind of revenge.
There was, objectively speaking, nothing new here.
So when he cupped Medlock’s cock, and Medlock responded by pressing ever so slightly into his palm, and letting go of the chair not to push Courtenay away, but to fling a hand over his mouth, muffling an oath, Courtenay really shouldn’t have felt anything beyond the predictable stirring in his breeches. Workaday lust, nothing to worry about.
He certainly shouldn’t have taken hold of Medlock’s fussily knotted cravat and pulled him close for a hungry kiss.
But that’s what he did anyway.
It was a savage collision of lips and it was Courtenay doing all the kissing, but Medlock brought his hand to rest on Courtenay’s shoulder and that really oughtn’t to have made a difference but it did. He wouldn’t have guessed that Medlock tasted like chocolate, would have thought he tasted like very correct after-dinner port or maybe tooth powder. But Courtenay had always felt that kissing and groping and flat-out fucking were perfectly good ways to get to know somebody.
Not that he wanted to get to know Medlock.
But still, now he knew the man drank chocolate and that felt disconcertingly relevant.
He had Medlock half out of his chair and onto his lap when he drew one of those soft lips into his mouth. Christ, but those lips belonged on somebody else. Somebody Courtenay actually liked. Medlock, prim and stuffy, ought to have a stingy little mouth.
When Medlock pulled away—Courtenay knew he would before they got to anything more interesting than kissing—he wiped that incongruous mouth with the back of his hand.
“What the devil is wrong with you?” Medlock was safely back in his own chair now. “Are you mad?”
“It’s an open question. I prefer to think I’m indolent and hedonistic but you can draw your own conclusions.”
“We’re in public. For God’s sake, do you think being exposed as a”—he lowered his voice from a whisper to something even quieter—“sodomite will help your cause?”
It didn’t escape Courtenay’s notice that Medlock objected to the location rather than the activity. “I’ll be sure to find a more private place next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.” Even in the shadowy dimness, Courtenay could see Medlock’s eyes go wide with outrage at the suggestion. “I don’t know what came over me. I must be coming down with something.” He looked most gratifyingly flustered.
“Interesting illness that gives one a hard cock,” Courtenay mused, letting his gaze drift to the placket of Medlock’s breeches. “You seem to have recovered, though.”
“I think I hate you.”
“I know you hate me.” And it was true. The expression in Medlock’s eyes was, if not total hatred, then at least scorn. No matter. Courtenay was used to it. He told himself that Medlock’s contempt didn’t matter, and the twisting feeling in his gut was a mere coincidence. “I don’t know what Eleanor sees in you.” He suddenly looked stricken. “Oh my God. Eleanor.”
The fellow most definitely thought Eleanor and Courtenay were lovers. Courtenay could have put his mind at ease, but bugger that. Let the man tear himself up a bit. Let him get a taste of what it was li
ke to be on the wrong side of the rules.
Chapter Five
All eyes were on them as they made their way to Lady Montbray’s box during the interval. Julian didn’t like it one bit. He preferred to hover unobjectionably in the background. As always, he used absolute propriety as both sword and shield. Nobody could suspect him of lax ethics or any human frailty when he was the most correct person in the room. He could hardly suspect it of himself. He nodded and bowed to acquaintances and reassured himself that whatever madness had come over him earlier was a temporary aberration rather than a decline into moral turpitude. Courtenay must bring about that sort of reaction. There was no other explanation.
Courtenay looked . . . perfectly fine, actually. Julian had half expected the man to show up in a purple waistcoat or other sartorial abomination but instead he wore a perfectly unremarkable and quite well tailored black coat. Really, he was dressed more decently than Julian could have expected. He almost looked like a normal aristocrat rather than the infernal scapegrace he was. It was strange that he had taken care to arrange himself so properly, when he clearly couldn’t care any less about propriety in all other facets of his life.
The only blot on Courtenay’s appearance—apart from the tragedy that was his hair—was his cravat. The man’s valet must be blind or demented. However, it looked no different than it had when they entered the opera earlier that evening, even though it must have come askew during that ill-advised kiss. Perhaps that was why he tied it in such a sloppy manner—so nobody would be any the wiser if he indulged his lascivious inclinations. Perhaps he kissed and fondled men every night and women every morning and hosted a mixed orgy every afternoon. Perhaps their embrace had been as unremarkable for Courtenay as a regularly scheduled meal.
Not so for Julian. He preferred discreet liaisons, conducted with gentlemen who understood the value of moderation. There was no unbridled passion, thank God, but rather a straightforward and healthy fulfillment of a need.
He did not, in other words, get his cock stroked by his sister’s paramour with hundreds of potential onlookers.
As they approached Lady Montbray’s box, Julian patted his cravat to make sure it bore no traces of his indiscretion.
“It’s perfectly fine,” Courtenay said. Julian hadn’t even realized the man was watching him and felt a prickle of belated awareness course through his body.
They found Lady Montbray alone with her companion. Julian was pleased to see that Lady Montbray had on the white silk gown he had advised her to wear, very correct and becoming. She also had a profusion of feathers in her hair, which might perhaps have been vulgar in anyone lacking her pedigree, wealth, and beauty. Rich aristocrats who looked like Dutch dolls could put whatever they wanted in their hair, he supposed. Everybody else had to cleave closely to every rule and regulation or be branded an upstart vulgarian. Not one of us, dear.
That made it all the more galling that Courtenay had thrown that privilege away. He had been born to wealth, inherited a title, and was as good-looking as it was possible for a human being to be, as much as it irked Julian to admit it. But he had—if gossip was to be believed—gambled away half his fortune and spent the other half on women. He had behaved so outrageously that even his title wasn’t enough to redeem him.
If Julian had half the status Courtenay was born with—an entry in Debrett’s, a coat of arms—he’d be the prime minister by now, for God’s sake. Instead his sole accomplishment was being here, a gentleman so polished and pristine his very humanity was concealed beneath layers of glossy refinement. That had been his goal when he and Eleanor had arrived in London; his eighteen-year-old self had even thought being received by the highest rungs on the ladder of society would be a sort of gift for Eleanor, a present to thank her for having come with him. Perhaps he had been naïve.
He shook that thought off and performed the necessary introductions while Lady Montbray looked at Courtenay as if he were a lion in a zoo. Really, she wasn’t even bothering to conceal her shocked curiosity. Perhaps Julian had gone a step too far in bringing Courtenay to her. But at the beginning of the interval she had waved her fan ever so slightly at him, from her box to his.
One didn’t get where Julian was without being able to smooth over some minor awkwardness. He did what one always did in these situations, which was to make a stock remark about how one hoped one’s acquaintances enjoyed the rest of the evening, and then beat a hasty retreat. But before he could manage the thing, Courtenay had pulled up a chair next to Lady Montbray’s companion and drawn her into conversation.
“Oh dear,” he muttered. Miss Sutherland looked openly irritated. She was a thin, rather plain woman who Julian suspected of bluestocking tendencies, and she had not come to the opera to be assailed by rakehells.
“Mr. Medlock,” Lady Montbray whispered. “I was hoping you’d bring him to me. I’ve been dreadfully bored and meeting an infamous character was precisely what I needed.”
That gave Julian an idea. “Do you think anyone else will share that sentiment?” He could launch Courtenay into society as a novelty, perhaps. That would be better than nothing.
At that moment, a pair of ladies Julian only vaguely recognized entered Lady Montbray’s box, took one look at Courtenay, and turned wordlessly on their heels to leave.
“Perhaps not,” he said.
“But look. He’s made a conquest of Anne. I hadn’t thought her at all the type to be charmed by a rogue.”
Anne Sutherland was an impoverished relation of Lady Montbray’s late husband and had taken up residence with Lady Montbray some years earlier. She had a habit of looking at one as if she knew precisely what one was about, which made Julian slightly wary of her. But her earlier annoyance was quite gone, and now she was regarding Courtenay as if he were a clever child who had brought her a posy. They were talking about the book Miss Sutherland had open in her lap. How the devil had he managed to encounter the only two people on earth who read at the opera?
“Nobody’s safe,” Julian said bitterly.
Lady Montbray raised an eyebrow. “I think Anne is quite safe.”
“That’s what you say now.” In truth, Julian would have thought a mousy bluestocking like Miss Sutherland to be the last person on earth to draw Courtenay’s attentions. But looking at her now, she didn’t seem in the least bit drab. She looked lively and engaged. And when Courtenay reached into his coat pocket and produced that infernal novel, she actually laughed. He had never heard her laugh. He had hardly ever heard her speak, come to think of it. Whatever mysterious quality of Courtenay’s made one behave like a feral animal had the result of making Miss Sutherland positively blossom. He wasn’t flirting with her—it wasn’t anything as pointed as that—but it was as if he was bringing the best part of her out into the light.
She wasn’t half crawling into Courtenay’s lap, though, so perhaps she was made of stronger stuff than Julian, damn it.
“You must read it,” he was saying. He was recommending it? Julian was horror stricken. The last thing he needed was for anyone else to read that blasted book and associate it with Courtenay.
“We’d best be getting back,” he announced.
Courtenay bent over Miss Sutherland’s hand, and instead of kissing the air above it, he turned her hand and kissed her palm. Good God. And she laughed at this impertinence, as if he had told the funniest witticism. “Thank you for the conversation,” he said to Miss Sutherland. “I don’t meet many people who share my taste in poetry.”
“I could say the same to you,” she said.
His departure from Lady Montbray was more formal, thank heavens. Julian took hold of Courtenay’s sleeve and all but dragged him away.
“What were you doing with Miss Sutherland?” Medlock said once they had gotten back to their box. “You can’t possibly have hoped to get under her skirts.”
Courtenay regarded him in bewilderment. “Do you think that’s the only interest I have in people? You talk to women and as far as I’ve observed, you ha
ven’t any interest in getting under their skirts.”
They were now seated in the respectable center of the box, amply lit, so Courtenay could see the blush that rose to Medlock’s cheeks. Pretty, a part of him thought. The part in his breeches, naturally.
“I like brilliance,” Courtenay explained. “I can’t resist it. I like clever people.”
“You must have run in devilish clever company, Courtenay,” Medlock quipped. “Must have run into geniuses everywhere you went.”
“I don’t just mean fucking them, Medlock.” He watched the blush rise in Medlock’s cheeks again. “How old are you?”
“Four and twenty.”
He acted much older, and it was strange to realize that he was scarcely older than Norton’s opera girl. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” He sounded affronted.
“I forget what it’s like to be young enough to think you have answers.”
“It’s not about thinking I have the answers. My desires are well regulated. I have self-control.” And yet, the blush had returned to his cheeks and he shifted in his seat in a way that made Courtenay wonder if his prick knew about this program of well-regulated desires.
“You need a good hard rogering.”
Medlock looked like he was trying to purse his lips but couldn’t quite manage it. Oh, he was trying his damnedest to hate this conversation, but he couldn’t help himself. “And I suppose you’re volunteering?”
Well, of course, he was volunteering. But it wouldn’t do to say so. Medlock had rebuffed his advances earlier, and Courtenay wasn’t in the habit of trying to argue his way into other people’s beds. “I do apologize for that earlier assault on your person, Medlock,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “I ought to know better than to inconvenience Eleanor by debauching her brother.”
The Ruin of a Rake Page 4
